“Fuck you,” I replied with equal respect.
With my bloody fingers, I pulled out my phone. I crawled to the corner of the entrance and crumpled there, tears streaming, entire body numb. I dialed Yash. It went straight to voicemail. I went to text him, but the text went through another color.
453. He’d blocked me
My heart hurt so much, I couldn’t breathe. I began gasping, swirling, dying.
Voices started talking. To me? I looked up and two women reached down to me.
“We have to help her,” said one.
“Whose buzzer was it?”
The first lady, red hair and blurry face, took my elbow and helped me to my feet. I clung to her, still gasping, gasping. “Do you have somewhere to go?” she asked.
I just stared at her, past her, snot all over my lip.
“Majumdar. Yash Majumdar!” said the other, a super tall blonde. “Oh, my God, he’s sexy sex writer guy! Dagmar, you have good taste.”
I looked from one to the other. They clearly recognized me from DirtyLinens.com. No. No! I yanked my arm away from the redhead and stumbled toward a cab. Soon I was stop-and-go-ing back toward work. Those women knew me. And now they knew him. No. Please. Please let them not—
My phone rang. I fumbled in my coat pocket again—holy fucking shit did my hand hurt!—to see, to pray it was Yash.
Mel.
I smeared blood across the phone when I hit answer. “It’s over, Mel. He won’t talk to me. He blocked me. He won’t even listen.”
She sighed. “Where are you? Marlene called me.”
“I-I’m in a cab. I’m going back to work, I guess. Oh, God.” I started sobbing again, and the cabbie handed back a grimy tissue pack to me. “Th-th-thank you.”
Mel’s voice got tougher. “Okay, Missy. So it’s a shit day. But… But never say never, ‘kay, sug’? Go back to the office and read the article. Our blog is loved. You are a heroine for the book set! And I’ve gotten five more agent offers of representation in an hour. You probably have too, if you check your email. It’s going to be okay, Dag.”
“Bu-bu-but—”
“But me no buts!” I could practically hear her stand. She was in general mode now. “You will survive this. You will be strong, like Scarlett O’Hara, but way less racist. The Kostopouloses will rise agayn!” She always got super Southern in these moments.
I was almost back at the office. “Okay.” I sniffled and blew my nose into one of the nice cabbie’s tissues. “Okay, I can do this. I have to own my fuck-ups, right? That’s kinda the point?”
“That’s exactly the point! You are a strong woman, and you can do it.”
“Do what?”
“Iiiiiiiiiit!”
We pulled up to the high rise. I ended Mel’s call, gave the cabbie a ridiculous tip and got out. It would be okay. I loved Yash, but I’d survive this. He’d probably come around—he was just in shock right now. Life was all about choices, right? I could choose to get through this day with dignity. And grace. And poise.
I stepped onto the sidewalk. I straightened my shoulders. And something splatted across my head.
Liquid white dripped down my nose, onto my coat. I wiped my cheek—poop.
454. Bird fucking poop
455. A fucking bird
456. Had fucking shit
457. On my fucking head
458. In the fucking middle
459. Of fucking winter!
I screamed. I screamed and screamed and screamed. I got hoarse, but I kept screaming. Rage. Pain. Anger. Heartbreak. Bird shit. I screamed it all, my fists as balled as I could get them with my probably broken fingers. My eyes squeezed shut, mostly to keep the crap from dripping into them.
I used my snot-encrusted tissue to wipe as much shit from my face as possible. This entire day was becoming a joke. “What next?” I screamed to the heavens. A nanny hurried her two charges away from me. I turned to shoot her a dirty look.
Good thing, for I was facing the street when a limo passed and threw a foot-wide puddle of slush all over me.
Freezing. Dripping. Mud. Filth. I just stood there, shivering so hard I bit my cheek. I picked a sodden cigarette butt off my drenched coat. Hey, at least the slush cleaned some of the shit off my head.
I turned and sailed into the building. I splish-splashed my way across the lobby. A security guard stood from behind the desk and opened her mouth to say something. I flicked my gaze to hers. “No worries,” she said and sat back down.
460. No worries
A woman stared at me while we rode the elevator up. I smiled at her. It must have come out terrifying, because she backed away as far as possible. “Would you like a hug?” I asked her.
She hit the button for the next closest floor and ran.
I opened the door to the office. Three people gaped this time.
461. I was getting more popular
I waved. I walked. I went into my office. Latisha stood. “Oh, my God,” she said.
“Please don’t mention that being to me at the moment.”
Marlene must have been watching for me. She followed me in. “Wow.”
I spit street dirt into my trash can. “Yup.”
“You went to his apartment?”
“Yeah, I—” I looked up at her. “How did you know that?”
Her eyes filled with pity.
462. Which is such a good look on your new boss
“Come here,” she said. “I always keep spare clothes in the office. And you must see something.”
The shivers began to rack my body then. I shrugged and followed her. What now? Had Abby given me up? Was Carmichael suing me? Maybe an asteroid was plummeting to earth.
463. I prayed that last one was true
464. Might as well take all these bastards with me
Marlene handed me a pile of expensive, professional wear and shut me in her office to change. She was a little smaller than I, but a wrap dress is forgiving, and it even matched my filthy, wet shoes. Small favors. I went to the bathroom to wash my face and dunk my head to get the poop and whatnot out.
465. Better not think about what’s in whatnot
I dried my hair with paper towels until it no longer dripped and returned to Marlene’s office, where she awaited me. My body felt…numb. My eyes hurt almost as badly as my hand, which Marlene took one look at and gasped. She pressed her intercom and asked her assistant to get me ice.
Marlene said, “You need to get those examined immediately.”
I nodded. I couldn’t bend my fingers.
466. Good thing it was my right hand, the one I use for everything
She sat me down at her desk and went to DirtyLinens. I wanted to tell her that I obviously knew about the post, but she was my boss, so I tried to contain myself. And it totally worked.
467. Until she clicked on the second post
468. The video post
469. Taken forty-five minutes ago
470. The one of me begging into Yash’s intercom
471. Collapsing onto the ground
472. Sobbing
473. Crushing my hand in the door
I died. I sat there in my boss’s chair and died.
Because everything was the worst.
I would now inhabit the world as a ghost. I didn’t know what the fuck Casper was so friendly about, because I wanted to murder those two horrible women and hurl bird shit on their ghosts with my ghost hands until we both got dragged into hell by my lord and master, Satan.
Marlene held out her hands to me, as if I were a feral dog. “It’s okay. You’re very popular on there. The public sees this as romantic! And Yash is so handsome and talented, they all want him to give you a second chance. Well, most of them do. Breathe, Dagmar.”
I breathed with my ghost lungs. “Marlene, if you want to fire me, I get it. You didn’t sign up for this ridiculous drama. I can’t believe— I can’t believe someone recognized me at his place and…and…”
I’d run out of tears. This d
ay had lasted a hundred years already.
“No way.” She crouched down. “You’re just as wonderful as you were yesterday. And I admire you going there to fight for him. Even if it doesn’t work, it was worth it to try. Do you love him?”
Oh, look. I did have another tear left. It made a break down my cheek, and I nodded.
“Love finds a way. Take the rest of the day. Eat a hundred donuts, get the vodka from the freezer and hide from prying eyes. I have a feeling you have a lot of emails coming—hell, agents are taking to Twitter asking to rep your movie rights.”
I shook my head. “No. This is my second week on the job, and—”
“I’ll charge you a sick day. Go.”
Suddenly, I stood and hugged her to me with all my might. She squeezed me back. “Love finds a way, Dagmar. It’s going to be okay. Or it won’t, and you’ll find another man. They’re literally everywhere.”
“Thanks.”
I knew then that I didn’t want to shop the book around. I wanted this lovely lady who clothed me in DVF and didn’t can me for being ridiculous and stinking of street plague.
My brain barely registered the ride home. The worst part of it all was that Yash wouldn’t let me apologize. Then again, why should he? He didn’t owe me shit.
474. He didn’t even owe me bird shit
I did reach for a bottle the moment I got home.
475. It came with me into the shower
I also ordered a sandwich and a cake from the bakery down the block. An entire cake.
476. It’s good to have goals, even in times of great despair
In my ugliest sweatpants, with my bottle of something brown, I opened my laptop. And I wrote, picking letter keys with my one good hand. I didn’t blog so much as pour my heart out to him.
No names. Not that it mattered now.
477. Oh, God, poor Yash. To be dealing with my betrayal, and now in the public eye
478. I couldn’t even be mad at the bird anymore
479. It had correctly mistaken me for a toilet
I wrote about how I loved him. About how it had all happened so damn fast. How in denial I’d been about my entire life. And, finally, how wrong I’d been to let it go on as long as it had.
And yet…
In a way, I was still happy I’d gone a little crazy there for a while. The pendulum always swings high when it’s been tied up. And I’d been double knotted all my life.
At the end of my emotional rant, as an ode to my fucking up, I typed out a hearty Fuck You to the asshole who’d filmed my heart breaking and distributed it for all to see. I described them—why should they stay anonymous? I didn’t really do it for me even, but for Yash, who in no way deserved this publicity.
I hit Publish.
Finally, I took a deep breath. Another. My cake came. Oh, and also my real food, which I did eat first, thank you very much. First, a bite of sandwich. Then, a bite of cake. Last, ice for my finger. Sandwich. Cake. Ice. Cake. Sandwich. Cake cake cake cake.
Thus infused with comfort food—and a belt of Scotch—I took a look at the blog. Holy shit—the blog’s followers had quadrupled. My downfall was an entertainment event for the masses.
But…
But they did support me, just as Marlene had said. Some were telling stories of how they’d played by the rules and gotten screwed. Others, about how they’d messed up their love lives, but it had worked out in the end. Quite a few ladies said I was brave to run and do anything to try to get him back. Some guys said that they’d definitely listen to anyone willing to beg in public when it was so obvious I loved him.
Of course, the inevitable comments about my giant nose and fat butt emerged, but they were jumped on by my loyal gang of fuck-ups, bless them.
Tears dripped into my cake, and yet Yash did not contact me, no matter how many times I refreshed my email.
My fingers had become numb. Not good. I hurried to the walk-in clinic at the end of the block. Yup—they were fractured. They splinted my middle finger—useful for flipping off purposes—and taped the other two together. This day just got better and better.
As I sat there getting treated, I had nothing to do but hurt and think. I’d formed a thousand arguments in my head for when I came clean. I’d never once considered that the news would come from elsewhere, that he’d just go dark, and I’d never get to tell my side of the story. How much of the blog had he read? Did he see the posts where I said I’d been terrified of losing him? That I was being myself in the relationship, except for the job and the name?
480. This never would have happened if I’d just told him
Mel texted me. We made Buzzfeed. And CNN.
481. Uuhfjhdfkajdhjalkfhjsahf
Mel: I have fourteen different agent offers, and that’s not counting Lillian.
Mel: We have two of the big five presses coming to us, too. Check your email.
Ugh, my email. Two hundred unread messages sat there. Many friends exclaiming different forms of happiness at my success and sadness for my failures. A few men I didn’t know calling me a whore—there were about a thousand of those on my Twitter stream right about now. Also used in a fun way—cunt, bitch, slut, trollop—at least that word was semi-literary—and gold digger (WTF?), along with quite a few colorful offers to murder me. And yes—non-murderey offers. Holy shit, a movie studio. Nope—two.
Me: We need an agent, stat. Anyone good in there besides the four we’d picked?
Mel: I’ll come over at lunch to chat about it. You okay? That video was not fucking cool.
Me: I’m exactly how I deserve to be.
Once I got home, I scooped a bite of cake with my good hand and smashed it to my mouth. This was my life now.
482. Cake without a fork
483. Shower Scotch
484. Endless regret
Myrtle jumped into my lap and started licking frosting from my face. I let her do it for a moment until I wondered how healthy buttercream was for cats. Besides, I was totally having a worse day and needed all the fat and butter I could get.
Mel: I’m forwarding an email to you that might cheer you the slightest bit up.
My email refreshed, and, for the first time today, the sun peeked through the clouds. The count of the Big Five publishers was officially up to three.
For Carmichael Burns had just made us an offer on our book.
Chapter Nineteen
F*ck-Ups Four-Eighty-Five through Five-Hundred-Three
Sick Burns
Mel pulled me together enough for us to strategize that night. I told her that I wanted Marlene to have the book and she agreed, provided the dollar signs were lining up. That would be tough, as a small press didn’t have quite the funds of a Big Five, but maybe we could work out a higher percentage of sales to compensate for a smaller advance. Momma(s) needed retirement plans.
485. Especially me, as I was probably toxic to the general male populace now and would die alone with Myrtle
486. That reminded me: Time to adopt, like, eight more cats
We arranged three more agent interviews to happen over the phone the following evening. After all was said and done, we’d liked Lillian’s sunny attitude and track record the best—there were reasons we’d picked her in the first place—so we signed a contract for the book and all subsequent titles in that series. Agent in hand, we arranged to meet Carmichael at his office on Thursday of that week. He’d asked to take us out to dinner, but I’d said no freaking way.
That entire office would see me strut in there and put him through his paces.
I doubled-down at my own job to make up for the mess earlier in the week. My phone rang off the hook from journalists, well-wishers, and nay-sayers—one of whom mailed a box of severed doll heads to me. Marlene asked reception to start screening my calls and getting rid of anyone who wasn’t Hysterical business. I bought Jenny in reception a box of cupcakes as a thank you, and she grew quite fond of getting rid of callers in nice and sometimes extremely nasty ways.
As
for me, I was numb. Whenever the black cloud named Yash stormed across my heart, I jumped to edit a manuscript, strategize with an author, or even do the dishes.
My apartment had never been so clean, and Myrtle had taken to running away from me, I tried to brush her so many times.
487. Her food bowl was a mountain of Overcompensation Vittles
Only at night did I let it all out, crying myself to sleep in such a hysterical fashion, I would have slashed it from a manuscript as ‘over-dramatic.’
488. My purple prose brings no boys to the yard
Thursday morning, I iced my eyes to de-puff them and took extreme care with my hair and makeup. My hair flowed long and wavy—thank you, hot curlers—just the way Carmichael liked all of his women to look. I put on a flirty blue dress with a skirt just on the correct side of too short for business, black tights, and heels. I topped it with a cream princess coat—I looked sexy and every inch the successful cool girl I now was.
Marlene had given her okay to meet Carmichael during work hours, provided, of course, that I recounted it for laughs in the book. She knew hell would freeze into slushies before I rewarded Carmichael with any book I had a hand in.
Mel and I met up in the coffee shop at the bottom of Carmichael’s building, and Lillian joined us there.
Lillian flashed the cutest smug smile I’d ever seen. “So, this meeting is a waste of time, right? We’re just doing this for the ‘fuck you’ factor?”
I sat on one side of Lillian, Mel, the other. We enclosed her in a hug, an Oreo of love.
She threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll take my cues from you two. This is going to be the cat’s pajamas.”
As one, we marched onto Carmichael’s floor and informed reception of our exalted presences. I didn’t have to tell Matt, at the desk, who we were there to see. He jumped up and swept me into so fierce a hug it took me off the ground. “You look fantastic!” he said. He swiveled around to see if the coast was clear and whispered in my ear, “Give that bastard hell.”
I started giggling, and it was exactly what I needed to chase away the nervousness. My stomach had been fluttering like a bird just because I’d set foot in the building. Here, the site of my wimpy past.
667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life Page 22
