Heartbreak for Hire

by Sonia Hartl

  I leaned against my door after I shut it behind me. Winnie rubbed against my legs, purring. God, I must’ve been in rough shape if she hadn’t tried to chew on my ankles the moment I got home. I picked her up and nuzzled her soft black fur against my cheek. The dark and empty place inside me throbbed like a fresh bruise, though it had always been there, waiting, knowing it would only be a matter of time before it could envelop me once more.

  My phone buzzed in my clutch. Five missed calls from my mom, ten missed calls from Mark, and one missed call from a number I didn’t recognize. I also had two texts from Mark.

  MARK: Please believe me when I say I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that wouldn’t result in you walking away from me. I never wanted to hurt you. I know I probably fucked this up forever, and I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I wish I could go back and be honest from the start. If you’ll just talk to me… I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness.

  MARK: I meant it when I said I love you.

  I powered down my phone and went into my studio, where I grabbed my most recent work off the easel. The one full of light and love and all the things I’d just begun to allow myself to feel again. I went out to my balcony and threw it into the alley behind my building. Leaving the slider open, I let the cold wash over me.

  After putting a fresh canvas up on my easel, I grabbed a brush and smashed it into the black and gray and midnight blue. I attacked the blank white space with a fury. All the roiling clouds clashing inside me became an angry collision of paint. I didn’t think or consider, I just felt and let it flow through every brushstroke. Within an hour, I’d created a storm of emotion filled with shadows and pain and the sensation of falling down a long dark well with no bottom. Not my usual street scene, but it was raw and furious and better than anything I’d put on a canvas in months. My style of art thrived in dark corners.

  Hearing a knock, I abandoned my latest work and threw open my front door. Emma stood before me with two bottles of Absolut and cranberry juice.

  “I came as soon as I could.” She pressed a bottle into my hand. “What did he do? I’m not above hiring a hit man, as long as they take Visa.”

  I twisted the cap off the bottle and took a swig. The bitter vodka burned my throat and warmed my stomach. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Go change. I’ll mix us drinks, and you can tell me everything.” Emma shooed me toward my bedroom. “Not that you don’t look pretty.”

  I probably looked like I’d been run over by a truck while wearing a nice dress, but I appreciated the sentiment. My cozy flannel pajama pants lay in the heap next to my dresser that I referred to as my clean-clothes pile. I pulled them on with my threadbare Mr. Peanut T-shirt and went back out to the living room, where Emma had two mixed drinks waiting.

  I curled up on the opposite end of the couch and tucked a throw pillow under my chin. “I should probably start with my mom and Richard Vaden.”

  I told Emma everything that had happened from the time I’d confronted my old friends, to when I walked in on my mom’s revelation, to Mark coming clean about why he’d taken the job at H4H. She let me purge every ugly detail without interruption, though she snarled with indignation under her breath.

  When I’d finished, I sagged into the couch, feeling sucked dry. Emma poured me another drink, then wrapped her arms around me. I buried my face in her silky hair as she stroked my back. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to. Having someone who loved me unconditionally, who didn’t want to mold me or use me, was enough.

  It made the hurt bearable.

  Another knock sounded at my door. Mark’s voice filtered through from the other side. “I know you don’t want to see me right now, but please let me fix this. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. We’re too good together for this to be the end.”

  “Want me to deal with him?” Emma asked.

  “No. He’ll get tired of standing out there and leave eventually.”

  “I’ll sleep on your doorstep if that’s what it takes.”

  I stood and flung open the door. He looked about as bad as I felt. I had a twinge of weakness, an urge to invite him in and push aside his lies and go on as we had been before tonight, but I knew how that would play out. Being with him wasn’t worth sacrificing myself. “If you love me, you’ll turn around, go home, and never call me again.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  I nodded.

  “I know I’m doing this all wrong.” His shoulders slumped. “But if this is the only way I can show you I’m serious, okay. I’ll go. I won’t call you again.”

  I shut the door in his face.

  My heart cracked with each step he took away from me, until it broke completely.

  * * *

  Emma spent Saturday night with me. After our sixth vodka cranberry, we walked to CVS and bought a cake and a $6.99 body wash gift set. We both woke up with hot-pink lipstick on our eyelids.

  My hangover was brutal. Worse than the night we got drunk on Lemon Drops and split a bag of Sour Patch Kids on the Navy Pier Ferris wheel. Wine and vodka really didn’t mix. After vomiting up cranberry-flavored bile, I curled up on the couch and prayed for death. Emma had to leave early—she took client meetings on Sundays because all the other firms in the city were closed and it gave her an edge—but she made a coffee and Motrin run for me first.

  I should’ve spent Sunday working on my gallery, but movement was out of the question. At least my hangover distracted me from all my other issues. It hurt too much to think, so I watched true crime documentaries on Netflix as I slipped in and out of fitful sleep.

  Sometime around noon, there was a knock at my door. Mark had sent me irises with a card that read: This is me not calling you. They went straight over the balcony after my painting.

  Come Monday morning, I began to feel like myself again. The bitter and jaded version of myself I’d been before Mark. My true form. I only looked at the empty desk that used to be occupied by him five times in the first hour. Tomorrow it might only be four times. Then three. Then I wouldn’t have the urge to look over there at all.

  I’d be okay.

  I spent most of the morning attempting to throw myself into my newest assignment, but my old methods of self-soothing when I’d been hurt didn’t do it for me anymore. Normally I’d relish taking down the kind of target I’d been assigned: a hotel manager who fired women for not being pretty enough to work the front desk, and who’d been caught more than once sabotaging them so he’d have a legitimate excuse to let them go. But it just felt like another week, with another round of men who showed their asses.

  I used to think I was evening the odds, but if I became just as terrible as them, all I’d managed to accomplish was doubling the awfulness in the world. Ultimately, I wasn’t doing anything to empower people or create beauty or spread kindness. And the men I took down wouldn’t stop being terrible just because they’d been served their own medicine. It was akin to standing on the corner and shouting angry words into the wind.

  Margo called my extension. “Can I see you in my office?”

  “Sure.” I pushed off from my desk. She probably wanted to mother-hen me or give me more ideas on how to handle the hotel manager. She could give me all the ideas she wanted. I didn’t care anymore. I needed more from life than other people’s misery.

  My heels clicked on the marble floor, and I knocked once before entering. Margo sat with her hands folded on her desk. She wore a grim expression. No tea in sight. This was no comfort meeting.

  “Have a seat, Brinkley.”

  I sat on the edge of the poufy chair. My spine straightened, as if my body knew to go on the defense. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ve been distracted today. I thought you’d be more focused now that your former target is no longer employed here, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.” Her sharp nails clicked on the polished mahogany of her desk. With each tap, my shoulders hunched a bit more. “Are you thinking of g
oing to work for Ms. Yoo? Because I won’t tolerate disloyalty.”

  The suggestion immediately put my back up. “Are you threatening me?”

  “No, Brinkley, I’m not threatening you.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “You’ve been like a daughter to me, and I just want to make sure you’re feeling happy and well taken care of here.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ms. Yoo was ready to strike out on her own, but you’re still tender. I can see that.”

  “I’m not quite as tender as you think.” Mark had bruised my heart, but he hadn’t destroyed it. I still had good friends who cared about me, and I still had my gallery. I was so much more than a broken woman who needed to be sharpened.

  “Brinkley.” She reached across the desk and squeezed my hand. “I’m only trying to help you. The women at the hotel who hired you to take down their boss are counting on you. You’re going to make a real difference in their lives, and I’d hate to see you shortchange them.”

  It was the same song she’d been singing for years, but with Emma gone and the men minus Mark still employed, the sisterhood that had drawn me to this line of work had vanished. I wasn’t making a difference. Maybe I’d made women feel good temporarily, but what did that really do for them in the long run? Did it give them options for a better career? Did it encourage them to take charge of the situation? Did it counsel them in any way? All the bullshit Margo had used to sell me on H4H had become mere words without action. And all the women I “helped” didn’t truly end up better off.

  Just like I hadn’t really ended up better off by working for Margo.

  The satisfaction I got from doling out revenge only made me feel good for a moment, but once that high wore off, the emptiness always set in. It wasn’t the job that had gotten me over Aiden; it was Emma and Allie and Charlotte. It was painting and dreaming and making plans for my gallery. It was me, living my life.

  Margo had pretended to nurture me when I’d been low and vulnerable. She’d made me believe I needed H4H to heal. But if she really cared, she would’ve encouraged me to stand on my own.

  “I quit.” I had no backup plan and no other job to replace this one, but once I said those words, the weight I’d been carrying lifted. Like exhaling after holding my breath for years.

  “Excuse me? What did you just say?” Margo sputtered.

  “I quit.” I stood, and my knees didn’t wobble a bit. In fact, I’d never felt stronger. “I’d put in my two weeks’ notice, but…” I shrugged. “I don’t really feel like it.”

  And just like that, I was no longer employed at Heartbreak for Hire.

  CHAPTER 32

  How did the unemployed spend their days? Apparently, elbow deep in mint-chocolate-chip ice cream and angry cat. I didn’t regret quitting H4H—that had been a long time coming—but I did regret giving up the paycheck before I had another job in the bag.

  If I didn’t find something soon, the savings account I’d so carefully built up would deplete within months. I needed something that would at least cover my current bills or else my apartment would have to be the first thing to go. It had been an extravagance to live on Michigan Avenue, but I couldn’t beat the lighting in the master bedroom. I’d told myself it was an investment in my art.

  The next thing to go would be my gallery. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but as it stood now, I had enough money to either fix it up or make payments. I couldn’t do both. One without the other would be pointless. Even though I was at least a month out from that point, it felt like my dreams were dying before they’d had a chance to bloom.

  I’d spent the past two days checking Monster and Indeed for places to send my résumé. And by résumé, I meant the pile of bullshit I’d strung together to account for the last two years, since I didn’t think Professional Heartbreaker would endear me to prospective employers and I doubted I could count on Margo for a referral anyway. Pickings were slim under normal circumstances, slimmer when I had to check each opening against the men in management I’d been humiliating for the last two years. Those three or more assignments a week really added up.

  Then there was the issue of my degree. As much as I hated to say my mom was right, a bachelor’s in art theory and practice qualified me for precisely nothing. I had to look for jobs that only required a degree, any degree, which didn’t leave me with a lot of promising options.

  I clicked on a link for an administrative assistant at a Bells and Stern accounting firm—the irony amused me—and nearly vomited when I saw the pay. It would take me a month to earn what I’d made in a week at H4H. I hadn’t expected to make as much as I had working for Margo, but half would’ve been nice. Half would’ve kept me in a smaller apartment in the city and on a steady diet of ramen noodles.

  I turned my laptop toward Winnie. “This is what rock bottom looks like.”

  She hissed and flounced away. She’d been extra cranky with me since I could no longer afford to keep up with the latest in cat fashion. I couldn’t even make the creature who depended on me for food and water love me unless she got something in return.

  But I wasn’t destitute yet. I was just forced to move, kill my dream, and piss off my already murderous cat. Other than that, I was doing fine. Ice cream and Netflix helped. Emma had offered to let me move in with her, but I valued my friendship with her too much to risk it. If I forgot to wash one dish, she’d probably kick me out again. I’d thought Mark was anal when it came to neatness, but Emma had him beat by a mile. She organized her socks by color. The thought made me shudder.

  If things got really bad, I could always fold T-shirts at H&M. I’d have to get a studio in the suburbs to survive, but it beat asking my mom for help. Especially because I hadn’t spoken to her since Dr. Faber’s retirement party. She still blew up my phone every day, but she’d reduced her calls to once an hour instead of once a minute. She refused to take the hint. Even Mark had gotten a semihint, reducing his floral deliveries to every other day. I deleted all of her voice mails without listening to them. I already knew what they’d say anyway.

  A knock sounded at my door, and I looked down to make sure I was presentable. Pajama pants I hadn’t changed out of in three days? Check. Oversize T-shirt with unidentifiable stain? Check. Hair a matted lump on top of my head? Check.

  It was as good as I was going to get. With luck it would be Mark. I stood a solid chance of running him off for good in my current state. But instead, I opened the door to find my mother standing on the other side.

  “Why are you here?” I asked. “I didn’t chant your name five times into a mirror.”

  “I’ve had enough of being ignored.” She pushed past me and stopped short as she took in the glory of my decay.

  Almond Joy and beef jerky wrappers littered the couch. Coffee mugs I hadn’t bothered to take to the kitchen crowded every open surface. A pile of used tissues, which I affectionately referred to as Olaf, spilled off the side of my end table. My insides had manifested in the most depraved way possible. I would’ve been embarrassed, if I’d been able to feel anything at all.

  “What is going on here?” My mom whirled on me. “Are you on drugs?”

  “Mark and I broke up, and then I quit my lucrative job of heartbreaking for pay.” Might as well lay it all out there. She’d hear about it through Eve’s grapevine sooner or later, plus she had no high ground to judge me anymore. “Oh yeah—I was never an administrative assistant. For the last two years I worked for a company called Heartbreak for Hire. Women paid me to take revenge on men they hated. I lured them in, chewed them up, and spit them out.”

  My mom’s posture stiffened. “This is not the time for one of your jokes.”

  “Not a joke. It’s truly what I did for a living. How do you think I afforded this nice apartment, present condition notwithstanding? I broke men for a living. Which, let me tell you, makes finding another job a real pain in the ass.”

  Her face paled. “You’re serious.”

  “Yep. But that’s done now. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy job-hunting. Though I might hav
e to resort to selling my used underwear on eBay. Apparently there’s a whole market for that sort of thing.” I jerked my chin toward the still open door. Her cue to leave, which she ignored.

  “Where did I go wrong?” She stared up at the ceiling, as if the ghost of Freud might reach down a mighty hand and give her the answers she sought.

  “Is that a rhetorical question? Because if not, I have several answers.”

  “Do you, now?” My mom raised her eyebrows. “Let’s hear them then.”

  “Setting aside your affair with a married man and lying about my paternity for a moment, how about the fact that I was never good enough for you? Or we could go with that time you threatened to have me kicked out of school because I didn’t study your preferred major.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “The subtle digs you took after my relationship with Aiden ended, constantly insulting my choices, calling my art a pipe dream. Look at that.” I held up my hand. “I just scored a bingo.”

  “You think I was insulting you? That I didn’t think you were good enough?” Her face scrunched with confusion. “I pushed you, yes, but it was always because I thought you were better. Better than Aiden, better than a substandard art degree, better than me.”

  She’d never once hinted that she thought I was better than her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Where most kids got measured with a Sharpie line above their heads, I got measured in all the accomplishments I hadn’t reached by a certain age. When my mom was eight, she was doing long division, so why couldn’t I add double digits? At fourteen, she’d already read Shakespeare’s entire works, so why did I struggle with the language in Romeo and Juliet? At eighteen, she’d been valedictorian, so why should she be impressed that I’d graduated with honors?

  I sighed. “You’re only saying this now because I know you’re a fraud.”

  “What do you want from me, Brinkley? If you want to keep punishing me, fine, you’re entitled to do so. But I can’t go back and change the past.”