by Suzie Nelson
“This is exactly what Dr. Matthews said you’d do,” said Josh smugly. “Overreact.”
“Over – over—” Angie gaped at him. “You’re throwing away seven years of my life and tens – hundreds – of thousands of my dollars for nothing and you think I’m overreacting? Oh, I’ll give you overreacting!” she told him, right before she hauled off and slapped him.
Josh clutched his face, stumbling backward. “Ow, you fucking bitch! You’re crazy!” he screamed.
“No,” Angie corrected him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m righteously indignant. Now get out of my house, you creep!”
“What—” Josh’s eyes widened. “But I—”
“What? Did you think you were getting the apartment? Why? Because you’re man?” Angie laughed somewhat hysterically. “My name’s the one on the paperwork and I’m the only one that makes enough to pay the mortgage down payments. So get out! Now!”
Josh circled Angie, scrambling towards the front door. “But I need my stuff!” he whined.
“And I need the last seven years of my life back!” Angie yelled. “Luckily for you, your stuff can be Fedexed across town. My life is gone for good!”
“Does that mean you’ll send me my—”
“Yes, Josh. It means I’ll send you your things. Now get out!” Angie watched as he grabbed his coat from the hook. “And we’ll see what that quack psychologist says about your masculinity now that I’m not paying for your sessions anymore.”
Josh looked like he was about to protest again but Angie’s furious look kept him from saying anything more. He scooted out the door, slamming it behind him.
As soon as she heard the elevator open and close behind him, Angie threw herself down on the couch and started crying.
But that wasn’t everything. Just when she’d thought she was getting over Josh’s betrayal, her mother, Teresa, had died of cancer. They’d found out two weeks before at a routine doctor’s exam. One minute her mother was laughing and joking with her at lunch every Tuesday and the next she was bald, pale, and skeletal, lying silently in a hospital bed while Angie spent her Tuesday lunchtimes clutching her mother’s frail bony hands and crying.
Angie’s father had died a long time ago when she was very young and her mother was her favorite person in the whole world. Teresa had always had Angie’s back, no matter what had happened. She’d supported Angie’s dream of becoming a TV interviewer and even helped pay for Angie’s communication degree as much as she could on her librarian’s salary. When she told Angie that she was sick, Angie had felt as though the ocean was rising up and drowning her right there on that sunny L.A. sidewalk.
“It’s pretty bad timing, I have to say,” said Teresa one day as Angie sat with her after her chemo treatment. “I mean, Josh just broke up with you and now here I am getting cancer. It’s not very fair to you.”
Angie let out a half laugh, half sob. “Mom, that’s the last thing I’m worried about. You’re the one who’s dying. Concentrate on you!”
“But you always were the best thing about me,” Teresa replied, smiling at her only daughter.
Angie sniffled and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Oh, mom, what am I going to do without you?”
“You’re going to go on being a strong, amazing woman who makes me so proud,” said Teresa.
Angie gave her mother a watery smile. “Thanks, mom,” she whispered.
“No, thank you, sweetheart. You made my life worth living.”
“Aw, mom, don’t say that. It’s not over yet.”
But they both knew it would be soon.
“I have to say, though,” said Teresa, changing the subject, “I’m glad Josh is gone. He was a terrible boyfriend. I always thought he’d never be good enough for you. He was always so needy. And he never celebrated your successes the way he should have. Or appreciated all you were doing for him. Plus his parents were so booooooring. You’re better off without him.”
Angie sighed. “I know. I mean, I know that theoretically. It’s just hard in practice. We were together seven years! Ever since high school. I thought we were going to get married. And even though I know he’s actually a louse I still miss him. You get used to having someone around, someone in bed next to you.”
“I know,” said her mom. “Oh, I know. But don’t worry. It’ll get easier. One day soon, honey. I promise.”
“Thanks, mom,” said Angie.
The day after her mother’s funeral she had an interview with Ryan Gosling about his upcoming movies and supposed romance with Emma Stone. And, right there in the middle of it, he’d said something about having lunch with someone and Angie had realized that she’d never, ever have lunch with her mother again and she’d started crying. And not elegant, “one tear silently trailing down the cheek” crying: full blown, red-nosed, puffy-eyed sobbing. Half way through answering her question on his favorite acting job to date, Ryan had stopped, staring at her as if she’d suddenly transformed into a werewolf.
“What?” she’d yelled at him. “Haven’t you ever seen a heartbroken woman before?”
Ryan just kept staring as his handlers came to rescue him and Angie’s assistant had helped her up and off the sound stage.
“Have a little compassion!” Angie had shouted at the retreating actor. “You’re supposed to be the emotionally mature one!”
Gosling had filed a restraining order and she’d been banned from ever going within fifty feet of him again. Not that it mattered. Her bosses had decided she was a flight risk and fired her. And then no one would touch her. She’d been reduced to begging for jobs at third rate networks like ACTV. And even they didn’t want her!
Luckily, she’d had some savings put aside and she’d inherited a surprising amount from her mother, which had gotten her through the past year. But if she didn’t find work soon the money would be gone and she’d be forced to take a waitressing or secretary job – which she did not want to do. She couldn’t imagine having come so far only to have to go back to being a waitress like she’d been during college. It would kill her. It wasn’t bad work, but it was not her calling and she knew it.
That was the real kicker. Angie was good at her job. Really good. She asked all the right questions and had a nose for lies. She knew how to wheedle the truth out of even the most reluctant celebrities. Though, of course, first, she had to get to the celebrity, which was a lot easier said than done if you weren’t working for a respectable network.
What she really needed was a comeback interview, something that would knock the socks off of all those close-minded networks that had turned her down. And not just a great interview, but a great interview with an unusual interviewee - someone who didn’t talk to just anyone. Again – easier said than done. After all, who in this age of Twitter and Instagram didn’t talk to everyone and anyone all the time?
Angie groaned and flopped over onto her stomach, burying her head in the couch’s pillows. But she was going out for drinks with the girls tonight and she knew she couldn’t lie here moping for much longer. She had to go get ready. She groaned again. It was so depressing telling them about one failed job interview after another. Her friends always got so excited for her. Hell, she got so excited for herself. And that was always the worst part about failure: having to admit it.
At least her friends would be on her side.
“Come on Angie,” she told herself out loud – she talked to herself out loud a lot more now that she lived alone – “Get your shit together, girl. Chin up, etc., etc.”
With another gusty sigh, Angie heaved herself off the couch and into the bathroom to shower.
As she blow-dried her thick, chestnut hair, she appraised her naked body in the mirror on the back of her bathroom door. At least she still had her looks, she thought. Her body hadn’t let her down. Knock on wood.
But Angie had to admit that she was very proud of her body, and with good reason. She’d been a track and field champion in her South California high school and gotten into university on
a sports scholarship in order to pursue her true passion. But, while she eventually let track go, she’d always been very conscientious about staying active and healthy. Angie smiled, remembering how much Josh used to complain whenever she would make him go running with her or spend their Sunday afternoons hiking in the hills of Griffith Park. But Angie loved the feeling of strength and power that exercise brought her. She liked to know that, if she wanted to, she could run wherever she was going or climb whatever she cared to climb. It made her feel so much more self-confident.
Even after she lost her job, and Josh had gone and her mother had died, she didn’t stop working out. If anything, she worked out more, funneling all her grief and rage and fear into her exercise. It was her way of expressing her depression. She was lucky that way. The more anxious and depressed she became, the more she worked out.
After six months of unemployment, she took up rock climbing. It had made her feel better about life for a few weeks as she threw herself into the challenge. After that brief spurt of optimism, she’d gone back to quietly freaking out about her life - but at least she’d found a new hobby. And one that not only made her back and shoulders look amazing but had gotten her laid by possibly the most beautiful man she’d ever slept with, even if his name had been Chad. As her friend Claire had said at the time:
“Chads are for one night stands only, Angie. Can you imagine having to say that name every day? You’d stab yourself through the eye with a pencil. Chad. Chad. Chad.” She repeated the name over and over again, each time with a different goofy accent, making Angie and the other women clutch their stomachs.
“Stop it, Claire! Stop it!” Angie gasped. “The poor man. It’s not his fault he has the name of a ninth grader in 1996. He’s really nice.”
“Yeah, sure. You slept with a man that looks like Jason Momoa’s younger brother because he was ‘nice’,” Claire rolled her eyes and slurped her mojito.
“Touché,” said Angie. “And to be fair he’s about as interesting as a ninth grader from 1996, but, as you’ve pointed out, his brain wasn’t the main attraction.”
Claire snorted with laughter. “But seriously, Angie. Even you have to admit that you just can’t moan that name and still feel like having sex,” Claire said. “It can’t be done. The very word ‘Chad’ is, like, an immediate buzzkill. No wonder he’s so fit. Gotta lure the ladies in despite the name.”
Angie shook her head. “You’re incorrigible, Claire!”
“You gonna see him again?” Pippa asked, throwing her long blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Nah,” said Angie. “It was fun but…God, his name is Chad.”
The women exploded into giggles again.
Turning off the blow dryer, Angie smiled at her reflection, running her hands down her flat belly and then cupping her breasts. As a teenager, she’d always wanted big breasts like her high school best friend Tabitha, because all the boys had been crazy about her. But now Angie was happy with her small, perky ones. They made running and climbing a hell of a lot easier. And she saved a lot of money on sports bras. Not to mention, in L.A.’s sultry climate, it was nice to be able to go out in a summer dress and no bra from time to time. No sweaty underwire, no straps chafing your sweaty skin. Bliss.
With a sigh, Angie let her breasts go. If only everything else in her life could be as easy as keeping her body happy. Going out into the bedroom, she trailed her fingers across the thick navy and white stripes of her bedspread, remembering how much Josh had complained when she’d first bought it.
“It looks like a sailor outfit,” he said, gesturing to the bedspread and matching pillows with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I mean it’s so, like, Ikea.”
“I like Ikea,” Angie replied. “And I think it’s pretty. Our old one had holes in it, Josh. If you don’t like it, go buy another one and we’ll alternate.”
Except they both knew that Josh wouldn’t go buy another one because he was six months into the one month break he was taking from his masters in philosophy and now that he had no longer had a job as a teaching assistant he wasn’t bringing in any money at all, never mind the pittance being a T.A. had paid him.
“Well, I just think it would be more fair if you consulted with me before buying something I’ll have to sleep under,” Josh replied haughtily.
“Josh,” Angie sighed, her shoulders drooping, “I did show you this! Remember last week at breakfast I showed you the online catalog and you said it was fine?”
“You didn’t show me this one,” Josh protested.
“Yes, I did,” Angie replied. But Josh had a tendency to only listen with one ear and then promptly forget everything she said – unless he needed it to trip her up later. Then he could miraculously remember every word she’d ever uttered in her life.
“Well, I clearly had other matters on my mind,” he replied, turning on his heel and marching out into the living room, leaving Angie sitting despondently on her new bedspread. She’d been so excited to surprise him with it. She thought it really brightened up the bedroom.
When they’d first met in their last year of high school, Angie had been totally enamored with Josh’s knowledge of literature and philosophy. She’d thought he was so incredibly smart whenever he talked down his nose to her, explaining this or that famous philosophical work and misquoting the author. Now she just felt like he thought he was better than her because the books he read were older and written by dead guys.
Angie sighed and pushed the memory out of her head. In retrospect, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he’d broken up with her. She’d always known in her heart of hearts that he resented her for being the breadwinner – even if, simultaneously he claimed to despise money as the enslaver of the masses. Enslaver it may be, Angie thought as she leafed through her dresses, but that certainly hadn’t stopped him from asking for hers.
“Get a grip, girl,” she told herself out loud. “Forget about that asshole and concentrate on what’s important. Like what are you going to wear out tonight.” Angie liked to get dressed up when she went out with her girlfriends. Unlike her many male dates, at least she knew they appreciated all the effort she’d put into her outfit.
But it wasn’t really surprising that the memory of Josh still reared its ugly head from time to time. Seven years was a long time to be with someone and it had only been a year and a half since they’d broken up. Angie was resigned to the fact that she’d be forced to remember him now and then for the next few years at least.
It didn’t help that her apartment was full of memories of him. After the breakup she’d considered selling it, just to be free of the memories. And then again after she’d lost her job she’d considered selling it for the money, but she knew that the apartment was a good investment. It was big and new and in an up-and-coming area of the city. In a few more years it would be a veritable goldmine.
Not to mention, she was honestly just really proud of what she’d done with it. When she’d bought it there’d been absolutely nothing. The contractors and the architect had had a falling out and the building had been left partially unfinished. Angie’s apartment was one of two apartments on the top floor and neither of them had been completed. The flooring hadn’t been put in and the electrical wiring had all still been hanging out of the sockets. Josh had been completely against the idea.
“The place is a disaster, Angie. Who’s going to get it up to code? You? Some guy that’s going to cost an arm and a leg?” he asked, looking around the apartment with his arms crossed and a frown on his face.
“Well, I mean, or you could,” Angie pointed out. “You don’t have a lot to do right now.” This was during his year and a half bout of unemployment after his masters.
Josh reared back as if slapped. “Oh, I see. So your plan is just to use me as free labor, is it? Just because I’m not bringing in the big bucks my time isn’t as important?”
“No, Josh, that’s not what I—”
But Josh had already stalked out of the apartment.
/> The realtor raised her eyebrows. “Well, honey, let’s be honest. I wouldn’t trust him to plug in the coffee machine correctly.”
Angie chuckled. “He does sometimes forget to turn it on,” she admitted.
“What do you think about this place?” the realtor asked. “It’s your money, so it’s your choice, girl.”
Angie went up to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined one wall of the living room. “I love it,” she said. “And I know that I’m never going to get another chance like this one.”
“That’s for sure,” said the realtor. “Half-finished condos are not that common. How about I let you talk to your bank. I’ll put off my other prospective buyers for 24 hours. You go home and have a good long think about what you want.”
