I Have Never (A Laugh Out Loud Romantic Comedy)

by Camilla Isley

  Emilia this morning. Gerard now.

  The vortex stops on a clear image of the list’s number one item: never make a scene.

  It’s all been for nothing. All the sacrifices I made. All the times I said, “No,” to anything even remotely fun. All the lost opportunities… to live rather than just behave. The list, my secret recipe for success, is worthless. At twenty-nine, what do I have to show for it? Nothing. No job. No boyfriend. Everyone thinks they can walk all over good old Blair because she’s too polite to say anything. No more.

  Rage takes over. My fury bubbles up and I vomit years of repressed feelings and self-imposed restraints on Gerard. “A scene? You don’t want me to make a scene?” I get up and throw my napkin on the table. “Well, guess what! You’re out of luck.”

  “Blair, don’t—”

  “Why?” I scream. “So you can run to your office’s side dish with a clean conscience?”

  “Don’t talk about Laura that way. I won’t allow it!”

  “Do you prefer boyfriend-stealing bitch?”

  Everyone in the room is staring at us now.

  Gerard’s ears turn a deeper shade of red. “Blair, please sit down, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “I’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” I yell. “I’m not a cheating, lying bastard! Ladies and gentlemen, please give a round of applause for Gerard Wakefield and his mistress, the secretary, Laura.”

  A server arrives at our table and stares at us, perplexed. “Spaghetti marinara?”

  In a crazy impulse, I say, “Mine.” I grab the plate and before I know what I’m doing, I tip it over Gerard’s head. “How’s this for a scene, Gerry dear?”

  Gerard shoots to his feet, his head, face, and suit dripping marinara. “You crazy bitch!” he shouts, dabbing the sauce off his face with his napkin. “It’s hot sauce! You could’ve blinded me. I’ll sue you for this.”

  “Please do,” I shout back. “But be prepared to fight me in court. I’m sure the managing partners at your firm will be thrilled to learn of your extracurricular activities with their employee. They’ll fire you on the spot!”

  That shuts him up. Gerard opens and closes his mouth like a gaping fish. To stare at his spaghetti marinara-covered head would almost be funny, if the situation wasn’t so tragic.

  With one last glare, I storm out of the restaurant. Utterly lost and with no idea where I’m going, I run outside into the night. Oh, it felt so good to let it all out. Gerard’s spaghetti-splattered head flashes before my eyes again and I can’t help but laugh. A crazy, hysterical, uncontrollable laugh. Not being in control is great. Not holding back is fantastic. I should’ve done it a long time ago. I should’ve done so many things. All my life, I’ve had it backward. I’ve spent years caged behind the bars of the list, never allowing myself a moment of fun. That’s over. The list’s regime ends now.

  I fish the page out of its honorific pocket in my bag and do a quick scan of all the taboos there.

  “You’re a fraud,” I accuse it. “You’re a useless piece of nonsense.”

  Years spent always being good, always being in control, always working hard—and for what? I have nothing.

  My first instinct is to tear the sorry piece of paper into a million pieces, but a more powerful, self-destructive impulse takes over. Tearing the list is not enough; I need to completely overthrow it! Each line, each forbiddance, each bit of life I’ve denied myself will be experienced, starting tonight!

  I scan all the don’ts in search of something stupid and reckless. My eyes stop on a vicious-looking set of words. I nod. It’s as good a start as any, and I can tackle it right away.

  Two

  Never Get Drunk

  My entire body aches. Even the tips of my hair are in pain. Instead of blood, it feels like acid is pumping through my veins, and my lids have been replaced by sandpaper. What’s happening to me?

  I try to move. Easier thought than done. My muscles feel like Jell-O. I’m stuck lying on something soft, something that smells like a cold winter day: pine cones and rain. Slowly, I open my eyes. Daylight stabs my pupils, sending tendrils of pain through my brain. Where am I? In a bedroom, it seems. Whose bedroom? Ah, that’s the question.

  Panic gnaws at my stomach, followed by a flood of nausea. I turn to one side and spot a glass of water and a blister of Aleve on a nightstand. A lifeline. I pop two pills and drain the water before collapsing back on the bed.

  Whose bed? Oh, crap… I’m in someone’s bed, in my underwear, and I’ve absolutely no idea how I got here.

  The last thing I remember is walking into a bar determined to tackle the next item on the list: never get drunk.

  Ding-dong. Mr. Hangover, we meet at last… Not sure I like you. I close my eyes hoping the Aleve will act quickly.

  When I open them again, I’ve no clue how much time has passed—a minute or an hour—but at least I’m slightly better. Well enough to roll over and retrieve my discarded clothes from the floor. There’s my bag, too, and I always carry a compact mirror. Face damage assessment time. Gingerly, I flip the little metallic lid open. I’ve got panda eyes, but it’s nothing some makeup remover wipes can’t fix. The cool touch of the damp cotton is heavenly on my heated skin as I scrub myself clean. The soothing moisture helps also with the headache, so much so that I don’t stop until I’ve used up the entire packet of wipes.

  With my head a little clearer, I search for my phone and unlock the screen. Eight fifteen in the morning. There’s an unhealthy number of missed calls and messages waiting to be answered. Later. My temples are still pounding. I open the map app to check where in the world I am exactly. The little blue dot stops on Brooklyn Heights.

  What the hell am I doing in Brooklyn? How did I get here? Whose house is this?

  Time to find out.

  Still sitting on the bed, I put on the silky turquoise dress I was wearing last night—perfect for a proposal, not so much for a morning-after commute from Brooklyn. There’s nothing I can do about the hair, so I scrunch the red tangles in a messy-for-real bun and stand up.

  The room spins. I blink several times to fight the dizziness and shake my legs until the dress’s skirt slithers into place, reaching my knees. Shoes in one hand, bag in the other, I drag my feet to the door and tentatively exit the bedroom to enter… a cool loft. One of those with brick walls and modern furniture.

  Feeling like a burglar, I slip my pumps on and shuffle into an open-space living room with floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds thick.

  “Morning,” someone says. A male someone. “I was starting to worry you were dead.”

  “I thought I was d—” My throat catches as a guy in jeans and a light blue shirt comes out from behind a pillar. He’s so good-looking I literally can’t talk. Rumpled dark hair on the longish side. Dark brown—almost black—eyes, a strong jaw covered in five o’clock shadow, and he’s smiling at me. A little sexy dimple on each cheek. My stomach flips.

  Is it the smile or the hangover?

  But the real question is, did I have sex with this hunk? Well, I woke up in his bed wearing only underwear. I hope we did it. And I hope he wants to do it again because I can’t remember a thing and the guy is too handsome for me to leave, not remembering having sex with him.

  Eeeeee, somebody please censor my brain. Never in my life would I have had sex with someone I just met—but that was the whole point of throwing out the list and getting crazy drunk. If this man is the first outcome of my new lifestyle, high five to me. But how embarrassing not to remember if we slept together. What do I do? Do I ask him? I don’t even know his name!

  “Er, Blair?” he says. “Are you all right?”

  Mr. Hot knows my name. “Yeah, super… mmm… uh…”

  “Richard.” He smiles again. “The name’s Richard Stratton. I made coffee, you want some?”

  If he wasn’t already hot enough, the dude has an impossibly sexy British accent
that’s making my knees wobble. Either the accent or serious dehydration.

  “Richard, sure.” I pretend like he needn’t have told me his name. “Coffee would be great, thanks.” I stroll to the kitchen bar, sit on a stool, and drop my bag to the floor.

  “Black? Sugar? Milk?”

  “Sugar equals poison,” I declare. “Do you happen to have almond milk?”

  Richard’s eyes widen.

  “Black’s fine,” I hurry to say.

  Mr. Hot hands me a mug. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with the sugar rim of your cocktails last night.”

  “About that…” I take a sip of coffee, hoping caffeine will help my synapses connect. “I’m not exactly sure what… er. To be honest, last night’s a bit—uh—foggy. How did we meet?”

  “I called you.”

  “You called me?”

  I have to kill the parrot possessing me and stop repeating whatever people say.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “How? Did I give you my number?” I think I’d remember giving my number to someone as hot as him.

  “No, I got it through a friend of mine.”

  I frown. “A friend?”

  The parrot lives.

  “Yes, I’m the Editor-in-Chief of an up and coming web-based magazine. We’re looking for a Fashion Editor—”

  I hear magazine, I hear fashion, and the other shoe drops. He’s gay. Ninety-five percent of Évoque male employees are gay. “Oh, you’re gay,” I interrupt him, a bit crestfallen. “Of course you’re gay. That face is too handsome for you to be straight. I mean between the hair, the eyes, and the smile you’d have to go around with an I’m-too-hot warning sticker on your chest…” I’m babbling and Richard’s eyebrows have shot up. Blair, shut up. But I’m possessed, and can’t stop talking. “And that accent! Imagine what it would do to women. You sound like Prince William. Well, at least now I don’t have to ask you if we slept together last night…” I brush my hand over my forehead in a gesture of relief and laugh nervously. “Phew.”

  Richard stares at me dumbfounded for a few seconds before saying, “I thought I made it clear last night I wasn’t gay.” His tone is dead serious.

  Something in my guts twists. “You mean we”—I point at my chest and then at his—“slept together?”

  “No, we didn’t. I was mocking you.”

  “But I woke up in your bed in my underwear.”

  “I left you in my room with your clothes on. You must’ve done the undressing.”

  “Oh, so you are gay.”

  “No, I’m not gay.” He scoffs. “It’s just that so-drunk-she-can’t-remember-her-name doesn’t do it for me.”

  I’m too mortified to speak, so I hide my red-beyond-control cheeks by staring at the floor.

  “Last night,” Richard continues, “I called you to talk about a job opportunity, and you told me to join you in a bar in downtown Manhattan. When I got there, you were already drunk and delirious about a list, spaghetti marinara, and someone’s secretary…”

  I’m feeling smaller and smaller. From under my lids, I dare a peek at Richard.

  “When we left the bar, I tried to put you in a cab to get you home, but you weren’t able to supply an address. So it was either leave you on the street or bring you back here.”

  “Oh, okay.” I drop the empty coffee mug on the bar and get up. “Sorry for all the trouble I caused and thank you for… mmm…” Giving me a bed to sleep in instead of the curb? Saving my life? Making me believe for five seconds that we had sex? I go with, “For hosting me last night. I’ll get out of your way now.” I pick up my bag from the floor and… I’ve no idea where the exit is. “Where’s the door?”

  “This way.” Richard leads me to the opposite side of the room and stops in front of a metal door striped with faux rust, or real rust, I’m not sure. Cool, design rust in any case. “About that job interview,” he adds. “You want to reschedule?”

  “You still want to interview me?”

  “You look suspicious.”

  Not look, am. “I don’t mean to be rude, but if you’re still considering me for a job after last night’s stunt and this morning’s conversation, you must be desperate.”

  His jaw tightens. “I’m not desperate.”

  “So what’s your magazine’s circulation?” I challenge.

  “It’s an online-only editorial hub; we hardly have any circulation.”

  “You’ve no printed edition?”

  “No.”

  “Alexa rank?”

  Richard holds my gaze for a couple of seconds before answering, “In the lower thousands. But most of our traffic comes from in-app views, with no ad blocking, and we want it to stay that way.”

  “As I said, you’re desperate.”

  “Well, from what I gathered last night, so are you.”

  Ouch. Below the belt, Richard. Way below the belt. What else did I tell him while I was drunk as a skunk? Probably better I don’t remember.

  “Listen.” He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, and I get distracted looking at his forearms. He has really pretty forearms. Correction: he has really pretty everything. “I don’t claim to be Évoque Magazine, but I’m working on making something fresh. Something better. I’ve put together a great team, so before you snub us, why don’t you hear me out?” Richard takes a business card out of his pocket and hands it over.

  As he comes closer, I get a whiff of that same pine cones and rain scent I smelled in the bedroom. His scent. So, Richard was my cold winter day. The combination of shower gel or aftershave plus male skin is intoxicating. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep focused and take the card. “Thank you.”

  “Go home, take a shower, and come back to check us out at the address on the card. This afternoon, tomorrow morning. Whenever works.” Before I can politely decline he adds, “If nothing else, stop by so you can see my too-handsome face one more time,” and winks.

  My mouth hangs open, and my face sizzles in shame for the millionth time since I woke up. “You know you can’t use anything I said while I thought you were gay against me.”

  “Nice try.” Richard gives me a wicked smile and opens the door. “See you later?”

  I scold him on the way out. “Maybe.”

  “This way.”

  He guides me down the hall in silence until we reach the elevators. There, I push the down arrow and wait. When the doors sweep open, I briskly step inside, push the lobby button, and say, “Goodbye.”

  Richard braces both arms against the doorframe. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, stepping backward, and, as the doors begin to move adds, “And I’ll work on finding that sticker.”

  The doors close so that I’m left staring at my shocked, beet-red face reflected in the metal.

  Three

  Always Move Up the Ladder, Never Down

  Phone in hand, I search for the nearest subway station to get back to my apartment in lower Manhattan. A cab would be much better, especially considering my pounding headache, but my recent unemployment status demands immediate cutbacks. I don’t even have my foldable flats, so my walk of shame is painfully done on five-inch heels.

  The ride on the crowded train, besides killing my feet, does nothing to improve my queasiness. I need to drink a gallon of water and run an hour to sweat out all the toxins in my body. But most of all, I need another coffee and a cool shower.

  As I unlock the door to my apartment, the only positive thought I can muster is that, if nothing else, the list did produce one good outcome. Item number four, don’t move in without a ring, saved me from having to sneak back to Gerard’s place to retrieve any personal effects. The thought of him and his secretary doing it in his office makes my skin crawl.

  Did he bring her home too? Did they do it in our bed?

  Technically, his bed… but still. I suppress a gagging reflex and step into the living room.

  “You’re alive!” Nikki, my roommate and best friend,
barrels into me as soon as I enter the apartment. “I was so worried.” She hugs me. “And you’re in one piece,” Nikki whispers before pushing back. “You’re alive and in one piece and now I can kill you!”

  “Nikki, please,” I plead. “I’ve had a horrible two days. Let me take a shower and then I’ll explain everything.”

  “You didn’t come home last night. You didn’t answer any of my calls. No text to say you were staying over at Gerard’s either. So finally, I tried his number, and he yelled at me, saying you two were over. Then this morning I called Évoque, and some girl told me you were let go yesterday. I thought you’d jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge!”

  “I didn’t jump off, but apparently I crossed over. And, in my defense, I was unconscious most of the time I spent there.”

  “Unconscious? Were you mugged? Kidnapped?”

  “No, relax. Nothing like that, I was only drunk.”

  Nikki crosses her arms over her chest, skeptical. “You’re never drunk.”

  “I was last night. What are you doing home, anyway?”

  Ten in the morning is too late even for Nikki to still be at home and not at least on her way to work.

  “I have to catch a plane for New Orleans in a few hours, so no point in dropping by the office.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I have the scary feeling I’ll need someone here to babysit me.

  “Two days. We have to shoot a commercial.” Nikki works in a digital media agency specialized in video commercials. “And I leave in an hour, so you have to spill the beans now.”

  “If you want to hear the whole story before I shower, I need coffee. Want some?”

  “Sure.”

  We move into the kitchenette. Nikki watches me expectantly as I put the water on to boil, but I wait until after grinding the coffee to launch into my tale.

  Nikki asks me a million concerned questions when I explain the circumstances of my breakup with Gerard.

  “A plate of spaghetti over the head was the least he deserved,” she says. “But are you sure you’re okay?”