Beauty and the Running Back

by Colleen Masters

  Chapter Eleven

  * * *

  It’s noon before I’m torn out of my shocked reverie by the sound of a car door slamming. My pulse picks up as I pull myself to my feet. Has Emerson come back home again after all? Is he here to help me make sense of all this chaos? The front door clatters open, and a familiar face appears—but it isn’t his.

  “Abby,” Riley breathes, rushing to me. “Abby, what the hell is going on?”

  “Riley?” I breathe, unable to focus, “Riley, what—?”

  “Are you OK?” she whispers, her voice tearful. She takes me in her arms, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m...Riley, what are you doing here?” I ask. “How did you know to come?”

  Her already dark eyes cloud over as she wraps her arms around me. She’s bracing me for something. Bad news. But what?

  “You didn’t show up at school,” she says softly, “But Emerson did. He stormed in just as people were switching classes. Abby...He...”

  “What?” I whisper, looking at her with mounting dread. “What did he do?”

  She rests her hands on my shoulders, take a deep breath, and goes on.

  “He started screaming for Tucker,” she tells me, “And when he finally found him, he...Abby, he just beat the shit out of him. It was brutal. Some teachers eventually pulled him off and threatened to call the cops. Emerson’s been expelled, Abby. He ran back out of the school and drove off. I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I thought...I was so scared...”

  I stare at my best friend, uncomprehending. My heart can take on no more anguish. There isn’t any room left. I sink into a state of catatonic silence as Riley gathers a change of clothes for me and leads me out of my house.

  It’s the last time I ever step foot in that place I once called home.

  * * *

  Over the course of the tumultuous next few months, the entire sordid saga comes out into the open. On the morning after their wedding, Dad and Deb were about to head off to Europe for a couple weeks for the second leg of their honeymoon. Dad visited the bank to get some travelers’ checks, but found that his accounts had been frozen because of some suspicious activity. He and Deb had already consolidated accounts when they moved in together, but Dad has never been good about keeping track of his money. Only when it was pointed out to him by the bank did he notice the dozen or so transactions in Deb’s name. She’d been withdrawing money, keeping some in a separate account, presumably for her and Emerson.

  The rest she’d been wiring to her ex-husband, Emerson’s father, still serving time in Connecticut state prison.

  Devastated by Deb’s betrayal, Dad struck out to hurt her in the worst way he could think of. He stocked up on booze, headed back to the hotel, and baited her into going on a bender with him. She allowed it to happen, of course, but Dad was the instigator. Only when they were both wasted in their hotel room in the wee hours of the morning did he turn on her. He demanded an explanation, but the only one she had to give was that she’d been using him. She noticed him at AA—saw his nice clothes, fancy car, and sad eyes—and knew he’d go for her. Deb insisted that she developed real feelings for him later, and that she couldn’t just leave her ex-husband to rot in prison, but it was obviously too late.

  Emerson’s expulsion from our high school was immediate and ironclad, after what he did to Tucker. I have no idea what possessed him, in that moment, to target my assailant from years ago. Maybe he wanted to hurt someone who had hurt me, and given that he couldn’t throttle my dad the way he wanted to, went after Tucker instead. I’ll never know what his motivation was. All I know is that Tucker ended up with two broken ribs and had to wear a neck brace to prom. Or so I’m told. It’s not like I had any reason to go.

  The bender Dad started as payback for Deb didn’t end the day after his wedding. Or the week after. Or the month after. He descended into an alcoholic depression that far exceeded the one he’d fallen into after Mom’s death. I couldn’t go back to his house—I didn’t feel safe there. I stayed with Riley for a few days before my grandparents arrived on the scene. They came up from Florida and took me in to one of their nearby summer homes for the duration of the school year. Dad didn’t even put up a fight when they took me away. But he did tell them all about finding me in bed with Emerson the morning after the wedding. And even though nothing had happened between us that night, my grandparents looked at me a little differently from then on.

  In no time at all, the marriage was annulled. No one will tell me where Emerson and Deb have gone, and I don’t even know where to start looking. But to be honest, I’m too brokenhearted to search very hard. If Emerson wanted me to know where he was, I’d know. As painful as it is, I have to accept the fact that he doesn’t want to be a part of my life. Even once our parents’ marriage is dissolved, there’s no trace of him.

  So be it.

  I dive into the last semester of my schoolwork, and end up graduating in the top ten percent of my class. Riley and I both decide to continue our studies in the fall at The New School in New York City. My grandparents agree to pay for the portion of my tuition that isn’t covered by scholarships, and even let Riley and me stay in the apartment they own in New York as an investment property. I spend the summer by my best friend’s side, slowly but surely coming to terms with everything that’s happened. I tell myself every day that come fall, I’ll be able to leave the whole ugly mess of my childhood behind me.

  And hopefully, my memories of Emerson Sawyer along with it.

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  New York City

  Eight Years Later

  “Which do you like better?” I ask anxiously, holding two dresses up before me, “The black, or the navy?”

  Riley rolls her eyes at my outfit choices. “I’d like it if you ever bought anything that you couldn’t also wear to a funeral,” she replies.

  “Would you be serious?” I plead, “My interview is in two hours, and god knows it’s probably going to take me an hour to get there, and I might have to stop and find a Starbucks to pee in first because I can’t ask to pee during an interview—”

  “Abby,” Riley says, taking my just-scrubbed face in her hands. “Relax. You’re going to nail this. You are perfect for this job.”

  I stare back at her, trying to have as much confidence in me as she does. In the past six years, Riley has transformed from a dissatisfied party girl to a successful PR powerhouse. She’s traded in the cheap vodka for top-shelf martinis and the house parties for bottle service and chef’s tables at all the best places in the city. We’ve been living together since we were eighteen, and are closer than ever because of it. But being close means being blunt, and she doesn’t hold back with me now.

  “If you don’t take a breath and cool it, you’re going to be kicking yourself all the way home,” she says, marching me over to her closet. She rummages through her colorful wardrobe and hands me an emerald green blouse and yellow pencil skirt. “Here. Put these on.”

  “They’re very...bright,” I say.

  “Just like you!” she grins. “You’re interviewing at a creative agency, not a morgue, for Christ’s sake. A little color will be good, trust me.”

  “Well. Thanks,” I sigh, taking the pieces and heading back into my room to change. “I won’t fill them out as well as you, but...”

  “If you think I’m going to cry you a river for having stayed the same size since you were seventeen years old, you’ve got another thing coming to you,” Riley tells me. “Speaking of getting older, though, what do you want to do for your birthday this weekend?”

  “Nothing,” I tell her through the crack in my bedroom door.

  “That’s not an option,” she replies, as I slip into the clothes she’s leant me.

  “You know I hate my birthday,” I call back, piling my hair into a quick, wispy up do. It’s still blonde, if a bit of a darker shade than when I was a kid. “All I ever want is to have a quiet night at home.” />
  “And you know that I’ve never taken that for an answer,” Riley reminds me, rustling around the kitchen.

  “My grandparents are already taking me out to some swanky restaurant,” I tell her, “I owe it to them for letting us stay in this place.”

  “They’re not using it,” Riley reminds me.

  “Still,” I insist, “Living rent free is not exactly something to be taken for granted.”

  “Not with what I spend on booze it isn’t,” Riley agrees. “At least let me take you out for a drink after your fancy dinner, OK? You can give me all the juicy family gossip.”

  I cringe to think of what that gossip might be as I swipe some light makeup onto my face. Every time I see my grandparents, they spend at least an hour moaning about how badly my dad is doing. He’s been in and out of rehab since breaking up with “that woman,” as my grandparents like to refer Deb. After the brawl that ensued the morning after his wedding, I no longer make an effort to include him in my life. Some things can’t be forgiven, and the way he treated me that day is one of them.

  “I’ll give you one birthday drink,” I tell Riley, grabbing my purse, “But no surprise karaoke this year, OK? Or surprise strippers. Or...You know what? Just no surprises period.”

  “Cross my heart,” Riley smiles.

  “Sure,” I say, stepping back out into the living room. “So? How do I look?”

  “Fabulous, as ever,” she says, giving me a quick once-over. “They’re going to love you.”

  “I hope so,” I sigh, “Bastian does such amazing work. They’re one of the best new creative agencies out there. It would be a dream to work for them.”

  “So, tell them that!” Riley insists, giving me a quick hug and a pat on the ass. “Go get ‘em tiger.”

  I take a deep breath and march out of our Upper West Side apartment.

  It’s been a few months since I finished my masters program in graphic design. I’ve been able to freelance for a few different companies, and have built up my portfolio by doing so. I never pictured myself having such a tech-based job, always sort of assumed I’d stick with visual art exclusively. But graphic design lets me be just as creative as drawing does, and employ my mind in other ways, too. If I get this job at Bastian, I’ll be designing and helping come up with marketing strategies for different companies and brands. It would be something new every day, the perfect, totally consuming job. Just what I’m looking for.

  Don’t get me wrong, I have other interests and hobbies, outside of work. I’m an avid runner, adore going out to restaurants, read like a maniac, and try and volunteer around the city. I just loathe downtime more than anything in the world. Downtime means thinking time, reminiscing time, and I want as little of that in my life as possible. Without fail, my thoughts always turn to the past if they’re not rooted in the present. And that’s never a pleasant experience for me.

  I take the subway down to the Lower East Side, a neighborhood chock full of galleries, cool shops, and excellent cafes—not to mention some kickass bars. The Bastian offices are housed in a building that used to be a factory, once upon a time. These days, it has the industrial feel that’s so popular in the city while simultaneously being super high tech. The best of both worlds. I stop before the front door of the office, taking a moment to check my reflection in the glass. Riley was right to suggest this top—it brings out the green in my hazel eyes nicely.

  As I ring the buzzer, a strange feeling passes through me. It’s almost like deja vu, the feeling that this moment is significant, somehow. Clandestine. Maybe I’m just anticipating the interview going well? Whatever the case, there’s no more time to ponder. The door opens before me, and I step quickly into an old fashioned elevator.

  The elevator doors part before me, and I step out into the high-ceilinged office space. A large communal desk stands at the center of the room, surrounded by a dozen hip twenty-somethings. The walls are covered in white board, so that people can jot down ideas whenever and wherever they occur. My jaw falls open a little as I see a fully stocked bar standing in one corner of the main room. The people running this place weren’t kidding when they described it as “off beat”.

  I like it.

  I’m supposed to be meeting with the founding partner and CEO of the agency, Owen Cooper. But glancing around the spacious room, I don’t see a reception desk anywhere. Silly me. As if a place this cool would ever have something as square as a front desk.

  “Are you Abby?” asks one of the people at the communal desk, plucking out an earbud as the rest of the group types on.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” I smile, hoping my nervousness doesn’t show.

  “Cooper is waiting for you in his office,” she says, nodding toward a glass door off the main room. Calling the boss by his last name, huh? How unconventional. Another check in the plus column for this place.

  I thank her and make my way toward the door. Before I can raise my hand to rap against the frosted glass pane, it swings open before me. Standing there is a man I recognize from the Bastian website as Owen Cooper himself. He’s super young for a CEO, in his late 30’s or so. He’s dressed in jeans, a sweater, and a friendly smile.

  “Abby!” he says, as if we were old friends. I guess being able to check out interviewees’ social media profiles makes everyone fast friends these days. “Come on in. Coffee?”

  “Sure,” I reply, “It’s nice to meet you Mr.—”

  “Just ‘Cooper’ is fine,” he cuts me off, pulling a shot from a fancy espresso machine sitting on a table against the wall. “So, thanks for coming in. Even if this is a bit of a formality.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, happily accepting the rich cup of espresso.

  “Your portfolio is excellent,” he tells me, sitting down at his desk. “Top notch. I knew I wanted to hire you from the second I saw your work. Sorry...did I forget to mention that in my last email to you?”

  “That you did,” I say, sinking into a chair opposite him in mild disbelief. “Are you saying...I already have the job?”

  “You do if you want it!” he smiles, “You’ll have to forgive my absent-mindedness. My brain is always hurrying onto the next task, so I sometimes skip over what’s right in front of me. Anyhow, yes! The job is yours for the taking.”

  “Well, I absolutely want to take it,” I grin, “Thanks Mr...Er, Cooper.”

  “Yeah!” he says, clinking his coffee cup to mine. “And you’re in luck, too. One of our managing editors from the European office is going to be lending me a hand here in New York for a while. He’s much less of a scatterbrain than I am, so he’s going to be the one showing you the ropes. I can’t remember if I told him that...”

  “That sounds great,” I reply, sipping the fine espresso as I try to play it cool. I can’t believe I stressed out all week for an interview that was actually a job offer! I guess with the fast-paced aspect of the tech world, hiring practices are a little quicker at places like this.

  “So, what else can I tell you...” Mr. Cooper continues, propping his sneakered feet up on his desk. “Salary is 60K. Full benefits. Three weeks vacation...”

  I stare at him, practically salivating. I try to never think that something is too good to be true, as a rule. But this whole situation is testing me.

  “Well, what do you say?” He presses jovially, “Are you interested in the job, Abby?”

  “I’m...very interested. Absolutely,” I grin, “This is my dream job, Mr...Cooper. I can’t tell you how I excited I am—”

  “Yes, yes. Very good,” Cooper says, standing abruptly. “Well, like I said, our brilliant managing editor is back from Europe this afternoon, and he’s going to be helping you get settled here at Bastian. You’ll trail him to meetings, sit in on brainstorming sessions, all that good stuff. But for today, just go home and relax. Take the Friday to yourself. This is a fast-paced company, Abby. You’re going to need all your stores of youthful energy come Monday.”

  “Sounds great to me,” I say, standing as Cooper op
ens the door for me.

  We walk back out onto the main floor together, but I might as well be walking on a cloud. This whole week, I’ve been stressing out about an interview that was actually an offer! What a screwy industry this is.

  I think I’m going to love it.

  The other employees look up with interest as Cooper leads me to the elevators. It’ll be so nice to work with people my age at a company on the cutting edge of creative innovation. And I didn’t even have to get grilled to score my place here! This day could not get any better.

  Though of course, that just means it could get much, much worse.

  “See you next week!” Cooper says, as the elevator dings to a stop at our floor.

  “Thanks again for giving me this job,” I tell him, giving his hand a quick shake. “I promise you, you won’t be sorry.”

  Beaming, I turn to the elevator as the doors swish open. So blinded am I by my luminous good fortune that I stride into the elevator car without noticing the person trying to step out of it. I reel backward, having collided with the human equivalent of a solid brick wall. Jeez, I thought this was a tech company, not a holding room for the Iron Man competition. I think I actually bruised something on this guy’s sharply cut muscles.

  “Sorry about that,” a voice says from about a foot over my head, “I hope I didn’t hurt you, or...”

  The voice is oddly familiar, though I can’t place where I may have heard it before. A commercial, maybe? Or the radio? It trails off into distracted silence, and I look up for some more clues as to whose it might be. The face looking down at me is utterly gorgeous—sculpted, symmetrical, and engaged. A short crop of dark hair and a hint of stubble on the mans’s razor-like jawline perfects his look. There’s a pair of dark rimmed glasses perched on his straight nose, and for a moment the overhead light glares against the lenses, obscuring his eyes from me.