Missed Connections (8 page)

“That’s bullshit. If I’d known that your only objection was money—”

“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy. The kind of stability I’m talking about has nothing to do with money. I need to know I can trust someone. I need a man who takes things seriously.”

“And I don’t?” He crosses his arms.

“You party for a living.”

“Is that all that’s standing in the way? Because you think I don’t take life seriously?” He raises his chin. “What would you say if I told you I bought the brownstone I live in three years ago?”

“What? But what about your neighbor downstairs?” Jack has the upstairs of a modernized brownstone. The downstairs is a separate suite with an elderly man for a renter—perfect for Jack because the man is hard of hearing and doesn’t complain when Jack spins records at home.

Jack shrugs. “I let him stay because his rent nearly covers the mortgage payments and because he’s eighty-three with nowhere to go. His useless son barely visits him. There’s no way I’d kick him out.”

That’s surprisingly sweet, but I’m stuck on the fact that Jack owns his brownstone. Those things are worth millions. I had assumed he’d lucked out with rent control when Pete had helped him move. (I hadn’t been able to get the day off to help.) “Why didn’t Pete ever say anything?”

Jack shrugs. “It wasn’t important. My assets are nobody else’s business. And that club we were at the other week? Frisk? I’m a co-owner.”

With the rooftop patio? Jack actually owns his place
and
a business? Maybe
I’m
the Lost Boy here. “As of when?”

“Six months ago.”

“Wait. You’re a business owner?” The staff had been deferential to Jack, but I’d thought it was because they were friends and liked him because he DJs there a lot. “Why didn’t I know that? You haven’t changed anything about your life.”

“Why would I? That’s not who I am.”

“So those women who kept coming up to you on the rooftop patio?”

“Employees.”

He has employees. What the sparkling fuck? When did Jack, the man-whore DJ, become a responsible adult with more going for him than I do?

Whatever. I’m letting myself get distracted from the point. He may own a business, but he hasn’t
really
changed a thing about his life. The girls are still there. He’s still the life of every party. And the fact that I didn’t know about all of this just proves that he’s about as open as a Chinese puzzle box. “I’m happy for you, but it doesn’t change anything.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no arguing with you, is there? You’ve made up your mind about me.”

I don’t say anything. Jack sets the elevator key on my counter. “I’ll take the stairs.”

Too many emotions buzz beneath my skin, but I don’t want him to leave, not like this. “Jack, I just can’t. You’re—”

“I’m not your fucking mom. Grow up.”

I get a nice view of his back and then the inside of my door as he leaves me in my lonely, new apartment.

I would flop morosely to the floor, but there’s no room with all the boxes. Not enough room to pace either. Frustrated, I kick a box, but that only hurts my toe.

I’m all keyed up, but he’s gone, and I don’t really know what happened—except that he’s not quite what I thought he was.

Maybe I’m not either. I’m an asshole, but I can’t be completely wrong about him. Maybe he’s doing better than I thought he was, but he’s still partying for a living. Surrounded by flashing lights and women sipping drinks while shaking their tits at him. That’s not work. That’s a commercial selling a fantasy—and I’m not buying it. Sooner or later the lights come on, and you have to wake up and see the harsh light of day.

And if he can’t trust me enough to tell me
anything
about himself, how I can trust him not to stray?

I focus on unpacking, but two hours later, my body’s still humming with tension and my throat aches from thirst.

Needing to take my mind off things, I unpack my computer and sponge off the neighbor’s Wi-Fi, signing on to Missed Connections as quickly as I can to take my mind off Jack. By the time I open my browser, my hands shake on the mouse.

Where Are You?

I double-click.

I’m looking for you. Blond hair, blue eyes—

Not me then—I’m a brunette with hazel eyes. I close them now, regret washing over me at the look on Jack’s face when he left. I came off like a judgmental bitch. Pushing away the shame, I focus on the next ad.

The tattoos on your legs were amazing, but the one on your pinky finger drove me wild.

The places where Jack touched my body suddenly tingle. Wild? His hands drove me three blocks past teenage fangirl insane.

I hate how all I want is more.

You can’t have more. He left for a reason.

I shake my head and click on the next Missed Connection.

It’s a vain attempt to distract me from how shitty I feel about the things I said to Jack.

And the discomforting fact that maybe I really don’t know him at all. The worst part is that now I may have ruined our friendship as well.

Chapter 8

Our main client base is made up of hipster-yuppies—a fairly new breed of people who are a mixture of crunchy granola and corporate successes. A perfect blend of both worlds, becoming more common as the world turns more corporate and greener at the same time. You can find them riding their bikes to work in their suits and getting baristas to pour seven-dollar coffees into fancy eco-friendly thermoses. They’re about the environment, not spirituality like Ziggy and Fern, and boy, do they care about money…as I learned when Ziggy overrode my scheduling and double-booked two of them this morning. They took turns bitching about the egregious waste of their time and money for ten minutes.

The days that suck the worst are when Ziggy decides to try his hand at reception. Without supervision, he’ll check the messages—and he always screws them up. Unless I want to spend hours trying to decipher Ziggy’s messages or search the schedule and hope I stumble upon the change, I’m forced to wait for Ziggy to reappear and tell me what his hippie shorthand means. But before that, he’ll come out and wonder why I haven’t dealt with the messages yet, as though I should just know what he meant by a misspelled name and nine digits of a phone number.

Unfortunately, last week when I responded that one of the scheduling conflicts was not my doing, I got a lecture about being defensive. Judging by Ziggy’s and Fern’s reactions, being defensive is one of the worst things you can be. I thought being a shitty secretary was worse. Apparently not.

At the law firm, I was responsible for drafting and filing contracts that were worth millions of dollars. It was stressful, but the work I did was important. That, and the partners I worked with didn’t screw up my efforts and then treat me like an idiot when things went wrong. If you caused a problem, you copped to it, simple as that.

The fact that Fern and Ziggy care more about an agitated tone than the truth is highly aggravating. Tiny bubbles of annoyance float through me, but there’s nothing I can do. Even if I know better and my way is more efficient, Ziggy is the boss, and it’s his place. At the end of the day, what he says goes.

Though sometimes, I’d like to punch him right in the aura.

The laundry leaves too much time with my mind unoccupied. I haven’t been able to get Jack’s kiss out of my head. He has no idea how close I came to shoving him into my bedroom and then breaking in the apartment one room at a time. He’s definitely better off financially than I imagined, but he’s found a way to party for a living. He’s still not a safe dating prospect, but even if he were, I’m pretty sure he’s never going to talk to me again. I should have softened my words.

Morosely, I toss the last towel onto the shelf and head back to my desk to fill out Ziggy’s next client’s receipt so it’s ready to go when they’re done. I fucked up. Even though I have my reasons, I owe Jack a huge apology.

Phyllis is curled up in a chair in the corner. She clears her throat as soon as I sit down. “Um…” I can feel that she wants me to ask what’s up, but I hate people trying to pique my interest that way. Besides, the other day, she started talking about her sex life in way too much detail and didn’t even stop when clients started coming in. It was super awkward.

I was only nodding and not actively encouraging the conversation, but it still looked like we were both discussing inappropriate things at work—something Fern lectured me about later at length. She practically snarled at me when I told her the conversation had been one-sided.

More of me being defensive.

I sucked it up and apologized, and she promptly brought up her workshop again as a better place to “explore and learn.”

“Uh, Sarah?” Phyllis finally gets tired of waiting for me to ask what’s up.

“Yes?” I keep typing the promotional poster Fern asked me to create.

“My name is spelled wrong in the receipt book.”

That’s odd; I don’t usually make mistakes like that. “I’m sorry to hear that. Tear that page out and start a fresh one.” I change the font on the poster, aiming for something more whimsical.

“It’s on every page.”

“What?” Insurance companies look for any excuse not to pay out, and I’m always super careful about forms. But mistakes happen; maybe I did screw it up. I finally give her my full attention.

She moves to the desk and thrusts the book in my face. “See?”

I take it and hold it at a more comfortable distance. Sure enough, when I flip through, I see that the name I printed on each page is spelled the same. I double-check it against the spelling on her schedule on the computer, and it’s the same. That means it’s incorrect there as well. “Spell your last name for me.”

“
H
-
e
-
n
-
d
-
e
-
r
-
s
-
e
-
n
.”

That’s what I wrote, and what’s on the computer. “Phyllis, that’s what’s printed on every page in the receipt book.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not the printed name. The signature. It’s spelled wrong.”

Is she fucking with me, pranking the new girl? “Uh, you’re the one who signed them.” I wait for her to laugh and tell me she “got me.”

Her glare is glassy and condescending. “Why would I sign my own name wrong?”

“I have no idea.”

“I wouldn’t do that. No one would.”

Does she seriously not remember signing her own name on every page? It was only a few days ago. “I don’t sign the sheets. I don’t normally even fill in the therapist’s name and RMT number. If you remember, you’re the one who had me do that for you, but I never signed your name.” I stop talking as she rips the book from my hands and stalks back to her chair.

“Well, you did it this time and did it wrong.” She flips through. “It’s every page, Sarah.”

What is her problem? Maybe if I prompt her, she’ll laugh and realize her mistake. “I know. But that’s not my writing.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t mine!” she snaps. “What’s your agenda?”

“My what?”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you trying to get me fired or something?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Why would you sign my name wrong in the book?”

“I didn’t! You did!”

She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m onto you. If you’re trying to intimidate me, it’s not going to work.” She steps up to the counter and looms over me. “I’m telling you right now, I’m here to stay. Better bitches than you have tried and failed to get rid of me, because you know what? Ziggy and Fern love me. I’ve got them wrapped around my little finger.”

“Phyllis, you were the one who signed your name wrong. You signed your name on each page and left the rest for me to do.”

She sneers. “Everyone knows the massage therapists are the ones who are supposed to fill out the receipt books. You just enter the amounts and the clients’ names. And the date. And yet
you
filled it out and messed it up.”

“But you made me. Are you serious right now?” My hands shake from frustration.

She opens her mouth to speak, but the phone rings and cuts her off. “You’d better get that. Be a shame for you to lose your job like the last receptionist.” With a wink, she sashays into one of the massage rooms.

I take a deep breath, hoping my voice won’t shake when I answer. “Inner Space, Sarah speaking.”

“How’s my little girl?”

“Dad?” He never calls me at work. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Sorry to call you at your job. I know employers hate that.”

“It’s fine. I can talk for a minute. What’s up?”

“Well…” He hesitates for a long moment. “I hate to put you out, but there’s been a bit of a mix-up. I need my prescription and can’t get it.”

“Why can’t Mom get it for you?”

“Uh… She’s pretty busy right now.” I know that tone of voice. He’s covering for her.

My parents downsized and moved to Jersey to pay for the hospital bills after Dad’s last heart attack, but they have their own transportation. “Can’t you take the car?”

“Your mother’s got it.”

I sag in my chair, suddenly feeling tired. “She left you and took the car?”

“No, no. She was just going to your aunt’s for a while. I thought I had more pills than I do. It’s my fault, really.”

Tears sting my eyes and I can only shake my head, hating that this is his life. “Which pharmacy and when do you need them?”

He gives me the address. “Is Tuesday okay?”

That means he probably only has enough for Monday but doesn’t want to put me out.

“I’ll get them and stop by Monday.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it, honey.”

I hate the gratitude in his voice. My mom should be doing this for him, being his safe place to fall, taking care of him so he’s not so stressed out. He needs a real partner instead of my irresponsible mother who’s more concerned with finding a good time than being his wife—and my mother. This is why I can’t let myself fall for someone like Jack. “Love you, Dad.”

“I love you too.”