Push Me (To The Edge series, #1) (7 page)

“
Oh, I know exactly what’s going on. You’re a fraud and I feel sorry for you.” I went into the bedroom, grabbed the couple of bags I’d packed, then made my way to the front door. I stopped when I got to his office door. He was sitting in the chair, looking out the window, his back to me. My last words to him were, “Don’t ever contact me again.”

.  .  .  .  .

“Kitchen’s on your right, bathroom’s down the hall, around the corner…I’m just kidding,” Rachel said. “You know where everything is.
Mi casa
and all that. Although, this is kind of a small casa. But, we’ll make it work.”

I’d called her from the limo and told her I was on my way over, and
that I’d tell her everything when I got there.

When she opened the door, I burst out crying
. She hugged me and we stood there for several minutes until she kissed me on the cheek, looked at me, smiled, and said, “I’ll make us some margaritas and you can drink right out of the blender.”

I loved
her like a sister. I could always count on her to do anything for me, and most of the time it was the simple but beautiful and rare gift of humor in a bad moment.

“
That’s so fucking weird,” she said when I finished telling her how it all went down.

We were sitting on her couch,
each holding big glasses of margaritas. She had also heated up some experimental hors d’oeuvres she’d made as a test batch for an upcoming catering event. The oven bell dinged and we went over to the kitchen area where I sat on a stool at the bar.

“Look at it this way,” she said, opening the oven and pulling out the baking sheet. “You didn’t have to
break up with him out of the blue. So now you don’t have to deal with any guilt.”

“I don’t think I would have felt guilty. And that doesn’t even matter n
ow. I wanted out and I got out. Finding the books just made it easier. He knew right when he walked in and saw the office door open. I could see it in his eyes.”

Rachel
got some plates out of the cabinet. “Do we need plates or is this more of an eat-like-cavegirls night?”

“No plates.”

She put them back, then handed me a napkin. “These are spinach, tomato and feta wrapped in filo dough. Give them a minute to cool off.”

They smelled wonderful, and I thought right then that I could eat all
two dozen of them.

“What are these called?” I asked.

“Not sure. Just some kind of stuffed pocket, I guess.”

“
Mmm. Stuffed pocket. So elegant.”

“Maybe he’s
crazy or something,” she said. “Maybe…hell, I don’t know.”

She asked me which books I’d found in his drawer, and we’d both read them all.

“Damn,” she said. “I never thought men would read books like that, let alone use them as instructional books. Do you think other men are doing that? I mean, aside from the one we already know about.”

I shrugged. “If they are, I hope they’re doing it better than
Ian did. It’s like he missed the emotional aspects of the characters. All he took away from it was how they wooed the female characters, and all the sex stuff. Or maybe he was into that before he read the books.”

“Who knows?”

I shook my head. “Obviously not me. I was in the dark about it all along.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“I know.” I didn’t want to talk about Ian anymore, so I changed the subject. “When do you see the cop again?”

“I don’t think I’m going to.”

“What? Why not?”

She poured some more
margarita in her glass, then mine. “You’re right. I can’t use that JDate site. I’m not Jewish, so basically what I’m saying right off the bat is, ‘Hi, I’m a liar!’ I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Told
ya.”

“Hey, I’m admitting you were right. Go easy on me.”

I grabbed another stuffed pocket.

Her phone rang. She went over to the coffee table to get it. “It’s the front desk.”
She answered it, then said, “From who?” She listened and then said, “Wait, never mind, I know. Okay, thank you.”

She hung up and looked at me. “They’re bringing some bags and boxes up here. It must be your stuff from
Ian’s.”

As far as I knew,
Ian didn’t know Rachel’s address, but Benson must have told him where he had dropped me off, and he figured anything he shipped here would reach me.

When the boxes came up, I didn’t open them. They were clothes, almost all of which
Ian had paid for, high-end designer items, which made for a good appearance in my line of work. But I didn’t want anything I’d received from Ian. Out of necessity, though, I’d keep them for a little while, but only until I could replace them with items I’d paid for, making a fresh start, and I knew just the way to get them without spending half my paycheck on a pair of shoes.

We sta
cked the boxes and bags in a corner of her den. “I’ll go through them tomorrow and get this out of the way.”

Rachel
hugged me. “No rush. Tomorrow we’ll start trying to find you a rebound guy.”

“No, thanks. I need some time off from
men for a little while.”

“Great. So you can devote all your free time to finding
me
one.”

I gave her my raised-eyebrow look. “Seriously? You want me to help you find a guy? With my track record?”

“You have a point. Plus, I’m not really rebounding from anything. I’m…God, what
am
I doing?”

Chapter Seven

The next four months of my life were spent mending friendships I’d neglected since Ian came along, and focusing on work. I was determined to remain successful in my career while saving up enough money to rent my own place in New York. Rachel was great and never made me feel like I’d overstayed my welcome, but I didn’t want to impose on her friendship for too long.

I traveled to several cities
I’d never visited before: Seattle, Dallas, Cincinnati, Denver, and Minneapolis.

I
made a trip to Boston and saw Steven and Ross two of the three nights I was there. They invited me to their new house the first night. I’d taken the train from New York and Ross picked me up at the station.

We were talking, mostly about the train ride up to Boston and how we both kind of enjoyed train rides as long as they were short, when Ross turned down a street, slowed down, and pulled into a driveway. It was long, tree-lined, and had a wrought-iron gate, beyond which I could see the house. Recessed lights in the yard illuminated what could only be described as a mansion—three stories,
all brick, with large ground to roof columns along the front….

“Nice try,” I said.

“Dammit, I thought it would work,” he said, a look of minor disappointment on his face. He backed out of the driveway and took us to their real home, a modest but nice townhouse, certainly bigger than anything they—or I—would be able to afford in Manhattan.

Steven was very skilled in the kitchen,
and that’s where we found him when we walked in. He was preparing a dinner of chicken with roasted red peppers topped off with a dollop of Greek yogurt and a black bean and rice side dish.

“This looks amazing,” I said.

“Ah, it’s just something I whip up now and then,” he said with a wink and a grin.

Ross rolled his eyes and asked me if I’d like some wine.

“No,” I said. “I’d
love
some wine.”

“I wish we had know
n what you’ve been going through sooner,” Ross said, pouring three glasses.

“I know. I’m
sorry things got to this point. I’ve missed you guys.”

Steven brought three big plates of food
to the table and said, “We’ve missed you, too. But in a way, I’m kind of glad I didn’t know what was going on with that dickwad.”

Steven was the larger of the two, which isn’t sayin
g much because Ross was a small guy—thin and, to use his own description, “dainty.” Steven, on the other hand, was a little over six feet tall, and could easily be mistaken for a bouncer if you didn’t know his actual profession was drug rehab counselor.

Ross said to me, “You know he’s just saying that.”

“Not so,” Steven said. He reached over to me and put his hand on my forearm. “Remember when you said I was like the big brother you never had? Well, that’s what big brothers do. Knock the shit out of guys who treat their sisters like crap.”

Ross rolled his eyes. “Just eat up, tough guy.”

That is how they always were. The sarcastic banter never got out of hand, though, and they always ended each round with a laugh.

When I showed them a picture of
Ian, Ross said, “Oh, now I see why you fell so hard so fast.”

Steven took the picture, looked at it, and said to Ross, “You couldn’t get a guy like that.”

“I could.” Ross took the picture back and sighed dramatically. “I mean, if I hadn’t settled.”

It had been so long since I’d been around these two,
I knew I had missed them, but didn’t realize just how much.

Steven was opening another bottle of wine. “Hey, you’re free to go at any time.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ross said. “You’d be lost without me.”

“It’s true,” Steven said, looking at me.

“Plus, I wouldn’t want a guy like that,” Ross said. “Picture him reading those books and making notes. How creepy is that?”

We promised we would all keep in touch, and that I’d come
up to Boston whenever I could, and they’d come down to New York soon so we could do dinner and a show, something none of us had done since our last time, pre-Ian.

I enjoyed life on the road. I was a complete unknown in cities that were unknown to me. I relished the solitude and the various adventures I set up for myself on each trip.
I was determined to set aside a little time and take in the most interesting part of each city’s culture while I was there. I was always fulfilled by my work, but those little escapades made my life a little bit richer each time.

Beth called me into her office one day and told me I would also be in the running for the new Creative Director position. But that had been
put on hold for a while—for reasons the higher-ups didn’t give us, but Beth figured it had to do with the economy—so there was nothing new on that front. Other than feeling increasingly like Corrine and I were rivals, that is. Good thing we weren’t around each other much. I put it out of my mind as much as I could, continuing to do my job to the best of my ability, putting in more hours to fill up a lot of my newfound free time.

However, being single in the
city, every once in a while I got the urge to go out and cut loose. So two or three times per month I went out with Rachel to clubs. We were pretty much doing what she’d suggested that first night I got to her apartment—she was hunting for a guy, and I was her wing-woman.

I ha
d no interest in dating at all, so sometimes this setup found me in uncomfortable situations, namely when Rachel was interested in a guy who was with a friend. I was always up front with the other guy and made it clear from the start that I wasn’t looking for anything. A few times I even lied and said I was from out of town and had a boyfriend back home. Not wanting to be in debt to anyone, and not wanting to lead anyone on, I always paid for my own drinks. I had fun, it was a nice diversion from the work week, and I actually met a few guys who offered great conversation.

The most memorable conversation
, though, was one I had with Rachel about three months into my stay with her. She thought I was hitting it off more than usual with a guy one night. When I followed her off the dance floor to the restroom, she told me the guy she was with asked her if she wanted to take the party back to his place and that his friend—the guy I was hanging out with—was really into me.

“That’s as far as he’s going to get into me,” I said.

She laughed so hard she snorted. “Oh no,” she said, stopping herself. “That’s not an attractive sound at all. Anyway, we’re not talking about going with them and banging their brains out.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Although in your case…”

“What?”

“Come on, Dawn. It’s been almost four months since you’ve even kissed a guy.”

“So what? It’s four months, not fou
r years, and it’s not like I’m choosing to swear off guys forever.”

She got her lipstick out of her purse, looked in the mi
rror, and put some on. “Sometimes it’s not a choice.”

Three girls stumbled into the restroom, two of them laughing and bumping into each other, the third looking like she was going to be sick.

I stepped closer beside Rachel. We looked at each other in the mirror as we freshened up.

She sighed. “We’re in a drought. If we were farmers, our eggs would have dried up by now.”

We stared at each other in the mirror, and I said, “That’s the most disgusting analogy I think I’ve ever heard.”

Neither of us ended up leaving with those guys that night, or any other guys on any other night.

Two weeks later, I had my own place. It was small—just over five hundred square feet—but its location on the Upper West Side of Manhattan put me much closer to work. The rent was $1,850 per month. It would make for a tight budget, but I knew I could reduce my spending in other areas, including, ironically, clothing. Most of the boxes and bags that Ian had sent over containing all of my clothes went unopened. One Saturday morning I dropped them off at a charity that helps battered and homeless women try to put their lives back together. The clothes would be great for job interviews.

I
did keep ten outfits for myself, which I managed to rotate and mix and match creatively to get more use out of them.

I was rebuilding my wardrobe by going to sample sales, where retailers have great stuff at even greater reduced prices. Being connected to the fashion industry, I knew when and where these sales would be taking place and I hit every one I could.

Furnishing my new apartment was easier—living in a small studio, there was so little room to fill that it didn’t take long to get all the basic things I needed. I wouldn’t be throwing any parties in my humble little home, but I had everything I needed to be comfortable.

I was satisfied with where I was at that point, and hopeful about the future.

I thought about calling my parents to let them know I was no longer with Ian. My relationship with them needed some serious mending, one that would involve a pride-swallowing explanation of everything that had happened, including the fact that they turned out to be right about him all along. I wasn’t ready to go through that just yet, so I didn’t contact them. It would happen in time.

.  .  .  .  .

On a September evening, I was taking a walk, enjoying a cool snap we were having. It was a nice break from the stifling humidity of a long summer, and a harbinger of the coming fall, something I was really looking forward to: crisp and clear mornings, ditching my summer clothes for cooler weather items, the changing leaves, all of that invigorated me.

I’d made the transition almost completely away from physical books to e
-books over the last year, so I had little reason to go into bookstores anymore. But on this particular evening, I decided to pop in and grab a coffee before going home.

When I walked in the door, I saw a sign that
almost made me turn right around and leave. There was a book-signing event in the store that night, and it was already underway. There was no author picture on the poster, just the name of the book—
My Last Slide
—and the name of the author: Sam Poole.

An employee greeted me and asked if he could help me find something.

“Where’s the book signing?”

“It’s near the back of the store.” He gestured in that direction. “I’ll show you.”

I followed him.

“I’m not sure there are any seats left.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I see where it is. Thank you.”

“Sure thing.” He walked away.

I ducked down an aisle adjacent to the area where the event was being held, went to the end of the shelves, and peeked around the corner.

There, in
jeans and a black t-shirt, was Sam. There was an inviting smile on his face, and he was relaxed as he spoke—something that might have come naturally to him, or maybe it was the result of being on TV so much.

He stood in front of dozens of people who were packed into
the small area. They seemed to be mostly older men, but there were a few women in the audience too.

He was speaking without notes, standing in front of a podium, holding a microphone.

I stepped back out of view in case he happened to look in my direction. I wanted to hear what he had to say, but I didn’t want him to see me, so I stayed on that aisle. I picked up a book to pretend like I was simply browsing and was surprised when I opened it to a sketch of a naked couple—the man standing behind the woman, with her facing away from him, bent over to the point where her head almost touched her knees, and the man holding up one of her legs to his side. It didn’t look comfortable at all. Actually, it didn’t even look possible to me.

I hadn’t realized I was in
the Self Help section, specifically the Sexuality category, and the book I had chosen at random was on Kama Sutra, basically the bible of sexuality from ancient Hindu culture. Just what I’d want to be caught reading. I put it back and moved down the aisle, stopping when I got to the section containing more benign books and picked up one about applying business leadership principles to your daily personal life. Perfect.

I opened it and looked at the page, not letting my eyes focus on the words, just serving as
cover so I could listen to Sam speak.

It sounded like he was wrapping up the main part of his talk. He referred to the reading he did at the opening, and I wished I had been lurking around the corner when that happened.

Sam ended by telling the audience: “You’ll never have another today. And although
this
today is almost over, don’t waste it.”

The people clapped and
Sam thanked them a few times.

Then
I heard a woman’s voice, probably a store employee. “Mr. Poole will be signing books at the table. If you would all please line up, we’ll make sure everyone gets an autograph. Please keep in mind those waiting behind you.”

I listened to what sounded like a lot of milling around, people getting
organized, and a chorus of unintelligible voices engaged in conversations.