Greetings from the Flipside (21 page)

Dang. He's got another of mine in his hands. “‘The best way to dull the pain from your breakup is for something really bad to happen next. I'll pray for that.'”

I crack up. Now
that
one rocks. It actually doesn't, but I have to hold my ground here with a grin that says how awesome I think it's not. He tosses it in the air. The forced smile snaps right off my face. Now I'm gritting my teeth.

“These are mean-spirited,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Anyone going through pain won't be ameliorated.”

“Ameliorated?”
I'm standing now. And it could be argued that I'm shouting too. Nearby I hear Ruby's hearing aid sound off with a high whine. “Jake, do you live with your nose in a dictionary? A thesaurus? Nobody uses that word. Nobody even knows what that word
means
! Try the real world, where real people live.”

“Oh, so now you're not just revising my cards, you're rewriting my conversations?”

And then I yelp loudly, that high kind of pitch that kids describe as a girl scream. But that sharp pain is going through my heel again. “Look,” I say, trying to hold my foot and keep from crying at the same time. I grab the dictionary off my desk, but my heel still feels like it's being poked. “Ouch!!” I wobble, off balance, and instinctively grab his arm. I squeeze.

All muscle.

But then I'm back to my heel, which continues to feel like it's being stabbed by something, but upon inspection, there's nothing there. I open the dictionary, flipping through the pages quickly, trying to find
ameliorate.

My finger is halfway down the page when I find it.
“Ameliorate. Mend. Help. Improve.”
I'm about to use this word against him, explaining that I am
ameliorating
his company, when he puts his hands on my desk again. This time more gently.

“What's the word when you want to kiss someone you're really mad at?”

“Passion.” I blurt it out right as I begin to think it's not the definition he's interested in. I'm guessing this by the way he's staring at me. Our eyes are locked. “Also, crazy. Cracked. Demented.” Each word gets softer because his face is moving closer to mine. I don't get the word
insane
out because our lips are now pressed together.

I can't breathe.

And right at this moment, I don't want to.

But then I come to my senses. I pull away. “Don't
do
that! I don't kiss—I mean, I kiss, of course, but I don't . . . what I mean is, I don't . . .” I've got an entire dictionary at my fingertips and I can't find a single appropriate word.

“You don't risk? Chance? Gamble?”

“If you love someone, they go away. That's life. You know it, better than anyone. And you can't even talk about it. About her.”

The words are out before I know it. Yet again, my filter has failed. Big time.

My words hang between us and slowly he backs away, his expression wounded, his eyes filled with pain. He turns and rushes out of the room.

Behind me, I hear Ruby and Pearl gasp.

* * * *

I'm quickly putting on lipstick. It's more like lip balm. It's actually got no color at all. It's the best I can do. What can I say, I'm not a makeup girl. But according to Everett, I'm about to be on camera.

Seconds after Jake stormed out of my office, Everett was calling me on the phone, telling me I needed to come with him immediately. He rambled in the car about the press release, about the phone calls, about the interest. He said his company has never seen anything like it.

“Our publicity department was overwhelmed!” Everett says as we round the corner on to 8th Street.

“We have a publicity department?”

“Just one lady. Denise. She's also our marketing director.”

“Oh.”

“Landon, listen to me. You've got to exude confidence, okay? Stand tall. Be the persona of these cards, okay?” He is very wound up, his eyes large and focused, his grip on my arm squeezing tighter with every word.

“I got it.”

“You can do this.” He smiles warmly at me and I feel myself gaining confidence.

The car sweeps to the side of the street. Everett exits effortlessly. I'm a little clunky getting out, but I manage. Everett is instantly by my side, guiding me at the elbow. I look up and notice we're at a card and gift shop. And then I see the camera crew.

The reporter, trailed by her husky camera operator, greets us on the sidewalk.

“What are we doing?” I whisper to Everett. I wasn't prepared for reporters.

But Everett doesn't answer. He's too busy shaking the hand of the reporter and introducing me to “Starla.”

Starla seems fully enamored with Everett, even as she politely shakes my hand. Her eyes don't leave him.

“Thanks for covering this for me, Starla.”

“Anything for a ride on that boat.” You have to see this—she's stroking the microphone like it's a toy poodle. Her voice purrs. “So this is your writer.”

“This is Landon.”

Starla regards me for a moment. With her four-inch heels she's a good six inches taller than I am. I hate standing next to tall women. They always make me feel small. She flips her finger in the air, makes a circular motion, and the camera operator suddenly comes to life, moving toward me. Starla steps in front of Everett, giving him a coy smile, and then is standing beside me.

“Heaven Sent cards just unveiled a new kind of card, something you wouldn't expect from them. You heard it here first, a line of breakup cards. If you haven't seen these, rush out to your nearest card shop and take a look.”

It's like they spontaneously appear but I realize they're drawn by the news truck, and the flashy guy in the suit—that would be Everett—directing them into the store. Before we know it, the little card shop is overwhelmed with customers. The cameraman is wandering the aisles, taking shots and sound bites as Starla leads the way.

“I'm buying this breakup card and I don't even have a boyfriend!” says one customer to the camera. “It just made me laugh!”

“I tell ya,” says another lady, right behind her, “if my guy broke up with me, I'd want one of these cards. They're hilarious! These cards tell it like it is!”

Starla manages to find the only guy browsing the cards.

“I just found out my girl cheated on me. They have the perfect card for me to end it.”

Everett smiles and winks at me from across the floor, pitching a thumbs-up. I'm enjoying the moment, there is no doubt. I'm a greeting card writer so I hardly ever get to see people's reactions to what I write. I just have to imagine it. But here it is, right in front of me.

And then, so is Starla, with the microphone shoved in my face, asking me a question about my feelings.

I look at her. “I hope they'll be a hit. I was so tired of the normal cards out there that promise a better life to come, especially after a breakup. Pain hurts. Might as well make it funny.”

Starla grins as she turns toward the camera. I see Everett off to the side, watching us, glee beaming off his face like moonlight.

“And make it funny she has!” Starla's giving the camera her mega-watt smile. “Heaven Sent may have struck gold on this one, folks. Perhaps these cards—and this writer—are a gift sent from heaven. Time will tell.”

* * * *

I'm actually asked to sign autographs. If my dad could see me now. On the way back to the office, Everett is fielding phone calls, one after another. I sit in the car silently, staring out the window, the buzz from the attention wearing off like lipstick at the end of the day. I decide I must find Jake when we return, set some things straight. First of all, no kissing. Second of all, I respect him. I want him to know that. We just have different views, that's all.

Everett puts his hand by the small of my back and guides me into the Heaven Sent office building. The news is indeed spreading fast. Heather waves excitedly and I'm finally not annoyed by her undying optimism expressed daily through the color yellow.

“The public is going to love your humor,” Everett says as we step onto the elevator.

“Thank you. Thank you for giving me a—”

“I want you to take over being the voice of this place. Replace Jake.”

“Wait . . . what? Jake, he's your brother, and he's still—”

“Forget Jake. Let's head out on my boat this afternoon and talk about you.” His hand caresses the small of my back as he steps closer.

“Everett,” I say as smoothly as possible in a situation like this, “guys like you . . . they don't like girls like me.” Just a casual observation, but Starla has fire-red lips. I'm the lip balm girl. Things aren't adding up. “What's your game?”

“I don't have one,” he says, charm sizzling like a 4th of July sparkler.

“I won't go out with you.”

“Why? Because of Jake?”

“No. Not Jake.”

The elevator doors open. I practically dive out—and right into the path of Candy. Today, it's intense fuchsia, the kind proven to trigger migraines.

“There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you.” Candy sighs, putting her hands on her hips. “Here's the deal, sweetheart. We're going to have to ask you to leave.”

“What?” Everett says.

“If I don't get the U.S. government the proper paperwork on you by one week from Thursday, you will no longer be employed by Heaven Sent.”

“Candy, she's our potential gold mine. She's not going anywhere.”

“We don't have a choice, Everett. I'm sorry.”

“One week from Thursday?” Realization hits me. “That's Thanksgiving.”

“I don't make the rules, Ms. Landon. Just fix it.”

“I'm trying! It's just that I can't seem to . . . the Social Security office is always—”

“Prove you are who you say you are, or your life here is over.”

Candy walks away. I turn to Everett, but he is walking away too, his hands thrown into the air. I'm left by myself.

The one who can't prove she's alive.

* * * *

It feels like I'm living in one of those nightmares you can't get out of. Everett tells me to leave immediately and go get this taken care of. “You should have plenty of time to get through the line today,” he said. And he's right. Usually, I'm there in the late afternoon and the line is always wrapped around the block. But if I leave now, I've got four hours. So I grab my things, rush out of the building, and power walk straight to the Social Security office.

Now, if you were a total stranger and you walked by, observing this scene, you'd think I'd lost my mind. But since you know the whole story, you'll understand why I'm clinging to the glass of the front window, my left cheek pressed against it, pounding and wailing. “No! No! You can't be closed!”

But a sign on the front door clearly says
Closed
. “Why? Why?? How??”

A mounted police officer rides by, the horse's hooves clacking loudly against the concrete. “Ma'am?”

I turn, my back and palms now against the glass. I look like an oversized window decal.

“Are you okay?”

I'm aware of the tears streaking down the side of my face and the fact that my hair is clinging to my cheeks the same way I'm clinging to this glass window. “They're closed.” I manage to get the words out like a normal person, but then I sob.

He remains expressionless. “Yes, they are.”

“Why?” I wail. “I mean, why would they be closed on the one day I can get here on time?”

“It's a federal holiday.”

“What?”

“They'll open again tomorrow, ma'am.”

“What federal holiday? There's no federal holiday!”

“Move along.”

I notice his hand has moved to his taser. Awesome. Yes, please taser me. That would be the perfect end to my day.

He waits. I sigh, grab my bag, and walk away. I don't even bother going back to work. Not looking like the mess that I am. I wander the New York City streets for a while, hoping to be inspired by the vibe. I'm not. I'm hopeless. I'm going to end up losing my job because I'm dead. And then I'll die, for real, from a broken heart.

Speaking of broken hearts, I find myself thinking of Jake a lot. Especially . . .

The kiss.

Why would he kiss me? As surprising as it was, I don't regret it at all. And that surprises me even more. My life has been plagued with regret, so it just seems like that would be natural order of things now.

I
must
make things right with Jake. But before I do that, I have to get my life back. Literally. I decide I'm going to get up at the crack of dawn and arrive first thing at the Social Security office. That will ensure me a spot. Then my life can go on.

I'm in bed and the hopelessness returns. I've tried not to think of my wedding day. The busyness of the new job has helped. But alone in the darkness, atop lumpy old Murphy, I find myself dwelling on it. Then crying about it. I can't sleep. But I must.

Then there's a knock at the door. I almost don't answer it, but there's a little optimism in my heart that says this could be opportunity knocking. Silly things like that pop into your head when you're mourning your pathetic life.

“Hi.” It's Mikaela.

The fluorescent lights in the hallway nearly blind me. I put my hand over my eyes to shade them.

“Mikaela, what . . . what are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Kiddo, it's late.”

“It's 8:30 p.m.”

“I . . . look, I've had a really hard day. I'm sorry, I just can't . . . maybe tomorrow? Okay?”

She doesn't say okay, but I smile and nod as if she did, and I shut the door.

It seems weird that being in the dark sparks thoughts of God, but this seems to be the place that I begin to remember him. Despite the nonsense that my mom brings to the table in the religious realm, I've always sensed God and known he loves me. It's just that more often than not, I don't pray. And I can't really think of a good reason why that is so. It just is.