“Leon, your guys didn’t do anything wrong,” I said as I looked at the paper copy of the order that was put into the system. “It looks like they grabbed stock exactly like it was entered into the computer. The error though, is that Cindy sells her own brand of glass dicks and other toys, so us sending them prepackaged in the clamshell causes her guys a ton of extra work down at the store because they have to un-package everything and then repackage with their own branding. It’s a waste of time and effort and packaging. We actually have different item numbers for the bulk goods, but it looks like whoever called the order in”—I paused to let that sink in to Richard’s mind since he was the one who did it— “just used the catalog and didn’t order the correct items.” Richard opened his mouth to complain but Cindy grabbed his arm before he could launch into defensive mode, and I continued. “Regardless, our company should have known better based on her order history and it would be bad service to let this order go out the door like this. We can do one of two things here, so let Leon know your preference. We can have you take the goods as is, and give you a discount based on the extra work you have to put into repackaging. Not ideal, I know, but at least you will have your stock for the weekend.” I had long since lost any hang-up I had talking about selling sex toys. Glass dicks, vibrators, crotchless panties—it was all just stock to me. “Or, you can leave the order here and have us replace the stock with what you actually ordered, and we can have a courier deliver it to the store for you. That would probably be in two days or so . . . I can’t promise it would get there by Friday though, it might be Monday before you get it.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize for the error, but I sealed my lips against the practiced response. They didn’t get an apology from me, for anything. They were lucky I was even back there dealing with the whole mess.
I turned my back to the others, making sure I had Leon’s attention. “Whatever they decide, please just make the notes and put the correction on Jeremiah’s desk. He will need to be made aware so he can plan better for the future. Thanks, Leon.” The older gentleman gave me the nod and turned to the other two while I went in the opposite direction.
“Finally that’s straightened out. Thank you, Regina.” Cindy’s voice wasn’t necessarily loud, but it ricocheted off the walls in the warehouse like a hammer on a bell. And the heavy layer of sarcasm wasn’t lost on me. The angel on my right shoulder was pushing, shoving me forward to walk those last few feet out of the warehouse and back through to the front office. Ignore her, it begged. Please, be the bigger woman and walk away.
The devil on my left shoulder didn’t have to say anything though, he just sat there with his arms crossed shaking his head. He knew what I was going to do and there was no way he was going to stop me. Both illusions of good and evil disappeared in a puff of imaginary smoke. Something snapped inside of me, the part that gave a shit about my job, or my work ethic. The part that was desperately trying to hold on to the sanity of being “the bigger person.” That part broke in half.
Turning back around until I was looking right at Cindy, I asked in my most sugary sweet voice, “Thank you for what, my friend? Thank you for fixing the order that got messed up, or thank you for letting you fuck my boyfriend? Because, really, that second part was something I never gave you permission to do, so clarification at this point is really unnecessary. It doesn’t matter what the thank you is for anyway, my answer to both is, Fuck You. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is that why you came to do the pick-up yourselves instead of sending Kell to do it like you normally would? Well, I hope you received satisfactory service. Also, fuck you, Cindy, and fuck you, too, Richard.” With that I left them all standing there staring at me— Richard, Cindy, and Leon as well. Whatever, I had given them good customer service. Fuck everything after that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I needed a break. Of course Jack heard about what happened, in record time, even. Thanks a lot, Leon. I guess I couldn’t even really blame Leon, I had told a high ranking client to fuck off on the shipping dock in front of the entire warehouse. It could have been any number of people that narked on me. I thought Jack was going to have a heart attack. His already overly tanned skin was even darker—mottled purple with rage.
“Goddammit, O’Shea. Goddamit. If you weren’t such a good salesperson I would send you fucking packing right now! As it is, we leave for Vegas in two days for the goddamn show this weekend, and I need you to be in that booth with your shit together. Stay home tomorrow and eat chocolate and read smut books, or whatever it is you need to do to get centered, and please, Jesus, just get your ass to the trade show and don’t fucking embarrass me. Now get out of here—and don’t forget not to dress like such an old lady at the booth. People of influence are going to be meeting you.”
People of influence, meant people with money to burn. Jack wanted me to dress like a slut and make nice with the men who brought briefcases. I knew exactly what he was getting at, but right now I didn’t have any extra fight in me. I had a massive headache and I really just needed to get out of there, so I made like a good cowering employee and left the office.
I didn’t need a hot bath, or chocolate, or a smut book. What I really needed was Beck. Unfortunately, it was a Wednesday, and those nights were off limits for some reason. He never explained what he had going on those nights, but I had never asked, either. Everyone had their own personal stuff to do, and I didn’t really feel like pressing him. I liked Beck. I really enjoyed his company, and the mind-blowing sex. I saw him several times a week, and he slept over at least half the time. I had gotten the mattress replaced since he had broken it. He had the audacity to not even be embarrassed. “You didn’t want to sleep on it anymore anyway,” he’d said with a grin when I told him. “And since it was covered by warranty anyway, it’s a win-win, yeah?” Hell yes, it was a win-win, and it was even funnier when I had to explain to customer service on the phone the reason for the return was because it had broken under the strain of sex with my giant boyfriend. I felt pretty comfortable calling Beck my boyfriend. We hadn’t had the conversation yet, but we were spending a lot of our free time together. And did anyone our age ever have “that talk” anymore? For me, it wasn’t necessary. I was having fun with my life now, there was no need for me to pick apart every little thing.
I looked down at the beautiful chrysalis tattoo on my wrist. Beck had been right, I was just starting my journey. I didn’t cry myself to sleep on the couch every night anymore, and I was sleeping in my own bed again. Baby steps. I was taking my own type of baby steps. I might not be a butterfly yet, but I was getting there, and when I did, and I felt comfortable saying so, Beck would put that butterfly on my other wrist.
Just thinking about Beck made me smile, and even though it was Wednesday, and he was busy, I could still do something nice for him.
Tag, you’re it.
Beck didn’t know it, but I kept that napkin folded up in my purse. It was my first random love note, and it made me happy to look at it. A silly thing, but it was mine, and I would feel about it however I wanted to. I wondered what was something nice I could do for Beck, even if he wasn’t around? Hmmm. I got it. I could take a present to the shop and leave it at the back door. With a love note of my own.
Tag, you’re it.
It was a great idea, actually. I really enjoyed stopping at the liquor store and picking through the beers I’d never heard of. I was a wine girl, but a friendly sales associate helped me pick out the “hoppiest beer you have” and, armed with a six pack of something I had never heard of, I left the store and drove over to Gallery B. I parked across the street from the front of the shop because it was the easiest place to park. The plan was to run around the side of the building, tuck the note into the six-pack and leave it at the side door for Beck to find when he opened in the morning.
I didn’t have a napkin to write on, but I did have the receipt for the beer so I scrawled a little love note of my own.
It probably tastes like ass water
and leaves. I bet you’ll love it.
PS – I like you a lot.
PPS – Tag you’re it.
This was some prime junior high note writing, but I didn’t care. I had a crush, and it was reciprocated, and we could be as silly as we wanted with each other. That was the rush of new relationships, all the good feelings were magnified a hundredfold. The joy of finding new love was the brightest light, the best of the best. The offset of that, of course, was that the heartbreak was just as powerful. I wouldn’t have to worry about that right now, though, I had been through my heartache. I wasn’t in that position anymore.
What the hell did I know?
I hadn’t expected anyone to be at Gallery B, it was later than it was the time Beck had closed after my tattoo, and he had been running late then. I fully expected it to be lights off and lot empty, so I was shocked when I began crossing the street and saw Beck walking out with a shorter, young woman with dirty blonde hair. That wasn’t what shook me though, Beck walking out the shop doors with a woman. No, what caused the blood to turn to ice in my veins and the breath to freeze in my lungs was the arm he held around her waist, and the gentle embrace he gave her after he made sure the front door was pulled tight and locked. Not the tight squeezes and rough fondlings that I loved and was used to. No, he was fucking tender as hell and I could tell from halfway across the street even, that his hug was an act of love. It was when he pulled her in tightly and gave her a kiss on her hairline that the fine cracks on the edges of my self-control spider webbed and met in the middle. The tight shell that had been holding me together crumbled into pieces, and the violent tide of anger I had been holding inside was unleashed.
Fuck this.
Fuck him
Fuck her
Fuck all of it.
“Tag, you’re it,” I said, more cheerily than I felt as I stepped up on the curb in front of them. Beck let go of the younger girl immediately. She had a startled look on her face. I didn’t care.
“Regina—” Beck started, but I cut him off. I didn’t want to hear it. I’d heard the excuses before from a different man. It didn’t matter, it was all the same.
“So this must be Wednesday,” I said, nodding to the younger woman who was starting to look a little nervous. I still didn’t care. “Hello, Wednesday, it’s nice to meet you. Beck has told me all about you. At least, he’s mentioned being busy on Wednesday. I hope you are feeling okay, he can really be quite heavy.” My tone was as nasty as I felt. Everything hurt, my heart, my head. My hands and feet were numb, and I wondered if I was even going to be able to walk back to the car. I was in danger of keeling right over where I stood. Only my anger kept me upright.
“Regina—” Beck started again, but even the sound of his voice pissed me off.
“Did you really think I would be that easy, Beck? Like, do you go out of your way to find the most broken people around to mess with? Is it fun? Well, I’m not having any fun right now, Beck. I’m tired of the game. I think I’d like to stop playing now.”
“Wait, I don—” the blonde began.
“Shut up little girl, the grownups are talking,” I snapped at the girl I had dubbed Wednesday when she tried to intervene.
“Regina. You need to leave.” The command in his voice brought my harping to a standstill. How dare he use that bedroom voice out here with me in the street? Did he have to ruin everything? “Regina, go home. Now.”
“You know what, Beck? I think I will. Fuck you, and fuck you, too,” I said, spitting the last part out at his partner. I turned to leave but at the last minute remembered I was still holding his stupid present, so I dropped it on the ground at his feet. I heard the glass bottles clinking together, some of them had probably broken in the fall, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. The white receipt with my love note on it had fallen out from where I had tucked it into the cardboard carrier and was fluttering slowly to the ground, much like the shattered pieces of my heart and self-esteem.
“Tag, you’re it, asshole.” My last words were to Beck as I turned away from him and walked back across the street. I kept my back straight and my head high, much like I did when I left Affini’s after Richard and Cindy had walked in.
Don’t let them see you cry. Don’t let them see you cry.
The anger stayed with me throughout the entire drive home. It wasn’t until I walked into the house and closed the door behind me that I let the pain in, let it consume me. In the privacy of my own home I could let the screams out, the anguish, the fresh hurt. One would think that it would be a familiar hurt, having just gone through the same issue months before. It wasn’t the same, though. A knife cutting through an old wound still had to saw through scar tissue, and that’s how I felt—emotionally dismembered. Sawed apart.
I would find no solace with Beauty Sleeping, no comfort on the couch that had cradled me to sleep previously. Nor in the bedroom I once again couldn’t bring myself to walk in without fresh waves of agony squeezing my heart in an iron grip. There was nowhere to go in my own home where I wasn’t assaulted with every mistake I had ever made.
I was cold. So damn cold. Pouring a bath as hot as I could stand, I took off my clothes where I stood and sank down into the steaming depths. I let the water run until it threatened to overflow the tub and still I couldn’t get warm. I was fully broken now, and I had no idea what to do about it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Who was Regina? Not someone I wanted to be anymore, that was for sure. At least that was what I had told myself at three in the morning when I was still staring at the bathroom walls, unable to sleep, replaying the scene with Beck and that nameless girl in my mind. I’d refilled the tub five times, I was still shivering down to my bones. Regina made piss-poor choices, and even though she looked pretty normal in the mirror, there had to be something about her that was attracting all the wrong types of men.
I didn’t really think of myself in the third person like that, but for a little while I did stare at the face in the bathroom mirror, desperately trying to see the invisible sign over my head that said, “Please take advantage, I’m kind of dumb that way.” Of course, I saw nothing of the sort. I just wanted to be—someone else for a while. Someone who was not the Regina that everyone else saw, a reinvention. So I did the one thing that almost every woman does when faced with a life crisis. The one thing I had control over, right now at that moment.
I cut my hair.
I immediately regretted my decision. Not because I missed my hair, but because I had cut it with a pair of kitchen scissors in the middle of the night after drinking too much wine in the bathtub and crying my eyes out. I had gone from mess—to hot mess, in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t like in the movies where the woman gets angry and chops away at her own hair, then all of a sudden the camera cuts away and there she is, a perfect pixie cut or smooth bob staring back at her from the mirror. There is a distinct difference between crisis and cry for help, and I wasn’t so far gone that I didn’t recognize a bad decision when I made one. I couldn’t do a damn thing right, apparently. It was a good thing I knew someone who could.
When I called my friend Charity to see if she could fit me in, I almost couldn’t get an appointment. I don’t know if it was the tears in my voice or the fact that I said, “Help me, I cut my own hair,” that changed her mind, but she got me in for an appointment a half hour before her salon opened for the day. For a woman that spends ten to twelve hours on her feet all day, that was a huge deal. I had been having Charity cut my hair since she was in beauty school. I always kept my hair relatively mid-length to long, never getting much done to it besides a trim, so I always went to the beauty school to get my hair done because it was easy and inexpensive. It didn’t really matter to me who cut my hair, I only ever got it trimmed anyway.
There was something about Charity, though, that kept me coming back to her for my trims, and while we weren’t super close, we did seem to have a pretty good relationship while I was in the chair. Charity graduated from beauty school
and I just followed her to her first professional salon job as her client. And I stayed her client, even when she opened her own high-end salon. I should have just been grateful she kept me as a client. Charity had major skill, far more than what was being wasted on my little trims every eight to ten weeks.
Charity was wild, always a different cut, color, or style on her and it always looked amazing. She was never afraid to try something new and never held back from her honest opinion either. Every time I sat in her chair she would ask the same question, “You gonna let me do what I want today?” and I would laugh because she knew as well as I did that I would only ever get a little trim. Today was different though. Today she said the same thing, but it wasn’t a question, it was a statement of fact.
“You are going to let me do what I want today?”
Tearfully, I nodded. She didn’t ask me any questions about what happened, or why I’d cut my own hair. Stylists have a way about them, the good ones anyway, they know when to talk and when not to. This was a hot button topic Charity wasn’t touching with a ten-foot pole. I’m sure I wasn’t the first angry woman, at the end of her rope, who tried to do the same thing. Stylists worked a type of therapy in a way, helping clients cope with their bad decisions made at an emotional low.
“You are going to let me do what I want today?” she asked again.
“Yes.” I would let Charity do what she wanted as long as she could fix the damage I had wrought on my own hair. I may have been sent home from the office yesterday, but I still had to catch a plane and fly to Las Vegas for the SGE, and I could not go looking like I did. I tried to make an exception when she started mixing color, but she shot me down quickly.
The Permanence of Pain Page 9
