by Eva Luxe
What the ever-living fuck?
Time stands still for what feels like eternity. I watch Scott turn his head towards me with shock in his face, but that doesn’t stop his hips from continuing to move front and back. Scott’s body then catches up with his brain and I watch him quickly remove his body from Brittany’s. He pulls his boxers up from his ankles and throws his body to the wall farthest away from me.
“Hazel,” he says, out of breath. “What the hell are you doing here?!”
What the hell am I doing here? Me… Not Scott, who’s cheating on me. Not Scott, who’s fucking my best friend. Not Scott, who doesn’t even work in this building. Me. What the hell am I doing here, is his question.
My brain can’t even come up with a proper response to his asinine question, because it’s still stuck on the fact that my boyfriend of two years is cheating on me with my best friend of three fucking years. My friend who has yet to properly react to my barging into my office. Brittany holds her legs open as if Scott is still inside her. She has her eyes trained on mine and wears a terrible, evil smile.
Why was I ever even her friend? Clearly, she just likes to screw me over— literally as well as figuratively— to pump up her own fragile ego. Finally, once I’ve made this realization, I’m able to express my anger.
“What in the fucking hell are you doing here, Scott Withers?” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Fucking Brittany, of all goddamn people!”
“Look, Hazel,” he pathetically starts, “I wanted to tell you but—”
I interrupt him. “But what? You were too busy sticking your dick in Brittany, who—”
When I turn to Brittany, I see that she still hasn’t moved a single inch. Her legs are still wide open as if she’s waiting for me to leave so she can resume fucking Scott. She’s not even covering her private parts— she’s showing them off. Her wet, throbbing lips leak out some sultry juices I can’t help but be weirdly drawn in by.
“Brittany, close your fucking legs!” I yell at her.
She takes her sweet time, but she does finally sit up on my desk, rubbing her naked ass on my workspace. Then she picks her underwear off the floor with her feet, putting in the minimum amount of required effort.
Scott continues, “I just didn’t know how to tell you. It just happened.”
Brittany interjected, “Oh, it happened. Again, and again and again.”
“How long has this been happening?” I ask neither of them in particular.
Scott looks at his feet like a child getting scolded. Brittany decides to be the brave one in this situation and answers my question. “Two weeks.”
Two weeks. That perfectly matches up with the amount of time Scott has been getting that absurd amount of overtime. And this whole affair explains why Brittany was so angry with me asking her on a double date with Scott. Why would she want to go on a date with the man she’s fucking and his sort of girlfriend? Could I even call myself his “sort of girlfriend”?
“Has it always been in my own goddamn cubicle?” I ask Brittany.
The nerve of them to seek out my tiny workspace in a sea of available options. They must have really gotten over on the fact that they were screwing me over.
She scoffs at me, as if that wasn’t a completely reasonable question to ask.
“Hazel. I’ve fucked on every chair, desk, and office in this building. You just caught me — or us — on an unfortunate day. Unfortunate for you, anyway,” she explains maintaining her creepy smile. “And this isn’t the first time we’ve fucked on your desk, Hazel honey.”
The amount of restraint it takes me to not lunge at her or, just as possible, throw up all over the two of them, is incredible. But the look of disgust in my face gets the point across, apparently, as they both start to look away from me.
How could they do this? I’m thinking. How could they do this to me? The two most important people in my life have betrayied me in the most emotionally damaging way possible. I don’t ask that question out loud though, because I know there’s no way I’d get an answer from them—
not one I’d like, anyway.
“Scott Withers,” I say with a voice so stern, his head jerks towards me. “Expect all of your shit to be on a box on the street. I’m done with you.”
Scott doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even want to come up with a poor excuse or apology to save our relationship. Not that I’d forgive that cheating son of a bitch. Brittany is no longer burning her soulless stare into my skull, and instead looks toward Scott disappointedly. She probably got off on the fact that he was my boyfriend, and now fucking him won’t be as fun.
“And don’t expect to see me anyt ime soon, you bitch,” I sneer at Brittany as I pick my office key up off the ground. For a short moment, I look over at my sketchbook, which amazingly appears to remain unscathed by their illicit fornication, but it has no good memories in it now. It’s sullied forever. So instead of taking it with me, I leave it on the floor next to Scott’s pants.
I slam the office door and leave them in their shame, or so I think. They have no shame. I haven’t even turned the corner towards the lobby before I hear the chair squeaking again, louder and faster than before. Scott is giving Brittany a more passionate fuck than I had received in weeks— maybe even more than two weeks.
Was it possible that he was cheating on me before he got with Brittany? I think. But then I decided it doesn’t matter. He’s out of my life. They’re both out of my life, for good.
When I get back outside, I know I have to haul ass out of there, and, again, get as far away from the building as possible in the shortest amount of time possible. It’s only going to be a matter of time before all that rage and all those feelings of betrayal graduate to become an unending flow of tears.
So, I start running even faster than before. I try to hold back from crying and I manage to keep my tear ducts in check until I’m at the stairs to the subway station. I’m grateful for the dark staircase in which to let out a few tears and snuffles without being noticed by too many people, hopefully. The beauty and downfall of life in New York City is that one is never truly alone.
Luckily, a moment of telling myself to toughen up works and I’m fine to go through the turnstyle and get on a train. Like I did before, I turn to look at my bag where my sketchbook would be had I brought it back with me. But I couldn’t touch anything in my office. It all reeked of sexual disgrace. Nothing in that office would leave that office unchanged by the love affair happening in there.
Still, I feel naked knowing my beloved sketchpad isn’t with me, despite knowing that the only people sketched in it are no longer worthy of being in my life. The subway stops at a stop near a street that I know has an art supplies shop. I frequently visit it whenever I need paint, charcoal, and tools in that vein. Once the train stops, I get out at that stop, determined not to go home empty handed and as downtrodden as I currently feel, and vowing instead to arrive optimistic about a new future I can forge for myself.
Before heading into the store, though, I pause. I think to myself that Scott and Brittany’s affair has pushed me to really think about my future. I'll basically be starting from scratch. A life without a bitchy best friend, a seemingly loving boyfriend, or a soul sucking job— as soon as I can find another, hopefully better and more fulfilling one, and leave this one where I don’t have to be around them all the time.
When I put it that way, my situation doesn’t sound all that terrible. I’d even go as far as to say that my new imagined future life sounds like a pretty great one. I wipe away the few tears that had started to flow again despite my best efforts, and head into the art store. It doesn’t take too much wandering before my gaze falls on a gorgeous, red, leather-bound sketchbook.
It’s the perfect sketchbook in which to chronicle my new and improved life.
Chapter 4
Hazel
Six months have passed since my life was forever changed.
Since then, I have not found a new job or quit my current
one. Even though I really wanted to, it turned out that when I crunched the numbers, I couldn’t keep my place with a lower paying job. The DA’s office was hiring legal assistants, but the salary wasn’t enough to pay my share of the rent and otherwise eek out a living in New York city. And there’s no way I’m leaving my cute apartment for some shitty studio, even though it’s required having roommates in order to be able to afford.
I still have the roommate I’d had back when Scott lived with us too, but without Scott as the third roommate to help us with the rent, money is tight and I’ve decided that for now I must choose money over personal fulfillment. I guess with all my talk about my soul-sucking job, I’d forgotten that it’s still a pretty good paying one as far as jobs go in Manhattan, and especially considering the fact, that, to be perfectly honest, I’m not qualified to do much else.
So, my integrity went out the window real fast once real life hit. In fact, I’ve had to turn my passion for making the art I used to love into a viable business making products I can sell online, just to supplement my income. Nothing I’m making is anything I really want to be selling. It’s not artwork I’d want in my home, or that I’m even proud to have made; it’s so emotionless and basic—sketches of elephants balancing initials on their trunks, for kids’ rooms, or of old ladies having tea, for suburban moms who like to bring a touch of a faux Victorian aura into their otherwise boring decor.
Maybe emotionless isn’t the right word for my art, because there is one emotion, but only one: Anger. Pure, unfiltered anger. My anger consumes each and every piece of art I’m able to create, be it a painting, or a sketch.
You wouldn’t be able to notice from glancing at my paintings—or else, they wouldn’t sell, therefore defeating the whole purpose— but there’s always some sign of it if you know where to look. Maybe the “J” in little Joshua’s name is a bit more crooked than the font normally calls for, or maybe, if I’m having a particularly bad day, his sailboat is upside down in the painting of his bath time.
Not only that, but I’ve had to take up bike riding since I’ve started to view my subway pass as an expensive luxury and choose between it and other treats while I’m out and about. It’s not all bad, though. Riding a bike has gotten my legs and butt in better shape, and it prevents me from being bound by the subway schedule as well.
Some new life, huh? I was so sure things were going to turn for the better, but everything that could go wrong, has.
I stand in a Starbucks waiting behind an incredibly picky person to decide what they want and order (their menu isn’t even that big so I don’t know why my luck happens to be standing behind someone who can’t decide on the small number of choices), as I contemplate what my next step should be. It can’t be leaving my secure, well-paying job can it?
Sure, I really want to quit my job, especially because I have to see Brittany on a daily basis and I’m forced to act as if she’s not the bane of my existence. Brittany even had the audacity to bring Scott to some work parties. In fact, I even saw him walking into the offices of Horowitz and Chao a couple of times after I clocked out, undoubtedly to fuck Brittany.
Even so, I can’t leave my job. Despite my lack of enthusiasm for performing my tasks, apparently my supervisors think I do it quite well: I could very possibly be promoted later this month and the pay raise that comes with it just might be worth all the bullshit Brittany and Scott are putting me through.
It’s hard to believe that the two of them could be so heartless. Cheating on me because they love each other is one thing, but they seem to be intentionally trying to make my life a living hell. They were the two people closest to me, and now they’ve made it so I can barely trust anyone.
There haven’t been many opportunities, but the few times I’ve met someone new who has shown an interest in being in my life, I’ve been too afraid to start anything. Whether it’s a friendship or a possible new relationship, Brittany and Scott’s betrayal has ruined me. I haven’t even been able to find someone to have sex with these past six months, due to the fact that I don’t want the next person inside me to betray me the way Scott did.
Finally, the person in front of me places their order (it took them all that time to decide on a bottle of water, for goodness sake). I order my simple vanilla bean drink and sit down alone with my sketchbook. Once I week I park my bike here and give myself a treat in exchange for giving up other luxuries.
At the same time, I try to start and finish at least one drawing. Starting is the hard part. Putting pen to paper has been so hard for me lately. And finishing whatever I draw is much harder than starting. All my sketches develop hard, coarse lines and I feel so compelled to add fire to the backgrounds of each of my drawings, rather than just more subtle details that show signs of their distressed creator.
Despite weeks of YouTube motivational videos, which I consider my pro bono therapy, self-help books, incense, and meditation, I’m not able to release any of the hate I harbor for Brittany and Scott. I see them in just about every aspect of my life. One or both of their faces continue to end up in my sketchbook, be it as far-away figures burning in a fire or as the main focus of the drawings, just as they’ve been the focus of my life for half a year even though I know I really should be able to move on from this by now.
Just as I think of this, who else should walk into this Starbucks of all the coffee shops in the city but Brittany. And behind her walks Scott.
In the past six months, I’ve only had the displeasure of running into Brittany and Scott a few times at my workplace. Never in my regular life, despite how often I thought of them. As far as I know, they’re completely unaware of what goes on in my daily life and now I’m being confronted with them getting a hint of how I am.
Here I am dressed shabbily even though I’m going to the office after this— I always mean to dress more professionally but then I lose motivation since I just sit behind a desk all day and no one sees me— with a ripped-up sketchbook, standing in line all alone at a Starbucks. I start to panic. They’ve got their eyes focused on the menu, which gives me a chance to leave the coffee place. But, as I stand up and try to inch closer to the door unnoticed, Brittany unexpectedly turns around.
Without thinking, I place my cup and sketchbook on the table nearest to me, so that I can look like I’m not here alone. It’s only then that I realize the person sitting at the table is a man. A very handsome man, at that.
He’s quite a bit older than me— in fact, he looks almost old enough to be my father, but he’s in much better shape, and is much more attractive, than my father. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular chest I wish I could just sink into and hide in right now.
“Oh, uh, well, hello there,” the man says to me, with a smile on his face that registers a mixture of amusement and confusion. He has sandy blonde/brown hair and emerald colored eyes that just want to make me melt. I try to stay focused on the task at hand— acting as if we’re together so that Brittany and Scott don’t see how pathetic I am.
“Play along,” I ask him. “Please.”
The adorable man laughs quietly as he watches me steady myself on the seat across from his. I breathe a sigh of relief as I realize he’s going to do it. Out of all the people in this coffee shop, I’d lucked out by picking the one with the best sportsmanlike behavior. He’ll go along with my ridiculous stunt to save me from embarrassment, and he happens to look adorable while doing it. I guess my life isn’t that bad, after all.
Chapter 5
Hazel
“I’m Hazel,” I quickly whisper to the handsome stranger as Brittany walks toward our table.
“Liam,” he shoots back just as quietly.
He has an Irish accent that matches his name. He also has an eager smile on his face, and is clearly having fun with this. But then he looks down at his wrist and checks his watch. “I don’t mean to be rude, but this won’t take long, right? I have somewhere to be in a bit.”
I am close to having a nervous breakdown, so much so t
hat I didn’t even notice the shirt Liam was wearing. A black polo with a hard to miss Starbucks logo in the middle. I’m interrupting a barista’s break so I can have him pretend he’s my boyfriend. Holy hell, how much lower can I sink?
Brittany has a more malevolent smile on her face as she nears us. She places one of her devilish hands on our table and cocks her head to the side like some preppy cheerleader from one of those Mean Girls-type high school movies. Her smile grows wider before she finally says something.
“Hi, Hazel,” she annoyingly spouts, dragging out every syllable. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You look…,” she pauses to look me up and down. “Anyway, how have you been?”
She doesn’t give me a chance to answer before her head turns over towards Liam and she almost jumps back, obviously shocked at how attractive he is.
“Hello there, I’m Brittany,” she says lowering her voice to a much more flirtatious tone. She extends a hand out to have shaken but is ignored.
