To See You (12 page)
By the time I exited the spin studio, I was soaked to the bone and dreading the coming weekend. At least I had today at work to keep my schizophrenic mind occupied. I ran home, showered, and took a cab to work. As I took the elevator upstairs, my phone beeped.
JANIE
: Drinks tonight. No excuses. See you at the Royal, Craig’s buying. 6:30.
I didn’t even answer. Tonight was Friday, the night Janie and I always got together. There was no hiding from her anymore.
I plowed my way through the day, wielding my red pen and my disapproval of this or that until almost six o’clock. Then I raided the fashion closet, borrowing an emerald-green blouse and a pair of dark green satin Blahniks as I promised Rivvi, our fashion editor, I’d bring them back in one piece.
Freshly changed, teeth brushed, and perfume spritzed, I made my way to the Royal. I indulged in another cab, my mood already too soured to brave public transportation. Inside the hotel, I made my way to the bar and only smiled when Craig set a giant glass of wine in front of me.
“That kind of week?”
“Oh, Craig, you have no idea.”
“Work stuff or boy stuff?” He gave me a boyish grin.
“Me stuff,” I answered.
“Want to spill? I’m game if you are, and I’m cool if you’re not.”
His brown eyes were warm like maple syrup, enticing me to dive in, but I just couldn’t go there. I hated myself enough, and if I went into my bitchiness with Craig, I knew he’d never look at me the same.
“I’m just going to marinate my troubles in this wine.”
“No problem, babe.” He winked and went to the other side of the bar to grab an order.
Click, clack, click
. I could hear Janie coming from a mile away.
“Hey there, Char. How you doing, honey?” She squeezed me in a half hug.
“I’m good.” I only half smiled.
It was also a night of half truths. I wasn’t good or well or even just okay.
“Hey, Craig,” Janie called out as she sat down next to me.
“Martini?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now for real, tell me how you are.” Janie leaned in close and stared me down.
Her eyes were perfectly lined in black, her lids dusted in glitter, her pink lips were two shades lighter than her blouse, and she smelled like morning dew. I looked at her, really looked at her, preferring to concentrate on her perfections than my imperfections.
“Char,” Janie whined, dragging me from my funk.
“I’m okay. Just confused, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve never seen you like this.” She downed a gulp of her martini and studied me. “You’re always the one so confident and collected. I’m the spaz, but now you’re all over the place emotionally.”
“I can’t explain it. When I met Layton on the plane, I was just . . . so mean. I never considered myself judgmental, but there I was turning my nose up at him and ready to toss him out of first class.”
“Char, you’re a young, bright, and successful New Yorker. Do you really need to obsess over some slobby music guy?”
My hand shot out and covered her mouth. “Stop! Don’t do that. See? That’s my exact point. He’s a decent guy, went all out of his way to show me a nice evening, and then even worried if I got home when he knew I was bullshitting him.” It all came running out of my mouth without a filter or a breath. “And,” I stuck my finger in the air, “what do I do? I just shit on him because why?”
“Don’t do this,” Janie pleaded.
“Because I hate myself. All my life, I rushed through everything—school, internships, jobs—just to get here and I hate it. Freaking despise it.”
I guzzled my wine and eyed Craig, who ran over with the bottle and filled me back up, no longer offering to listen to me.
Janie glared at me. “So, get a new job or something, but don’t go off the rails because of some guy who means nothing.”
“That’s just it, J. Why can’t he mean something?”
She crooked her finger and signaled for Craig to come back. “Craig, doll, isn’t Char a ten? She’s got everything, the whole package. Brains, beauty, breasts . . . even with all that running.”
I’m a 32B. I hardly call that breasts, but whatever
.
“Don’t answer that, Craig,” I said with a scowl. “Don’t feel like you have to lie.”
Janie smacked my arm. “Seriously, stop. You do. Nod your head if you agree, Craig.”
He nodded like a good puppy and escaped to the other side of the bar. The place was now full of people—sophisticated New Yorkers, yuppies and intellectuals, all pretending to be the city’s best.
Blech.
But isn’t that what I always wanted? What I always did? How I always acted?
“Look around you,” Janie said, motioning around the room with her hand. “This is your life, not some big, gentle, introverted music guy.”
My stomach churned, bile made its way up my throat, and I had to go.
“You know what? I don’t feel so great. I have to go.”
I stood and grabbed my purse and jacket. Slipping my arms through the buttery leather, I couldn’t help but remember Layton sliding his tux jacket over my shoulders. If I thought hard enough, I could smell him—the rain or dew, the cinnamon and the beer.
Janie stood and tried to wrap me up in her arms. “Charli, I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. I’ve just had a long week.”
Tossing my bag across my body, I hightailed it out of there.
And went straight home to Lucy.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: God, I’m so sorry
Layton –
I’m so sorry. I’m not even sure why I feel compelled to write this, but I do. There’s that and I’ve had some wine. Okay, a little more than some.
I wasn’t very nice when we met on the plane, and yet you tried to be kind. You started a conversation with me, and were kind enough to find me and check on me after. Yes, a bit stalkerish, but also persistent and sweet. Although, I have to be honest, I didn’t want to appreciate it.
Then, like some kismet way of the world, we were thrown together at the premiere, and again, you were nothing but sweet. Our abbreviated sushi dinner was one of the best I’ve ever had in a long time. But once again, I threw your niceties away in the trash because at the end of the day . . . I’m a bitch.
So, I’m very, very sorry. More than you will ever know, Layton. I have no excuses, nor are there any worthy.
I guess you were right. I’m not so happy with what I’m doing right now, but this was my plan, so I’m locked in.
That’s about it.
Forever sorry,
Charli
P.S. I miss your videos and pictures of your dog.
I pressed
SEND
before I could regret it or second-guess it any more than I already had, and curled up in my perfectly lavender bed and fell asleep to the sound of Lucy humming.
H
arriette lay in the corner, a paw covering her eye. Bingo! She didn’t like it when I jacked myself. I know, I know, she’s a freak of a dog.
Hey, I’m her master, and I assumed it was because she only liked to think of her and me.
Long story short, I’d been beating it pretty regularly all week.
I’d tried to drown my imperfections and insecurities in a cute, short-ish ginger after Charli hit the road—not the waitress, but a quirky, short, sci-fi-loving one more suited to me.
She laughed at my jokes and made googly eyes at me all night in the back of Bastion’s; enough so, I felt bold enough to take her home. She lived in the neighborhood too, and led me up to her condo where I proceeded to be unable to perform.
Like, not at all. There was no movement whatsoever. My dick was set on an unattainable sexy blonde, and no pixie redhead was going to replace her.
I chalked it up to whiskey dick and hit the road faster than I thought possible. Carrie insisted on typing her number in my phone, and my fucking dick demanded I delete it.
This was a true story. I was legitimately addicted to a woman I couldn’t have . . . not to mention she didn’t want me.
Then I’d fucking heard from Charli on Tuesday, and while it was all business and nothing spectacular, my lower appendage was back to doing the thinking and making demands. Now I had a twice-a-day yank, Charli front and center in my mind, lithe and seductive but into me. Way into me. In my fantasy, she’d moan my name, scratch her fingers down my back, and tug on my hair.
Shit
. And just like that, I blew my wad everywhere.
That was pretty much status quo. All because of a girl who couldn’t even let me know she was home safely until four days later.
After wiping up, I let Harriette out and went down to my studio to get lost in my latest contract. I waited for my slow-ass dog to lollygag over before shutting the door to the soundproof space. If not, she’d scratch on the other side of the door and I wouldn’t hear shit.
Slapping my headphones on my ears, I cued up the latest footage on my screen, rolled my mouse over several music selections, and double-clicked on the new song by some pop icon. The director wanted the song somewhere in the film, anywhere I saw fit, but definitely somewhere. It was probably his niece or some shit like that.
My computer was slow to load so I kicked my bare feet up on my steel desk and checked my e-mail on my phone, not expecting much for a Friday evening. Most people were out doing the happy-hour thing; I was sitting at my desk in a post-masturbatory funk like a complete loser.
Or maybe not? Because sitting right there in my in-box was an e-mail from Charli, using words like
kismet
and
sorry
, and just like that, I was on top of the world.
I
wasted the weekend away at home, mostly in bed working on a collection of short stories I’d written a long time ago. I didn’t exercise or go out for the salad bar. The hours ticked away with mug after mug of hot tea and the
tap-tap-tap
of the keys on my laptop.
By the time Monday came, I’d resolved myself to the fact that Layton took my apology for what it was worth and moved on.
From what? I didn’t know.
I ran, showered, and took the subway to work. There was a newfound pep in my step from working on my stories, and I was early enough to grab a latte from the corner coffee shop. The streets of New York looked like a movie on fast forward—people rushing in and out, cabs honking, heels and loafers pounding the pavement.
