On our way downtown, I performed a bit of creative surgery on my shoe. When I was done, I held my foot away from me to evaluate my work. Not bad. I pulled out my makeup kit and applied some lipstick and blusher, a high-risk maneuver without a mirror. Just when I thought I was finally done, I noticed that my dress was covered in lint.
Oh no.
I’m screwed.
Then I had an idea.
I opened my purse and pulled out the electrical tape. I ripped off a few large pieces and made circles with the sticky side facing out. Then I set to work de-linting. My dad, the MacGyver of our family, would be so proud.
I arrived at the Sun office at 9:58. In the elevator, I inspected my dress and shoes. As long as no one looked too closely, I could pass for someone who had been awake for more than half an hour.
When the elevator doors opened, I noticed how much quieter the administrative floor was than the editorial one, with fewer people and a lot less paper.
And, I suspected, a lot more anxiety.
I walked on eggshells down the long hallway to the far corner office in the back. Many of the cubes in the center of the room were empty. When I got to the corner office with Eloise Zimmerman on the door, I stopped and poked my head in. She was sitting at her desk, her back to the door, the phone to one ear. Her hair was indeed high. And big. And stiff.
“I don’t care what he told you, he’s a liar, and he’s overcharging us,” she hissed into the phone loud enough for me to overhear. “So fire him today, or I will.”
Yikes. Who is she firing?
I tried to look busy by checking my messages on my phone, then getting myself some water and touring the floor, stopping by every few minutes to see if she was done. At ten fifteen I finally got up the nerve to tap on the door. She was still on the phone, clearly unhappy.
“Ms. Zimmerman?” I whispered and pointed to the air behind me. “Just wanted to let you know I’m outside?” Why did I pose that as a question?
I expected her to wave me away like a mosquito, but she smiled and motioned for me to sit down in the chair across from her desk. I raised my eyebrows, then sat down and folded my hands in my lap. This should be interesting.
“Okay, I need to go now, I have a meeting,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the phone.
I stared at my hands.
“Okay, okay, sounds good. I love you too. Bye.”
I looked up. I love you too?
She hung up, then swiveled around in her chair to face me. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Oh, it’s no problem.”
“That was my husband. He hired a contractor to paint our house, and the man is completely incompetent. But Joe, my husband, is such a pushover that he just can’t let him go, even though we’re getting robbed blind.”
I tried not to laugh. There I was, thinking she was bringing the house down, when all she was doing was painting it.
She leaned back in her chair and narrowed her eyes. “So…you’re Waverly Bryson.” She wore a dark blue pantsuit and a long, fat-linked gold necklace.
I nodded, trying not to look too nervous.
“And you were on The Today Show yesterday.” She removed her glasses and let them dangle around her neck on a thin chain, also gold.
“Yes ma’am. I got back last night,”
“How did it go?”
I shifted in my seat. “I think it went pretty well. It was a little awkward in the beginning, but it ended up fine. The producers and correspondent seemed happy with it.”
She slowly moved her fingers over the gold links. I wondered if that necklace cost more than my monthly rent.
“I missed it, but I heard it was quite good.”
I smiled. “You did?”
She sifted through a stack of papers on her desk. “We got a few calls from advertisers who really liked that you speak to the single community. That’s a coveted demographic for advertising because no kids means more disposable income.”
I didn’t say anything because I had absolutely no idea what to say.
She put her glasses back on. “I want to bump you up to two columns a week, starting immediately. Can you handle that?”
“Twice a week? Yes, I think I can do that.”
“Good. This paper is a sinking ship, so getting our advertising dollars up is top priority right now. You’d be amazed at how much content we’ve been paying for that no one actually reads.”
I was surprised at her candor. I still had no idea what to say.
“Okay then, keep up the good work. We need it right now.” She swiveled her chair away from me to face her computer. I took that to mean the meeting was over.
I stood up and slowly backed my way toward the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Zimmerman.”
She nodded, not looking up from her computer screen.
I smiled to myself as I reached the doorway and turned to face the ninth floor. I hadn’t been expecting that at all. She actually liked my work! That could mean a bright future for Honey on Your Mind…and for me.
I was two steps out the door when she spoke again. “Oh, and Waverly, my dear.”
I returned and poked my head back inside. “Yes, Mrs. Zimmerman?”
“I think you’ve got something hanging off the back of your dress. It looks like electrical tape?”
Mortified, I sprinted to the nearest restroom to fix my dress. Ugh. Just when I thought I’d had it all together for ONE shining moment, a Waverly one spoke up to remind me I still had a long way to go. I checked for additional unwanted accessories clinging to my body, then dropped by Ivy’s desk to say hi.
“Waverly! How are you? It’s been ages.” She cleared off a pile of newspapers from a chair and motioned for me to sit down.
“I know, it’s been forever. How was your trip?”
“Honestly, I don’t even want to go there. Kansas is bonkers, and I’ll leave it at that. You look super cute, by the way. Nice dress.”
“Thanks.” I smiled, deciding to keep my latest Waverly moment to myself. “That bad, eh? It’s not every day you hear someone use the word bonkers, especially about a whole state.”
“Let’s just say that in small-town Kansas, or at least in my family, it is simply not acceptable for a woman in her late twenties to be unmarried.”
“They’re on your case to get married already?”
“You have no idea.” She pushed a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. “Both my sisters are under twenty-five and already married, with babies, so because I’m twenty-eight and don’t have a ring on my finger, they’ve all come to the conclusion that I must be a lesbian. Especially since I live in San Francisco.”
I laughed. “No way.”
“My sisters, not so much. But my parents? Totally. Plus my mom is convinced that even if I am straight, once I turn thirty, I’ll be too old for any eligible man to ever want me. She’s even talked to her pastor about it.”
“Too old at thirty?”
She nodded. “According to unofficial Kansas state law, I have less than two years to get Casey to marry me, or I will officially become an old maid. So I guess the countdown is on.”
“Wow, I can see why you left Kansas.”
“I’m never moving back there. Add in my tattoos and belly ring to my advanced age, and I might as well be from Mars.”
“Aren’t women supposed to be from Venus?”
She waved a hand in front of her. “Mars, Venus, Jupiter, whatever. So hey, nice job on The Today Show.”
“You saw it?”
“It was very entertaining. I thought you did great, but what was up with that bitch sitting next to you?”
I pointed at her. “Exactly! Thank you!”
“Total bitch.”
“She was faking that Southern accent too,”
“Really?”
“Well, maybe not faking, but definitely embellishing. You know what it made me realize?”
Ivy raised her eyebrows.
“Have you seen my Honey Note
that asks Is it worse to be fake or bitchy?”
She smiled. “Of course, that’s one of my favorites.”
“Well that woman made me realize that it’s actually possible to be both fake and bitchy, because she was one fake bitch.”
She laughed. “I thought your dating stories were really funny. The married twenty-two-year-olds in Kansas might not agree, but I loved them. I didn’t know you were dating so much, though.”
“What?”
“I didn’t realize you went out on so many dates. But it was good. Gave you some street cred.” She punched the air. “Plus it put that big-haired fake bitch in her place.”
I was about to explain how the dating stories I’d told weren’t exactly recent, when the sound of Nick’s voice made us both turn our heads.
“Now come on, ladies, you shouldn’t talk about Eloise Zimmerman like that.”
“Sorry, wrong big-haired fake bitch,” Ivy said as he approached her cube. He was wearing a light blue shirt that said, “Bring Back the Three-Martini Lunch.”
I stood up and smoothed my hands over my dress. “Eloise wasn’t nearly as bad as you two said she’d be. I just met her, and she was actually pretty nice.”
They both narrowed their eyes.
“I’m serious. She even asked me to double the number of columns I write. She said I’m doing a great job.”
“Really?” Ivy said. “I’ve never heard of her saying that to anyone before.”
I smiled. “She said to keep up the good work.”
Nick squinted at me. “I reserve the right to remain suspicious.”
I crossed my arms and squinted back. “Is it really that hard to believe my column is good?”
“Hey now, don’t put words in my mouth.” He put his hands up. “You know I think your column is amazing. We’re just saying that Eloise Zimmerman isn’t known for being nice to anyone, that’s all.”
I dropped my arms to my sides. “I’m sorry, I guess I’m just a little rattled after what happened on the show yesterday.”
“You mean when you threw your friend under the bus?”
I winced. “You saw that?”
“I saw. That was pretty brutal.”
I put my face in my hands. “I know, I totally panicked. I suck.”
“Ah, she’ll get over it.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“You think so?”
He nodded.
I looked at Ivy. “Do you think so?”
“I’ve never met her, so it’s hard to tell. But if you and she are as close as you say, maybe it’ll be fine. She’ll understand.”
I looked back at Nick. “I hope you’re right.”
“I’m always right. I’ve already told you that.”
As soon as I was outside the Sun office on Market Street, I called Andie on her work line.
“Andrea Barnett.”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi.” Her voice sounded dry.
“I’m back from New York. Want to meet for a drink tonight to catch up?”
“I can’t tonight,” she said, not elaborating.
“Got a date with Gaslamp Guy?”
“Yep.”
“So how’s that going?”
“Fine. Listen, I’m really busy right now. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
I closed my eyes.
“Andie, is everything all right?”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m really sorry about that comment yesterday. I don’t know what I was thinking, using your name like that.”
She didn’t respond.
“Andie?”
“I watched it here at the office,” she said. “With my boss and about ten of my coworkers.”
I stopped walking.
“Oh my God.”
“I need to go now.” She spoke in a tone I’d never heard before.
“Okay,” I said softly.
“Bye, Waverly.”
She hung up, and I hung my head. I stood there on the sidewalk for a few moments, not knowing what to do. I wanted to call Jake but couldn’t. I wanted to call McKenna, but I knew I’d only get her voicemail.
I suck.
The whole bus ride home, my mind was consumed with a single thought.
I really screwed up.
When I got back to my apartment, I noticed a sticky piece of paper on the floor near the mailboxes. I saw it was a “missed delivery” notice, addressed to me. The return address read Soulflower Floral Design.
Flowers?
I unlocked my front door and pulled out my phone, then sat on the couch as I dialed the number on the card. The cheerful woman on the other end of the line said she had a “lovely arrangement” for me and would send it over within the hour.
A lovely arrangement?
It had to be Scotty.
I stood up and looked at my phone for a moment, then set it alongside the missed delivery notice on the coffee table. I decided to change into jeans and have lunch before reading through the deluge of e-mails that had come through in the past twenty-four hours.
Eloise Zimmerman had been right. My Today Show appearance had struck a chord with a lot of frustrated single viewers, dozens and dozens of whom had e-mailed to tell me just how frustrated they were.
I scrolled through the messages as I munched on my sandwich.
Hi Waverly, great job yesterday. I’m thirty-three and single and SO glad to see I’m not alone out there. Men can be such tools. Thank God for wine and girlfriends.
Dear Waverly, I’m dying laughing over your Fresno Gramps story. Thanks for sharing, and I’ll be checking out your column for sure. Keep it up.
Waverly, you give me hope that I’ll find my Mr. Right AND that I won’t end up like that plastic Barbie who was on the show next to you. You go, girl!
Dear Waverly, did you see any hot guys while you were in New York? All the babes in San Francisco are cocky players. Or married. Or gay. Some of them are all three.
The comments weren’t all positive, though. Hardly.
Ah, Miss Picky who thinks she knows it all, you need to take a reality check, my dear. If you don’t get married soon, all the good ones will be taken. Then where will you be? That’s right, ALONE. Oh, that’s right, you already ARE.
As a God-fearing Christian, I’m appalled that an unmarried woman would mention having multiple sexual partners on national television. Where are your morals? I hope the Lord has mercy on you.
That one was signed “Good luck in Hell.”
Okay then.
I was debating whether to call Andie again when I noticed a message near the bottom of the inbox.
It was from Jake, and it had been sent the night before.
Oh my God, he wrote back.
I put my sandwich down and clicked to open the e-mail.
To: Waverly Bryson
From: Jake McIntyre
Subject: Message received
Hi Waverly, I saw you on TV today and was a bit thrown for a loop, as you can imagine. We’re clearly not on the same page, so I think it’s best if we nip this in the bud. I’m sorry for not calling, but I think you probably know how I’m feeling at the moment.
Take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy.
Jake
My jaw dropped. I picked up my phone to call him, but before I could dial, my doorbell rang. I stood up to answer it.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for Waverly Bryson.”
“Come on in.” I pressed the button and opened the front door. A few seconds later a man approached with a vase full of red roses.
“These are really for me?”
“Yes ma’am.” He handed me a clipboard. “Can you sign here, please?”
I signed the receipt and traded him the clipboard for the vase, which I set on the coffee table after he left. I pulled the card out of the little envelope.
Hi Waberly, I miss you so muck too. I also want you to be my Valentine. Good luck in New York this week. I know you’ll
be great because you always are. I’ll call you on the big day to say hi from my new phone, which I’m picking up today.
Love, Jake
I set the card on the coffee table and picked up the missed delivery notice from the florist.
It was dated February 12.
Oh my God.
Jake had sent the flowers before my trip to New York, but I’d left a day earlier than planned.
He sent me a dozen red roses, and I went on national television and announced that I didn’t have a boyfriend.
I had to talk to him.
I ran into my office and picked up the phone.
Please answer, please answer, please answer. I paced around the room.
His voicemail picked up after one ring.
You’ve reached Jake McIntyre with the Atlanta Hawks. I’m currently on leave and without access to this phone. If you need to reach me, please contact the Hawks main office at 404/555-HAWK and ask for Melissa. Thanks.
The message ended with no beep.
I sat down in my chair and closed my eyes. I could feel tears welling up.
After a few moments I realized I still had the phone in my hand. I was desperate to talk to him but didn’t have his new number yet, and he didn’t have a land line at his house. I put the phone on the desk. How did everything get so screwed up? What had I done? How had I made such a colossal mess of, well, everything?
I looked over at all the e-mails on my computer screen. Dozens and dozens of e-mails sent to a relationship advice columnist who had just appeared on The Today Show.
I felt like a fraud.
For a few moments I just sat there, not sure what to do. Then I opened my desk drawer and unfolded the latest mystery letter.
lie
How fitting.
It's a Waverly Life Page 11
