“I know that, but believe me, your mom and I racked our brains to come up with ways to make that happen.”
“Am I being fired?” I ask, my palms feeling suddenly as clammy as a pot of hot chowder.
“I thought about it. In fact, last night when I got home, I was positive I was going to end your chances of ever working at NASA again.” He lets me stew on that for a minute before adding, “But then I talked it over with Dina at supper and she said, ‘Dev, you’re going to do with Ben what I did with Errol.’”
“Your son, the…” Don’t say stripper. Don’t say stripper. “…stripper?”
Nuts. Well, at least I whispered it.
He nods, a pained expression passing over his face. “Dina and Errol still have a wonderful relationship, whereas he and I haven’t spoken in over a year. She told me that you made a mistake, but that one thing doesn’t define who you are, and you still have a lot of value to bring to the team.”
Thank you, Dina!
“So I called your mom and told her I wasn’t sending you home, but instead, I’m stripping you of your spokesperson duties and handing them over to Carla.”
Phew! I hated that bit anyway.
“But, that’s not all. Because as Lita pointed out—”
“Lita was there?” I have my PhD in astrophysics, for crying out loud. How are my mom and her best friend both involved?
“And Lynda,” he adds. “Anyway, Lita reminded us all that you hate doing the public appearances, so I’d actually be rewarding you for your…” — he glances down at his notes again — “…hurtful and humiliating actions. So, you’re going to get a pay cut, which will be diverted to Carla, since she’s taking over that part of your job.”
Oh, well, thank you, Auntie Lita. “A pay cut? How much?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. I have someone in HR helping to determine the value of that job function, but I expect it will be somewhere around ten to twenty thousand a year,” he tells me. “I’m also going to take you under my wing and keep a careful eye on you until I can trust you again. The L-Triad seemed satisfied with that arrangement and so am I.”
Well, that’s … just great. I’m so glad my mom and her besties are pleased.
“Expect me to come by your office randomly throughout each day to see what you’re doing.”
I nod and say nothing. After all, I did the dance and now it’s time to pay the band.
“You can go,” he says. “But I want you to spend the rest of the morning thinking about how you can make things up to everyone you hurt.”
“Wouldn’t you rather I spend the morning analyzing the atmospheric pressure on Gamma-Four Eighty-One?”
“Gamma-Four Eighty-One has been there for billions of years. It can wait.”
Sitting at my boring metal desk with a pad of paper in front of me, I’ve written: How to Fix Things, and under that title are several columns: Gwen/her family, the NASA team, and, finally, Serafina.
The rest of the page is blank because I have no clue what to do to make things better. I’ve even Googled how to repair a relationship you’ve ruined. I’m simmering with anger, to be honest, which isn’t exactly conducive to high-level problem solving. The focus of my ire is aimed at the three women who are probably lying out in the sun in my mom’s yard cackling away about their call with my boss.
After picking up my phone, I dial my mom’s number. She crossed the line and she’s going to hear about it.
When she picks up, she says, “If you’re calling to yell at me about my intervention with Mr. Grover, don’t bother. I’m not sorry and I’d do it again.”
Lovely. “Yeah, not cool, Mom. Not cool,” I say. “You know, you’re the reason I wound up in this situation in the first place.”
“What? Me?”
“Yes, you. You and your ridiculous psychics and your … healing crystals that you spend a fortune on and your … inability to make your own decisions without shelling out your hard-earned cash to some charlatan instead of using your own perfectly-functional brain!”
“Okay, I see what’s happening here,” she says. “You’re transferring your anger onto me because you can’t face the fact that you screwed up royally.”
“No, that’s not it at all. You had no right to phone my boss and suggest he send me home for a morality update.”
“Well, clearly you need one. What you were trying to do to that poor Serafina was unforgivable. And that Gwen girl? You’ve humiliated both of them and that is not the man I raised you to be.”
I let out a long sigh of frustration. “The man you raised me to be is one who is absolutely terrified you’re one email from a Nigerian prince away from losing everything!”
“You’re making me sound stupid, Ben. I am not stupid.”
“But you’re ridiculously naïve!”
“Watch yourself, young man,” she says in a clipped tone. “Maybe I am a little too trusting at times, but that doesn’t give you the right to project your fear of being hurt onto other people. Onto Serafina.”
“I didn’t—” I start to say, then I slam my mouth shut because my mom is right.
“Just realized it?”
“Yup,” I say, completely deflated. “And you’re right. That’s exactly what I did. But as far as calling my boss? Way out of line, Mother. Way out. You do know I’m a grown man, don’t you?”
“That’s a bit of an oxymoron, dear,” she answers. “But, I get your point. The thing is, I’m really worried about you and I’m too far away to help.”
“I don’t need you to help. I’m an adult — and a highly intelligent one at that.”
“Fine, then why’d you call?”
“Because I need your help,” I answer, palming my forehead.
Forty-One
Serafina
“Have you become bulimic or something?” Charley demands while standing over me and the remains of my Chinese food feast from last night.
“Bulimics throw their food up,” I inform her.
“Are you saying that you’re somehow keeping all of this down?”
“Yes.” Barely. Man, does my stomach hurt.
“Serafina, you are not well. You need to pull yourself together and recalibrate or something.”
“You make it sound like I can just snap my fingers and be fine. You, of all people, know that romance doesn’t work like that.”
“It’s true that romantic comedies don’t work like that, but as you’ve told me so many times, rom-coms aren’t real life.”
“Why are you here?” I glare up at her.
“Because it’s Tuesday and, according to our calendar, you’ve scheduled calls with our test subjects to find out how they’re doing with our app.”
Crap on a crouton, I don’t want to work today. I’m not even sure my stomach will bend enough for me to get off the couch. “Please get me some coffee,” I say while I roll onto the floor in hopes of positioning myself onto my knees enough to enable a standing position next.
I hear Charley clanging away in the kitchen while I use my arms and push myself onto my feet. Then I shuffle to the bathroom like a ninety-year-old woman with only two toes to help keep my balance. How in the world do I recover from what happened on television yesterday? Was that only yesterday? It feels like I’ve been on the couch eating for months. I have no idea what kind of fallout Ben’s tirade will have on my professional life. I imagine it will be huge though. He essentially called me a fake and a liar.
Standing under the spray of hot water I let my brain go there … What would have happened if I’d stayed at Ben’s apartment and let him explain about Gwen? What if he decided my app wasn’t a hoax and that, even though he originally intended to out me as a fraud, he’d changed his mind? What if we spent the night affirming our feelings for each other instead of starting World War III?
Damn. There’s a slight possibility I may have blown it. In my heart of hearts, I can’t accept that Ben was really planning to hurt me or my business. Not after what transpi
red between us. It’s just that sometimes I leap to conclusions which is not the Libra way. It’s the Serafina Lopez way. Dear Hera, goddess of women, I may be astrologically challenged.
Squeezing the shampoo out of the bottle, I’m suddenly overcome by the urge to shut the water off, throw on a towel, and run to Ben’s to tell him I messed up. Make that get dressed and take a cab because running is not possible with as much food as I’ve recently consumed.
After yesterday’s scene, there’s no way I can even call him. He is never going to talk to me again. Plus, I’m not sure if I should want to make up. Even though I instigated everything by reading his texts from Gwen, what he set out to do is so much worse. My heart may be whispering for me to believe him, but my logical side is shouting at the top of her lungs not to be stupid.
By the time I get out of the shower, I feel semi-human again. I put on a clean nightgown and a robe before walking out into the kitchen. “Yum, I smell bacon.”
Charley announces, “I made you a healthy breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and two strips of bacon.”
“I just want bacon. Twelve or fourteen strips should do it.”
“No.” Charley stands with her hands on her hips. “If you don’t have the strength to use self-control, I will be here to force you.”
Jabbing my pointer finger in her direction, I say, “You seem to be forgetting who works for whom.”
“Whatever. Sit down and I’ll serve you up.” Clearly Charley isn’t intimidated by me. Rats.
“You know, Charley, grown-up love is very complicated. You don’t just bounce back because someone tells you to.”
“Love? Are you and Ben in love?” she asks, her eyes filled with hope.
I nod my head slightly. “I think we were. But I ruined it by reading his text messages and blowing things out of proportion.”
“No, no, no, no …” She’s waving her hands in front of her. “This is perfect. You and Ben just need to come together and have your big rom-com moment.”
I visualize a vintage Ben standing under my window in a long brown trench coat with a boombox, but the image is absurd. Besides, I’m not sure a Peter Gabriel song is going to work here. “I’m going to tell your parents they need to institute a ban on romantic movies.”
She waves off my threat. “You both have to mope for a little bit, but something big has to bring you together. Then the camera will zoom in on you as you catch sight of each other.” Now she’s making a square with her pointer fingers and thumbs and she’s walking around me like she’s the lens of the camera.
She continues, “Maybe your eyes meet across a crowded restaurant, or you run into each other on the street … whatever it is, it has to be epic. The audience has to feel the tug of emotion and the back and forth of your thoughts as you decide what to do.”
She runs across the room to the far end of the living room and starts to act out her vision of Ben’s role. “Serafina …” she declares with her hand jutted out in front of her.
What in the heck is she doing?
“Now you say ‘Ben,’” she instructs.
I put my fork down and pick up my bacon. “Ben.” I mimic her, wondering where this is all going.
She takes a step toward me. “I haven’t been able to eat or sleep …”
Clearly, I haven’t suffered the same dilemma, so I say, “I wish things had worked out differently.”
Charley prompts me with her hands to keep talking, so I add, “I shouldn’t have read your text messages.” Prompt, prompt, prompt … “I’m sorry about Mr. Spock.”
“And …” God, this girl is annoying me.
“And I miss you.” Are you happy now, Charley?
Charley runs across the room and gets down on one knee. “I miss you too. So much. I would never hurt you, Sera. You are my one true love. The sun and the moon are nothing compared to the love I feel for you.”
“I think that’s a bit much, don’t you?” I ask her.
“Shut up,” she says. “Rom-com love is big and over the top and requires a speech of impressive proportions.” She contorts her face back into her Ben character. “I love you, Serafina, and if you don’t say you love me back, I’ll throw myself out the window! Death would be far preferable than living in a world where you don’t love me back.”
“I feel like we’ve skewed a little Romeo and Juliet here. Can we pull it back to maybe Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts?”
Charley throws her hands up in the air like she’s giving up. “We could, but to do that, you would have to see the guy or at least talk to him on the phone. Are you willing to call him?”
I shake my head. “I’m too mortified.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “Classic rom-coms always have friends and family getting involved to bring a couple together — I’m referencing Sleepless in Seattle here. Usually it’s done on the down low so the couple is utterly surprised, but since you’re my boss and I don’t want you to fire my behind, I’m asking. Do you give me permission to orchestrate a truly grand rom-com scene with you and Ben?”
I should be terrified. I should say no. But the truth is, I want Ben to be a part of my life. I really do love him, even though he’s a high-handed intellectual snob. At the heart of it, I know he’s also a really good person, full of curiosity and compassion. And, on top of that, the man is one heck of an amazing kisser and he’s insanely hot for a nerd.
“Fine,” I tell her. “I give you permission to butt into my love life and help me and Ben find our way back to each other.”
Charley screams like she’s just been stabbed in a dark alley. “YES!!! You won’t be sorry! I promise I will not rest until your love story is declared rom-com of the year by the masses.”
“You do know this isn’t a movie, right?” I ask, concerned that she’s lost track of reality.
“It kind of is,” she says. “I mean you’re pretty much going to re-enact the whole thing on television.”
“You’re not suggesting we make up on television, are you? Because I’m putting my foot down at that.”
Charley waves me off. “Too late, you gave permission and now it’s up to me.”
“You have to tell me what you’re going to do,” I order.
“No, I don’t. All the best rom-coms have that surprise element. If you know what’s coming, you won’t be able to play your part convincingly.”
“Charley …” I say in my most stern motherly tone.
“Sorry, gotta go. You’re going to have to make your calls alone because I have a movie to write.”
“Charley,” I yell after her to no avail as she hurries out my front door without a backward glance.
What have I just agreed to? A shiver runs through me right before a wall of panic hits. Charley is capable of really messing things up. Although, I’m not sure how much worse things could possibly get.
Forty-Two
Ben
It’s been eight days since I ruined my life, but honestly, it feels more like eight days on Venus, which is the equivalent of 1944 days on Earth (or 5.32603 Earth years). I’ve spent the entire time in a state of how can I make this up to the world? and so far, in spite of my best efforts, I’ve fallen short.
I’ve sent flowers (along with heartfelt handwritten notes) to Serafina, Gwen, Gwen’s aunt June, Waltraut, even Hal and Lacey. I enrolled Dev and Dina in a wine-of-the-month club (along with another heartfelt apology note). I arranged (and footed the bill) for a catered team lunch by a couple of women who call themselves Nibbles and Noshes. Delicious, by the way. Best roasted chicken and goat cheese sandwich on the planet, and the gingersnaps… Wow.
So far though, Carla and Alec are the only ones treating me like my normal self. The rest of the team is pretty much giving me the silent treatment. Well, Dina did write a little note back to thank me for the wine and tell me that “failure is not fatal,” so that was nice.
No one has responded to my flowers, which I guess is understandable. I suppose it was an uninspired, if not obvious choice.
Waltraut sent me a text that said:
Thanks, but you’re not coming back on the show. Not my choice, your bosses. Good luck.
In the last two days, I’ve switched gears and, instead of using my wallet to solve the problem, I’m trying to expand my mind. I spent the entire evening yesterday browsing at a weird little shop called Namaste Friends in an attempt to open my mind to the whole metaphysical world. I wound up having a surprisingly deep conversation with Astrid, the woman who runs the place. I even teared up at one point and somehow left with a singing chakra bowl, a pillow to sit on while I use it, and some anointing roll-on oil called Connect. She even threw in a baseball shirt with the moon phases on it. Astrid’s good people.
Today, instead of hurrying into my office, I walked directly over to Carla and asked her how Chewy’s been doing since she added pumpkin to his diet. Then, I sat on the corner of her desk for a full twenty minutes, doing my best not to make faces or gag while she told me all about it. As always, there was way too much detail in her reply — we’re talking texture, size, shape — but I didn’t hurry away. Because that’s what people who care about other people do. They ask questions, they respect other people’s opinions and beliefs, and they’re willing to listen.
My mom was right. In my quest for astronomy greatness, I lost sight of what’s important — human connection. I’m determined to get that back, even if it doesn’t result in finding my way back to Serafina. When I get to the other side of this, I will be a better Ben. Having said that, I really want to figure out how to get Serafina to forgive me.
I’m currently Googling creative ways to apologize. Blech … some are truly horrid, like offering to clean the person’s house for a year or telling them you’ll be their slave. Who thinks of this stuff?
Then I hit on one that says to send them a can of air freshener with a note, “Let’s clear the air between us.” That one isn’t too bad, but I’m afraid I’ve muddied things beyond the abilities of mere Lysol.
Text Wars: May the Text be With You ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 3) Page 21
