Jag (Pandemic Sorrow #1)

by Stevie J. Cole

  It’s okay. Take a moment to absorb that. It’s taken me nine months to just scratch the surface of taking that in. I am now at that special place where I’m just angry. Angry and decidedly spending the majority of my time fantasizing about different ways to remove Jay’s testicles in a painful manner. Charley is all too willing to assist with this part of the grieving process, even from the polar opposite side of the United States, since dealing with sobbing, falling-apart Olivia is too much for her to bear.

  “Liv, are you listening? This is your opportunity to have some fun. Get the hell out of the city and breathe a little. You need some space from all this. Even if you don’t see him anymore, you need to get out of town. Come to this conference. I’ll show you around Seattle. We’ll go out with my girls here. It will be so much fun. Maybe you’ll even get laid!”

  The conference she is referring to is an American Psychological Association conference where I’m supposed to present my most recent research to be published about trauma and servicemen. I’ve spent the last nine months of my grief process interviewing nearly every fireman, policeman, and paramedic in the city of New York. It’s amazing how productive hating someone else and being devastatingly broken can make you.

  “Charley, I’m not looking to get laid. My God, that’s the last thing on my mind!”

  This is a lie. A big, fat, stupid lie. I think about sex every time I go to bed. Not with my ex—that sex wasn’t even that good. No, I think about the kind of sex I’ve always wanted, with a man who makes me feel amazing and cherished and isn’t afraid of a little fun. So basically I think about my dream-man sex on the body of a celebrity. Whatever. It works.

  “Charley, if I come out there, you know I have to actually work. It’s a conference. I’d be presenting at three different lectures.”

  I hear her sigh over the phone. “I know exactly what you’re saying and I know you have to work. But you also have to have some fun, Liv. Hey, is that guy Rob going to be there? The guy you hooked up with at your last conference?”

  I groan. Rob is a psychologist who presented at conference I attended in Chicago, several months after I found out about Jay. In a fit of sadness—and a tremendous amount of alcohol—I had sex with Rob in a stairwell of the hotel in which we were staying. Suffice it to say, it took me another two weeks to get him to stop calling me. The last thing I need right now is to run into him again.

  “Absolutely not, Charlotte. That guy was like a leech. I have no interest in rehashing that disaster again.”

  I hear her giggle on the other end. “Liv, please. I haven’t seen you in ages. I miss you. Just come out to Seattle. If there is a happy side effect, it’s that you get out of New York, and if you’re able to put some of the Jay stuff to bed, all the better, but at least we can visit, okay?”

  I sigh. “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll come out. I’ll send you the itinerary when I get it. I do know I’ll be at the Fairmont Olympic, but I could probably use a ride when I get there if you don’t mind. Maybe we can have dinner the first night?”

  “Yay! That’s the spirit, girl. Oh my God, I can’t wait to see you! Liv, you won’t regret this. I promise you, I’m going to make it all better. I love you, Livvie girl.”

  I laugh as my heart clenches. Charley has been my best friend since we were in school together at Columbia. She moved to Seattle a few years ago for work and I miss her terribly. Not having her here during all this has been terribly difficult for me.

  “I love you too, Charley. I can’t wait to see you.”

  We hang up our call and I collapse into my couch. The conference is next week. I have a lot of work to do before I leave, not the least of which is call our travel coordinator at NYU and get my flight plan together. I pick up the phone and dial away.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  My flight out to Seattle is tomorrow night and I’m still packing. I decided to take the last flight out in the hopes of getting a little sleep before my plane lands. It will mean arriving very late at night, but that will allow me a full night’s sleep before the start of the conference.

  I have all my clothes laid out in front of me. I have all the usual work stuff—skirt suits, pant suits, sensible shoes. But knowing that Charley wants to go out, I decide I should also pack some cute stuff too, so I’ve included some short black skirts that are fun, a couple of sexy tops, and some real fuck-me stilettos. I don’t know who I think is going to fuck me in these shoes, but it’s worth a shot, right?

  Just thinking about having sex with someone else, despite all my late-night fantasies, makes my stomach roil. I wish my heart didn’t hurt so much still. I’m lucky I never run into Jay at all. My guess is that he’s—smartly—avoiding the places I might be likely to see him.

  My discovery of his infidelity (it’s easier to just call it that at this point) came on the heels of another revelation that I thought would be the best part of my life. I found out I was pregnant. Jay and I had always been careful, but fate has its way of intervening. And intervene it did. I had never thought anything about the fact that he’d never had me over to his place. Or that there were weekends he didn’t contact me at all despite having had plans. Or that there were times of the year he was flat-out nervous. When you’re desperate to be loved by someone, someone you are sure is your soul mate, you gloss over these items for which the rest of the female world scream, “There Is A Fucking Problem Here!”

  So when I told him I was pregnant and he freaked out, I was stunned into silence. I mean, I wasn’t exactly prepared for it, nor had I been expecting it, but I certainly wasn’t shrieking, “Fuck!” at the top of my lungs or “How the fuck did you let this happen?” From there, it was all downhill.

  During his tirade, he said, “I don’t want any more kids.” And there it was. What other kids? What did he mean? And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he told me that he was married, had two kids, and lived in a brownstone on the Upper East Side. And in that one quick moment, my entire life fell apart and his went back to normal.

  Jay and I had been seeing each other for three years, since grad school. He was bright, handsome, and slated to be a very successful psychiatrist. He also seemed to be increasingly unavailable. Scheduled visits, phone calls where he was whispering. I talked at length with Charley about this. She told me that I was being paranoid, that it was in my head, but I knew it wasn’t. And then, the “incident.” Two weeks late on my period, vomiting in the morning, hypersensitivity to smells, and fifteen positive at-home pregnancy tests revealed what was now obvious—I was pregnant.

  When I finally allowed Charley to convince me to go to the doctor to run a test and that too was positive, I decided that it was time to tell Jay. I called him and asked him to come over for dinner. He hemmed and hawed, complaining about some work commitment, but in the end, he agreed to come for dessert later in the evening. I was nervous, although I didn’t know why. When I told him about the pregnancy, he blanched visibly and fell back into the couch. Not the response I’d been hoping for.

  He wanted to know how this could have happened, where had I gone wrong with my birth control. I watched him, frozen, as he spewed accusation after accusation until finally he spit out, “I don’t want any more fucking children, Olivia!”

  Huh? More children? When had he gotten the first set? He turned and stormed out of my apartment and, eventually, my life. I had never been more broken in my life. I spent two weeks in a full-on fugue that then morphed into rage. Every day a little more bitter, a little more angry. By the end of the second week, I somehow found strength. Strength born by anger to be sure, but strength nonetheless.

  After a doctor’s visit where we discussed my no-longer-existing relationship and what was left of my options, my doctor started in on the “termination of pregnancy” talk. I listened to her speak, my mind reeling, my heart splintering. We talked about how abortions happened, what I could expect, did I have a friend who could take me? In that moment, I suddenly realized that I wanted to try and do this. Thi
s baby didn’t deserve to not have a chance just because its father was a piece of shit. This baby was still part of me too.

  I smiled the whole walk back to my apartment, eager to tell Charley I actually was as strong as she said I was. I was keeping this baby, damn it. So help me God, I was going to be such an amazing mother that I was going to blow all other mothers out of the water. We were going to do this together.

  Two days later, I miscarried. I had barely gotten home from the hospital confirming the loss of my baby when I texted Jay.

  No more worries. I lost the baby.

  Have a great rest of your life.

  There was no helping or consoling me. I would vacillate between deep, debilitating depression and almost manic work hours when I was trying to forget. My parents were devastated, my friends were full of sorrow and my heart was pulverized. From that point on, I had no interest in anything related to the opposite sex. Not dating, not sex, not marriage. Oh, in my heart, those were still things I wanted, but I mourned the loss of that dream lifestyle I thought I would have with Jay every day. It was safer to just close off.

  The following months were a blur. It was as if someone had uncapped his bottle of lies and it came spilling out all over me. It turned out, people we had been friends with had all known. Every little thing I’d thought was real fell apart under his betrayal. I locked myself in my apartment for a week straight, crying and sitting in the fetal position on my couch. I didn’t shower. I didn’t eat. I didn’t talk to anyone until my brother, Simon, and his fiancée, Reese, showed up one day and threw me in the shower, forcefed me some soup, and then let me sob in his lap.

  For some reason, that pulled me out of my funk, and I returned to work. I threw myself into my research, everyone around me walking on eggshells and avoiding the topic of Jay. To this day, his name is not uttered by anyone I know, friend or colleague, with the exception of Charley and Simon. And good riddance for that.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  I haul my bag out of the trunk of the cab in front of my gate at LaGuardia. The taxi driver doesn’t consider helping me out of the cab. Thanks, asshole. There goes your tip. I’m early, but being that it was an evening flight, I didn’t want to get stuck feeling rushed. I always carry on my bags. It’s so much easier than having to wait for the carousel in an airport you’ve never been to before. I pop up the handle to my rolling suitcase and walk toward a bar I can see in the terminal. Charley suggested I get a drink since I hate flying—especially across the country. I decide that it isn’t such a bad idea.

  About the Authors

  Zoe Norman is the brainchild of Stephanie K. and Heidi H., two women with one very important thing in common—their love of good erotic romance novels. After a year of writing fanfiction and developing a swoon-worthy friendship from across the country, the decision was made to write their own novel.

  Their second book, Life Support, is set to release in September, 2014.

  You can find them on

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/AuthorZoeNorman

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/AuthorZoeNorman

  Amazon: https://amazon.com/author/zoenorman

  Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/ZoeNorman

  Email: AuthorZoeNorman@gmail.com

  Web: http://authorzoenorman.wix.com/zoenorman

  under contract by jACQuelyn Ayres

  The GEG Series # 1

  Chapter One – Partial Excerpt

  Pulling a compact out of my small clutch purse, I finally bring my eyes up for one last look in the mirror. I told myself—convinced myself, really—that I was just popping into the bathroom to check my appearance a final time. As I stare into my green eyes (my first qualification for this job), I realize I’m in here to have a conference call with my sanity. Clearly it went bankrupt and closed up shop, like most of the country, because there’s no answer. My sanity is gone … replaced by desperation and a mother’s instinctive need to provide for her children.

  I lay my palms on the cool marble countertop and take in a few cleansing yoga breaths like my friend Ava always recommends. Apparently, I freak out too much—so she says.

  “Okay, Charley … put your big-girl pants on. You can do this.” Sometimes you need to just act bravely so you convince yourself you are. Of course, I have to push away the thought of my big-girl pants being pulled off later. I sweep a few wisps of hair off my temple. Thank God Ava was able to do my hair. Must look sophisticated, yet approachable. One of many qualifications needed for this job. Ava had parted my long brown hair to the left, then crowned the sides with tight French braids ‘til every strand was pulled to the back. There, she created a mass production of neat pin curls at the top of my neck. It looks great for the office or a night out on the town. “Sophisticated, yet approachable.” Good job, Ava!

  I step back for one more glance to make sure everything is in place. I’m wearing a black silk draped dress by alice + olivia. I never would’ve randomly spent this much on a designer dress, but luckily my Aunt Clara has more money than sense. She loves her some Saks Fifth Avenue! However, Aunt Clara shops blindly for people. I don’t know about my cousins, but my sisters and I always end up with a store credit of anywhere from three hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, depending on the occasion for the gift.

  The last big “occasion” was my husband leaving me six months ago with three kids and no pot to piss in. Said he was “tired of society and government.” He didn’t want this—any of it. He was going to live off the land. I’ve since learned that in Europe, they call this “going on a walkabout.” To this day, I have no idea about where he’s been walking. Asshole!

  Aunt Clara, out of the goodness of her heart, sent me an Armani silk jumpsuit for my hardship; only cost her $1,700. Problem solved! I finally had something special to wear to all my “special” appointments—you know, WIC, fuel assistance, food stamps, and other programs that assist the needy. What would I possibly do with $1,700 in my pocket? Pay the mortgage? More money than sense, that one!

  Punctuality is a must! Shit! I look at my phone—phew! Two minutes to spare. One more deep breath before I walk out of the bathroom and head to the bar in the Ames Hotel. Funny—until a few days ago, I never even knew this hotel existed. Then again, I don’t usually have a reason to stay overnight in Boston’s financial district. “Please don’t be old and bald … or creepy … or … eck …” I chant to myself. “Please have kind eyes and a kind heart.” I lower the bar. Small steps.

  As instructed, I head over to the table in the far left corner and take a seat. So much for “punctuality”—where the hell is he?

  MITCH

  “Scotch on the rocks and a glass of your best Merlot,” I say, looking up from my phone. The bartender nods and goes about my order. I slide my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket and glance impatiently at my watch. She’d better be punctual! Biggest pet peeve—one minute late and I’m out of here! I grab my scotch before the bartender can place it down, swirl it around, and take a good swig.

  “Waiting on a girl?” he asks.

  “Aren’t we all?” I smirk.

  “Pretty much.” He laughs. “Well this one must be special … you seem nervous.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “When isn’t it, dude?” He shakes his head, wiping the bar down.

  “True.” I smile, partly because he has no idea about my type of complicated.

  “Damn,” he says as he glances over my shoulder. I look up at him. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and wild-looking, seeping with desire that only another guy would catch. I follow his eyes and my breath hitches. Holy shit … please be Charlotte, I think as I watch her make her way through the lounge. I feel the corners of my lips curve up with satisfaction when she seats herself exactly where I was hoping she would.

  “That, my friend, would be my complication.” I turn back to him.

  “I will gladly release you, sir, from such a burden. It’s all part of the great customer service I like to give around here.” He ta
kes on a serious tone.

  “Thank you, eh, Jim … I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But, alas, this is a burden I must carry alone. Try not to feel sorry for me.” I lift my glass to him and nod before heading over to her.

  “I can’t—I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself,” he mutters.

  “Charlotte?” I ask softly. She turns her head and looks up at me.

  “Mitch?” She smiles.

  “Mitchell.” I correct her.

  She nods. “Mitchell. Hi.”

  “Merlot?” I place her wine in front of her before taking my seat.

  “Oh … thank you.” She picks it up to take a sip.

  “Very punctual—that’s good,” I say as I take in the sight of her. I was very specific in my ad about the type of woman I wanted to “employ.” So far, she’s a vision more perfect than my imagination could conjure up.

  “I try to be. I’m not always successful, I must admit.” I watch as her smile hits her eyes with ease as she speaks. “Mitch? Everything all right?” She leans her head to the side.

  “Yes. Why?” I sit up straighter and take another sip of my scotch.

  “You were just staring at me … for a while.” She breaks eye contact and plays with the charm on the stem of her glass.

  “Sorry. You’re just … you’re a very beautiful woman.” I swirl the cubes around and take my last swig.

  “Um, thank you,” she says hesitantly as she plays with a napkin. I place my hand on top of hers to stop the fidgeting. Her eyes fly up quickly to meet mine. Shit—did she just feel that, too? No. What am I thinking? She’s a professional. Then again, I’m not quite sure why I felt a flutter of electricity—this isn’t my first time around, either.

  “Please call me Mitchell, Charlotte.” I pull my hand away.

  “Isn’t that what I called you?”

  “You called me Mitch a moment ago; only close friends and family call me that.”