What a Girl Wants

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Yes, I do, but do you have to have one right now? They generally take nine months.”

  “You are so completely selfish, Ashley. That’s why you’re not married, you know. You never think of anyone but you. You can’t be happy for anyone but you! How does this affect Ashley? Your mother should have named you Scarlett!” She slams the phone down in my ear and this must be what quicksand feels like. I’ve tried everything to stay afloat, but life is just bringing me down.

  “You know, God, I said I wanted to know my reason; I didn’t say slap me from every angle or shout what a loser I am from the highest mountain, now did I?” My ceiling is not answering me and now I have this rush of guilt over Brea. What a terrible thing to say to her! This is the perfect way to start my week. The phone rings again.

  “Brea, I’m sorry—” I answer without checking the caller ID.

  “Ashley?” a familiar accent asks.

  “Purvi?” I ask, knowing it’s my boss.

  “Yes, I just got off the phone with Taiwan,” She’s all business. This can’t be good.

  “It’s Sunday night, Purvi.” That’s my way of saying she needs to get a life, but I’m obviously no one to talk. I’ve spent my afternoon at yet another bridal shower, which I could give professionally by now. And a thousand times better than my mother.

  “It’s Monday morning in Taiwan,” Purvi says with resolve, like I don’t have my own foreign clock ticking in my head. I know what time it is in Taiwan. Purvi is still talking, but I fluttered out. I focus back in on her words. “They’re not going to manufacture our patent product any longer.”

  I squeal. I heard that part. This is Way Bad. “No royalties?”

  “Those royalties made our stock rise, Ashley. You’ve got to get them back. Our contract is null and void if they write off the products for the American market.”

  I just hate this feeling in my stomach. It’s a cross between roller coaster drop and bad ramen roiling in my belly.

  “Dare I ask?” I grip the phone until my knuckles are bone white.

  “You’re going to need to head back to Taiwan soon.” Back to Taiwan. Were more depressing words ever spoken? Back to fish parts, brown air, and my luxury view of the cinder-block building next to the cinder block hotel.

  “How soon?”

  “Can you be here at six a.m.?” Purvi sounds annoyed I’m not there right now.

  “I’ll be there.” Lord knows I have nothing else to do. Then Brea’s words come back to taunt me that I’m selfish. Everyone’s selfish to an extent, am I right?

  “Purvi, can I ask you a personal question?” I ask before she hangs up. She sighs. It apparently invades our android personas, but I continue undeterred. “Do you think I’m selfish?”

  She laughs. “All single people are selfish. If you weren’t, you’d be married.”

  “Uh huh,” I say meekly. Not quite the answer I was looking for. Is it selfish to give up any semblance of a social life to run off to Taiwan at the drop of a hat? Is it selfish to work sixteen-hour days when I know I won’t have an apartment in two weeks? I think, if anything, I’ve been downright generous with Purvi and Selectech. They own me. I hang up the phone. Selfish, my foot.

  Single people are the last safe vestige of political incorrectness. It’s okay to point out our flaws and contemplate freely why we’re all alone like a mannequin in a couture window. I didn’t write my life script. God did. And He hasn’t written in the wedding yet. Maybe He never will, but what am I thinking? Some man isn’t going to complete me. God is. Purvi is in a miserable marriage. Her husband lives in another country or it would be even worse, and yet I’m made to feel like she’s somehow fulfilled while I sorely lack something of interest in my life. Yeah, right. The phone rings again.

  “Hello!” I snap.

  “I’m sorry,” Brea says.

  “You know what, Brea? Did you ever think that maybe I’ll never be married? Maybe God has some big plan for me and I’m going to write the patent on something so huge, you can’t even fathom it. Like the machine that cures cancer,” I say, thinking back to Dr. Kevin. “Maybe my life will change the world as we know it. Maybe—”

  “I just wanted you to be happy for me about the baby, Ash. This has nothing to do with you. If I thought you were such a loser, would you be my best friend for twenty-odd years? I do have some semblance of dignity to uphold.”

  “I just can’t believe you would miss my brother’s shower.” Oh my goodness, I’m inducing guilt. I have become my mother. Get thee an apron. Brea and I are both quiet for a moment, and then we just start giggling.

  “Forgive me?” Brea finally says through laughter.

  “You know I do. Purvi says I’m selfish too, by the way. Thank you for that. Because I really needed to ask the robot a personal question about my self-worth.”

  “Ash, I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t be selfish hanging out in that singles group. Maybe you were right about them. You need to move on.”

  Oooh big truth there. Hating that. Maybe just associating with the Reasons makes me one. I don’t get swooped up because I have full membership privileges in the Reasons. Ahhhh! Definitely time to change the subject.

  “I’m getting sent back to Taiwan. The company’s stock is dependent upon the outcome.”

  “Really? Ash, that’s so cool.”

  “Yeah.”

  I hear a noise coming from my bedroom. At first, it doesn’t faze me. I just assume it’s a book falling off the pile to be read. All the novels sit while I brush up on memory technology and scrutinize this contested patent.

  There it goes again. It sounds like a kid eating Cap’n Crunch.

  “Brea,” I whisper. “I think there’s someone here.”

  “What?”

  “I think someone’s in my apartment,” I whisper louder.

  “Hang up, call the police.” I grab my cell phone, which of course is dead—and I rush out the door without shoes. I press the button on my cell hoping to get one more phone call, but it’s dead, so I run down to the manager’s apartment.

  Mrs. Manger, rhymes with Banger, opens the door in a bathrobe with a slinky gown underneath. Since she’s about eighty, it’s not a sight I needed today. She’s not exactly grandmotherly, but her skin is ashen from a life of cigarettes and beer. Boy, I’m far too vain to ever smoke.

  “Do you want something, Ashley?”

  “There’s someone in my apartment. There’s a noise coming from the bedroom.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No, I just got out of there. Can I call here?” I’m shaking. This is one of the better neighborhoods in Palo Alto. Granted, my building is old, but all the apartments are. That’s the only thing that makes them affordable in this city.

  “Come on in. Mr. Manger ain’t here or he’d come up. He’s fix-ing a water leak at our other apartment house tonight.”

  I’ve never known the man to go anywhere without a tool on him. He could just as easily use it as a weapon. Terrific timing. I step into the apartment which has been inhabited by the Mangers since time began—or at least that’s how it appears. Mrs. Manger despises me as the collection of all that’s wrong with the Bay Area, and I’m interrupting her movie of the week. Shoot, I’m missing Masterpiece Theatre myself and have to be at work by six a.m., so it’s not exactly at the top of my fun list either.

  I dial 911. “911 emergency. What is your emergency?”

  “I think there’s someone in my apartment,” I whisper. Like I’m still standing in my apartment.

  “You’re calling from 1100 Channing Street, Apartment A?”

  “Yes, but my apartment is Apartment D.”

  “The police are on their way. Are you alone? Do you want me to stay on the line with you?”

  “No, I’m safe. Thank you.” I hang up the phone. “They’re sending someone out right away.”

  Mrs. Manger doesn’t seem the least bit nervous. She sits back down in front of the television.

  A commercial co
mes on. “Do you have a new place yet?” Mrs. Manger asks.

  “No, I’ve been very busy—too busy to look.” I shrug and give this world-weary sigh.

  “You’ve only got two weeks, Missy.” Her face is wrinkled with worry, not for me obviously. How do I explain I’ve been in Taiwan? That I’m going back tomorrow and that another month would mean the world to me. Big sigh. She doesn’t care. She’s probably as rich as Moses from owning these apartment buildings forever.

  They try to hide behind some scary landlord, but I checked the title while in the city for something on a patent. They own this place and four others. Not that you’d ever know it from the orange shag carpeting they boast or the drapes brown with smoke and age. But my apartment is cute. They actually seem to care what their tenants like, just never thought about it for themselves.

  Before I drum up the courage to ask for another week, a police car arrives with lights blaring but sirens silenced. I peek through Mrs. Manger’s curtains and see an officer heading up to my apartment. I’m praying for his safety. Slapping myself that I left my lap-top in my bedroom when it’s my Life Source to the outside world.

  It isn’t five minutes before the officer raps on the door. I open it and he’s laughing. He’s actually trying to gain his composure before he speaks.

  “That your apartment?” His broad shoulders are shaking and he smoothes his dark mustache with his thumb and forefinger.

  I nod. “It’s my apartment.”

  He holds up a frayed phone cord.

  “You have rats, Ma’am.” Okay, major mortification. Is there a way to redeem yourself in such a situation?

  “Rats!” Mrs. Manger says, looking at me as though I belong in the dumpster out back.

  “This building is infested. I can hear them in the wall behind your bed,” the cop says, looking to Mrs. Manger with a smirk.

  Hah! Take that. But, eww. For a split second I feel good it isn’t my fault, then the reality that I have been Sleeping with Vermin replaces that fleeting peace.

  I’m so grossed out it’s not even funny. I feel like a thousand ants are crawling down my back. There’s no way I can stay here for two weeks. I’m worried about how I’m going to get my things out tonight. Mrs. Manger exits the room and closes the door to her bedroom. I guess we have our answer about her ignorance there, don’t we?

  “Did you actually see one?” I ask the cop.

  “Only the tail of one.” He scrunches up his masculine face. “They’re big, Ma’am.”

  I so did not need to hear that. I’m not going to sleep tonight. Or ever. “Thank you, Officer. I’m sorry to bring you out for nothing.”

  He looks to Mrs. Manger’s door. “It wasn’t for nothing. You’ve got a police record now. Get your last month’s rent refunded and move on.” He tips his hat and walks away lit like an angel by the pool’s light.

  I call the only guy I know who will help me at nine on a Sunday night. The Reasons’ knight in shining armor: Seth. At least I know he’ll be home. It’s movie night.

  He answers on the second ring. “Hello.”

  “Seth, it’s Ashley. I need your help.” I feel immediately stupid, asking some guy to rescue me. All that education, all that breaking through the glass ceiling business at work, and I’m brought down by a single critter. “You know what? I shouldn’t have bothered you. Never mind.”

  “Ashley, what is it? You’ve got to at least tell me or I’ll worry all night.”

  I breathe in deeply trying to get the nerve to say this out loud. “My apartment has rats. I’m too creeped-out to sleep there and I’m afraid to get my stuff until morning, but I need my computer and clothes for work.”

  He’s laughing. I deserve this, but, I’ll be, if it doesn’t tick me off. Knight in shining armor. Right.

  “Sam,” Seth says aloud. “Ashley’s got rats in her apartment.” Now they’re both laughing.

  “I told you it was no big deal.” Like I needed to be laughed at. I’ve already been told I’m completely selfish twice tonight, tossed onto the street without a moment’s notice, and starting the most important case of my career tomorrow morning at six a.m. I wonder if the guy who wrote Murphy’s Law needs a wife.

  “Ashley, we only think it’s funny because of how we live over here, and you’re Monica on Friends over there by comparison. Don’t you find it comical that you have rats?”

  “No.” That insipid lump is growing in my throat. I hate to be laughed at. I’d rather be called selfish twice than laughed at.

  Seth stops laughing almost immediately. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” His voice is soothing now, but I can still hear Sam rolling in the background.

  “Is Sam coming?”

  “No, when I rescue beautiful women I leave him at home. I’m like Superman that way. I work alone.” I can hear the smile in his voice.

  Seth just called me beautiful. What’s up with that?

  19

  I know I said I was afraid to enter my apartment alone. But I’m more afraid that the men of the Reasons might see me with day-old makeup on, so I trudge upstairs like the dutiful slave to vanity that I am. I turn every light in the apartment on, hoping to shock the rodent into whatever hole he inhabits. I shudder at the thought.

  After my quick brush with beauty products, I notice I’ve got clothes lying on the floor—like some lovesick teenager who tried on six different outfits this morning. And, of course, the coffee-stained slacks are still hanging on the shower. I have genuinely good intentions, but the fact is I know I will never clean those slacks. They will sit there, a testimony to my laziness regarding have-tos until I guiltily throw them out.

  This is just one of the reasons I belong in Silicon Valley. Most people would look at those pants, or anything they’ve laid money on, as a valuable stock commodity, because part of sound financial management is being frugal. But I’m not like that, and neither is the rest of Silicon Valley. Time is way more valuable to us than inconveniences of any sort. Sheesh, I’d just as soon turn in my car when it needs an oil change.

  It isn’t long before there’s a knock on the door, and I’m wishing I did a better job tidying up in the short minutes I had—living up to Seth’s vision of me as Monica on Friends—but at least I’ve gotten makeup on and have the appearance of being the poster child for Calm Behavior in a Crisis.

  Seth is standing on the landing outside, and I peek through the peephole just to prepare myself. Do not say anything stupid, I remind myself. It was nice of him to ask you out, but nothing more than that. You are a patent attorney. You are dating a Stanford doctor.One bald engineer will not bring you down.

  “Hi,” I say, opening the door. “Thanks for coming.”

  Seth’s intense sapphire/tanzanite eyes render me silent once I meet his gaze, and I’m trying to remember my pep talk. He hesitates about coming in the door and I’m charmed by his initial shyness. We immediately feel the chemistry the two of us don’t want to admit to. At least I feel it, so I don’t see how he could miss it.

  But even if Seth felt this force field, he wouldn’t acknowledge it, because I’m not what he imagines for himself in that alter science-fiction world he lives in. Hey, the dude on The Matrix got a hot chick, where’s mine?

  You know on The Bachelor they take a perfectly decent guy, who makes his own living and doesn’t live with his mommy . . . then, ruin him with choice. Here’s my theory: All men think they are worthy of a harem; it’s like this innate flaw in the male species that perpetuates with each generation, becoming stronger and stronger. So we, as a watching nation, take this unsuspecting single guy, thrust him on television and surround him with beautiful bouncing dingbats who fight over his affection. Cattily, I might add, but isn’t that the fun part?

  Now, said bachelor has his dreams come true, and we, as a voyeuristic society, tell him he must choose only one. I can hear Yoda now: “One only, you must choose.” He’ll select one, of course—that was the whole point of his group dance with the women for six weeks—but it
’s too late. In his pointy little head, he is now worthy of all the women, and he’ll never be able to stick to just one again. He’ll want them all back, misunderstanding that harems in the United States are banned for good, except on reality television. Hence, the ruination of another good man.

  But I digress. Seth is here and we have nothing to say to each other. And something tells me he wouldn’t appreciate my theories on television mating.

  Seth finally steps in the door, managing to stay several feet away from me for fear I might attack him. And ashamedly, I admit the thought crosses my mind. For a second, I just wish we could put Arin and Fresh Choice in our history and go back to the friendship we had. We ignored the electricity then, and life was good.

  “Do you have everything?” Seth asks.

  “I haven’t called anyone yet for a place to stay. I think I might just go to a hotel for the night because I’m probably leaving for Taiwan tomorrow.”

  He’s looking at me. Standard conversation requires a response. Should I tell him this?

  “You’re welcome to my bed,” he finally says.

  I just stare at him, my mouth ajar like I’ve just been propositioned by an engineer. Is this what it feels like?

  “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he adds.

  I start to giggle. I cover my mouth, willing the laughter away, but it continues until I’m fanning my red face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that’s very nice of you.”

  Seth’s expression clouds. “Do you find the idea of my place so abhorrent?”

  I swallow hard and all giddy laughter dies. I’m staring right into those tanzanite eyes and I can barely speak. “On the contrary,” I whisper. I can’t look at him. I can’t say what my heart is feeling. That I don’t even remember what Dr. Kevin Whatshisface looks like. That all I remember is our history and how Seth has always been there for me. This attraction I feel is not abating.

  “On the contrary?” He’s standing over me now and I’m thinking it would be so easy to kiss him. To just reach up and touch his lips with my own. I close my eyes, imagining it, but I can’t do it.