Missed Connections (4 page)

The words
juicy
,
untamed
, and
admit two
sear my retinas, and I thrust the brochure away from me, suddenly feeling very conflicted about my bosses.

My married, hippie bosses, who just invited me to the sex workshop they teach. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or creeped out.

I’m still pondering that a few minutes later when Fern returns, clutching a small white box, and beckons for me to follow her to the kitchen.

The small kitchen would be a decent size, if it wasn’t for the washer, dryer, and shelves for the massage table sheets that take up one of the walls and then some.

“Oh, you haven’t done the laundry.” She sounds surprised.

The laundry? Don’t they have people for that or send it out to be done like they do at Pete’s salon? “I didn’t know I was supposed to do that as well.”

“Yes. And the dishes.” She points at the small stack of cups piling up in the sink, dirty and half-filled with the colorful herbal tea clients took and never finished.

“Sure, that’s not a problem. Where’s the dishwasher?” I open a panel and find another dirty laundry basket.

“Dishwashers are a horrible waste of water, Sarah.” Fern’s tone drips disapproval. “Not environmentally conscious at all.” Her eyes narrow, and I feel caught out.

“I don’t have one at home. My old work—they used one. I prefer washing things by hand.”

“Good for you. Too many people are lazy nowadays and don’t think about the Mother and what we’re doing to Her. That’s very environmentally conscious of you.”

Dishwashergate avoided, I relax a bit and move the sheets from the washer into the dryer and scan the shelves. “Are there any dryer sheets for static?”

“Dryer sheets?” Her sharp voice is cut off by a commotion in the hallway.

“Screw you, Ziggy. I know what you’re doing! You guys are trying to burn me out because I told you I didn’t have enough clients.”

“You wanted more work, and we gave it to you. Are you unhappy with your workload? Because we can—”

“No shit I’m unhappy with my workload. I don’t have time to take a piss with this schedule, never mind eat a proper lunch!”

I follow Fern into the hall and see Naomi: she’s tall, athletic, and blond, with a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and tops of her shoulders—exposed in a tank top paired with light-blue cotton capri pants.

I’m definitely overdressed. Where the hell are they all buying these pastel clothes?

Naomi and Ziggy are squared off; she’s tense, and he’s slouched against the counter. Something about his posture screams “feigned casual,” but I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Maybe the intensely gleeful glint in his eyes.

“What is going on here? There are clients in the rooms. Keep your voices down.” Fern’s lowered voice draws their gazes, and Naomi takes me in.

“You need to get out while you can. These people”—she motions at Fern and Ziggy—“are total whack jobs. Don’t walk,
run
away. Especially from their workshop bullshit. It’s a total cult.”

“That’s enough, Naomi,” Fern snaps, her eyes filled with caustic heat. “We have let so much slide, but I will not have you insulting the good we do with our workshop. Hand over your key, and get out. You’re fired.”

“In case it missed your attention,
Fern
, I quit.”

“You can’t quit.” Ziggy’s eyes bulge in panic. “We need to calm down, achieve harmony. Naomi, your schedule is full today. I know you’re angry, but breathe into it, feel the emotions, and then release them.”

Naomi digs in her pocket and slams a key on the counter. “Fuck that. Breathe into this.” She gives him the finger. “I’m out!”

Fern gasps, and Naomi leaves. I’m not sure where to look because…
awkward
.

“We’re sorry you had to see that, Sarah.” Ziggy’s hand falls lightly onto my shoulder. “We’ve been having some issues with her for a while, but we never expected things to end like that. She handled it terribly, of course. If she’d just stopped and owned her part of the situation, breathed for a moment, she’d have calmed down, and we could have talked this out.”

Fern rotates her shoulders as if working tension from them. “She was so irresponsible. Unprofessional. It already feels lighter in here now that she’s gone. What a poisonous person. This is the type of person we don’t want here, the type we’ve been weeding out one by one.”

The type they’ve been weeding out, or who have been quitting? Naomi’s schedule was insane, and I already have some concerns about my lack of training—and their lack of clarity about my job description. I had no idea I’d be doing dishes and the laundry as well as the administrative duties.

Not that I think I’m above doing them, but full disclosure and all that.

They both look at me. Shit. I was probably supposed to say something. “I like it here, and her quitting isn’t changing my mind.” Maybe it’s different for the massage therapists than it is for me. We’re employees in different ways.

“That’s kind of you to say,” Ziggy says.

Fern smiles. “So kind. And we won’t hold her recommendation against you. In fact…” She wanders to the kitchen and comes back with the box. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We can handle things here.”

“Really? I’d love to stay and work more, familiarize myself with the—”

“No, no. I think you’ve got it.” Ziggy waves my concerns away.

Fern hands me the box. “Here’s a little something from us.”

“What is it?”

“Open it.”

I slide the twine off and open the box. It’s a small cake that says
Welcome to our Inner Space
. My face grows warm, and I feel something I never did at the law firm. Appreciated.

“Thank you, both of you. Would you like to join me and have a piece?”

Fern smiles. “You’re welcome, but no, that’s yours, and we’ve got work to do. See you tomorrow morning at ten?”

“That sounds perfect.” I tie up the box and grab my purse.

I’ve decided to head for the bookstore off Union Square. I’ve got some studying to do.

* * *

I close the door behind me and tuck my newly purchased books against my hip.

“How was your first day?”

Pete sounds so excited and hopeful that I bite my cheek and kick off my heels instead of immediately launching into a description of the creepy/flattering workshop and the spectacular way Naomi quit. Despite some of the weirdness, I want to focus on the positive instead of bitching. I find a bright smile by the time I reach the kitchen. “Good. They got me a ‘welcome to the team’ cake we can eat for dessert.”

“Aww, that’s sweet of them! What are those?” He nods at my books.

I set them on the counter. “Research. My new bosses are into energy stuff, so I thought I’d bone up on it. Make a good impression with them.” The bookstore had a huge section on New Age modalities, and I spent way too much time hemming and hawing over the selection, and then more time snuggling up in an overstuffed chair with an iced coffee while people watching. “How was your day?”

“My day was great. I did four Brazilians today.”

“I hope you didn’t smile that big while doing them.”

He grates some carrots. “I tried to tone down my delight.”

“You’re such a sadist.”

He sets aside the carrots and tosses croutons into the salad. “I know. Waxing people is my favorite part of the job.”

“It’s perfect for you,” I agree.

“Except for all the vag.”

“It is ironic that you see more in a week than most straight guys do in a year.”

He sprinkles sea salt on the salmon frying in the pan. “It’s wasted on me. I definitely don’t see the appeal. They look like a rose that got its face trapped in a subway door.”

I wrinkle my nose at his analogy. “No arguments from me there. I’m also a fan of the penis.”

He smirks. “You used to be.”

My thoughts rub themselves all over the mental image of Jack that comment brings up. “What, am I supposed to bring someone back and bang him on your couch?”

“You could always go back to his place.” Pete’s voice is mild, but his statement feels too much like a criticism.

“I’ve had a lot on my mind the past couple of months. Too much to think about hooking up with anyone.”

“And that’s all in your past. Time to live again. Put on some
short
skirts and let ’er breathe! Show off those killer legs I wax. For free,” he adds, gesturing at my calf-length skirt with his spatula.

“Hey, I already said I’m in on Friday for dancing.”

He grabs a couple of plates from the cupboard. “I know what you said. I’ve also witnessed a lot of flaking out lately.”

He’s right. I have been canceling on plans, but not because I’ve wanted to. The only money in my account has been earmarked for my new place—first month’s rent, broker’s fee, security deposit. It’s not like I could just dip into that for a cocktail or a new top whenever I want to, and sponging off my friends has made me feel like a loser. Everything has been knocked away from me. My high-paying job. My awesome apartment. My independence has been eroded one accomplishment at a time, making me feel like a kid. I’m not even working in my field now. “I can actually afford to go out again, so that’s not going to happen anymore.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know I never cared—”

“I know you guys would have gladly paid for me, but I’m already putting you out by staying here for free.” I hold my hands up at his glare. “I know you don’t think it’s an imposition. The good news is that I’ll be out of here soon and things should get back to normal. But Friday night’s dancing will have to tide us over until after the move.”

“Come with us tomorrow as well, and I’ll shut up.”

“Fine, twist my rubber arm. But I’m paying for the cab there.”

“Hmm. That’s something, I guess. But you’re not an imposition. You’re my best friend. I love you.”

“I love you too, Pete.” I lay my head on his shoulder.

“Now grab a fork, bitch, and prepare to have your mind blown.”

Chapter 4

I’ve learned not to wait for Pete outside a club, because he might (a) not show up or (b) show up early, head inside, and forget to come look outside if I’m late. Instead, I head straight into the bar, get a vodka slime—perfectly refreshing for a muggy night like tonight—and wait for Pete to find me.

Drink attained, I scan the room for an available table. It’s pretty full, but not as bad as it’ll get closer to midnight. I’ve never been to this club, Frisk, before. Rich blues and dark grays make up the color palette. Light hardwood floors and wooden trim make the decor look expensive but fresh. Roomy dance floors and my drink is perfectly mixed—I’ll definitely be back.

I check my phone, but there are no texts from Pete yet, so I make a few passes around the perimeter, starting to get cranky from the crowd and the number of elbows I have to dodge. This club is the Next Big Thing, judging by the way it’s filled up in the twenty minutes I’ve been here. With reckless disregard for the heat wave, I’m wearing a scandalously short—but long-sleeved—slinky red dress that makes me feel like Beyoncé but unfortunately doesn’t give me the option of removing anything to cool off.

The sign to a rooftop patio is tempting, but it’s doubtful Pete would be out there. He’ll look for me in here.

The music is…different. I haven’t heard hardly any of the artists they’re playing, and I’m not sure I like the DJs. But I haven’t been out much lately. Maybe it’s just new music that takes some getting used to. But the next song is as bad as the first. No one’s got time for bad aural—one more crappy song and I’m out of here.

Where’s Jack when I need him? He knows all the songs I like, and I don’t have to ask to hear them played. Guess he spoiled me for regular DJs; I’m getting too used to being a VIP.

Another crappy, overplayed song blares through the speakers, and I’m out, heading for the rooftop patio for a breather. The staircase is narrow and tall and sort of feels like it’s a secret, or you’re not really supposed to come up here.

But I push through the door at the top of the stairs and sigh in relief at the cooler temperature. The rooftop isn’t huge, but bits of greenery make it feel intimate—like a private garden—and only about eight other people are up here. But everyone’s paired up, rubbing it in that I’m here all alone. Now, I almost wish the DJs hadn’t chased me here with their mediocre music. If Jack were here… I should just find Pete. Or go home.

“I’d hate to be the person who put that look in your eyes.”

Startled, I turn toward the familiar voice coming from the shadows in the corner. “Jack?”
What a sexy coincidence; I was just wishing for you.
I head over to him. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles. “Drinking, dancing. You?” He’s in a black button-down and dark jeans—a more expensive look I’m not used to seeing on him, but one that my lady bits approve of.

I sip my drink. “Same, but the DJ is a raging poseur. I came to cool off. Why aren’t you spinning tonight?”

He smiles. “Pete asked if I wanted to hang out, so here I am with the night off.”

I bump him with my shoulder. “I love how close you guys are.”

He leans closer. “Mostly I say yes to keep him out of trouble.”

His cologne makes me want to press my face against his chest and stay there breathing deeply for an hour or so. I can still feel the place his arm touched my shoulder. I take another sip of my drink, savoring the sharpness of the lime and looking out at the New York skyline instead of staring at Jack. The stars wink out between the clouds, and with the patio’s minimal lighting, the view is incredible. “This place is beautiful. I’m surprised more people aren’t up here.”

He sips his drink and nods, looking out across the city and clenching his jaw.

What’s going on in his head?
It’s the question I always end up asking myself. Despite his easy charm, Jack is the quintessential cypher. The things I know about him aren’t personal. I know all the facts and figures and can appreciate his appearance, but I don’t know a thing about what’s inside him. He’s always been a mystery, despite how long I’ve known him. “Have you been here before?”