B009R9RGU2 EBOK (20 page)

Only to encounter a barracuda in Balenciaga.

“Sophie, darling,” Priscilla says, her skinny ass blocking the call button. “It’s such a relief to hear you’re taking a well-deserved break. Good for you.”

We’re alone at the elevator bank. I should have sensed her circling—like a buzzard.

As if for the benefit of a nonexistent audience, she continues. “I can’t imagine how
exhausted
you must be.” The most condescending smile cracks her face. “Don’t you worry. I’ll take good care of your clients.” She moves aside and calls the elevator for me. “Well, maybe not quite as much
personal attention
.”

If I didn’t think it would force Elle and HR to make my break permanent, I would have readily decked the smug bitch that helped “save” my job.

Lifesaver, my ass
. It worked out too well for her to be coincidental. There’s no doubt in my mind that Priscilla somehow played a major role in my ousting. If it’s my last business at Bennett/Peters, I will find out how and take her down.

Throughout the hour-long drive home, I check my phone incessantly. There’s no word from Jacob. Or Billy, for that matter. And now I’m suspended from work, the place that was even more “home” to me than my condo. To this workaholic, I might as well have been fired. It
feels
like being fired, the void of the days ahead unbearable. And then there’s the self-disgust. I can’t even look at my BlackBerry in dread of the sure-to-come collective advice of bed rest, boosting vitamins, and homeopathic treatments from those sincerely wishing me a swift recovery.

What am I going to tell Izzy? My parents?

It’s a fine mess.

That’s when I realize I do have a plan. My plan is to curl up on the sofa, drink a bottle of wine, and die. My plan is to stay in the fetal position until someone calls the landlord about the smell from my apartment. And then the police can come collect the body.

Tonight, all I want to feel is numb.

I drop my bags inside the front door and march into the kitchen. I stare at my nearly depleted wine rack. Two bottles? How did this happen? But if I ever deserved wine, tonight is the night. So with complete righteousness, I bypass the Riesling and grab the bottle of Opus One that Jacob bought me when we were touring Napa wineries one romantic weekend. The prized bottle we talked about opening ten years later. It was the first time we really made plans, as a couple, for a shared future.

I remember how exciting that moment felt. Its promise.

And then I recall the hurt look on Jacob’s face as he said my name just hours ago. The foil can’t come off fast enough. The corkscrew may as well be embedded in my heart. I just want to dull the pain. Overcome with grief, I jerk the cork too strongly and it breaks in two, half-trapped in the neck of the bottle.

Of course.

I dig around my seldom-used kitchen drawers for something, anything, to poke it back into the wine. And then I stop.

I don’t want to be that girl anymore, drowning her problems.

If I resist the heavy pull—at least tonight—then I’ve done
one
thing right.

And really, I’ve got to start somewhere.

I return the wrecked bottle to the rack, peel off my shoes, and curl up on the couch. It’s
Survivor
night. I wonder if Jacob is doing the same across town and if he’s thinking of me. I resign myself to watching
Survivor
solo for the first time, determined to find immunity from my own troubled self.

With plenty of trepidation and very little appetite
I’m on my way to meet Jacob for Thai. Though left unsaid in his texted invite and my even briefer acceptance this morning, we both know “The Talk” is on the menu.

No wonder I feel nauseous.

He finally texted just after
Survivor
ended last night:

Short and to the point.

Now here I am walking into a restaurant that thinks it’s one velvet rope away from being a trendy nightclub. As if pad thai required its own DJ. But the establishment is roughly equal distance between our homes, and at 6:30
P.M
. we’re meeting early enough to ensure it’s near-empty and the house music is at a more ambient than tabletop-dancing level. Still, is
this
to be the climax of our romance and culinary quest—a generic Thai joint? The thought is too depressing.

Jacob’s already inside, nursing a Singha beer as he reclines against the tufted white leather banquette. He’s still in work clothes, but the tie has been put away and his shirt’s top few
buttons left undone, revealing bare throat and a glimpse of chest hair. “Mr. Steady” looks good—maybe not “model pretty” like Billy, but in the short seconds I get to take him in before he notes my arrival, my pulse quickens.

Once I’m seated in my chic yet not all that comfortable plastic chair, his eyes on mine reflect a familiar carousel of conflicting emotions. We may look like any couple on Date Night, but there’s palpable tension radiating from Table Twelve. And it’s more than a Singha and the smiling Buddha figurine in a neighboring alcove can assuage.

“I don’t even know where to begin…,” Jacob says, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at a corner of the beer bottle’s label.

If only I could reach over and kiss him, reassure him there’s nothing to discuss. We’re all good. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. But I know it can’t be so easy.

“We’re meeting and talking. That’s a start.” I place my hand over his restless fingers. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t exactly take my hand.

“I know things haven’t been perfect between us lately,” Jacob continues, “but… okay, I’ll bite. What the hell was that all about yesterday?”

With impeccable timing, the clueless waitress arrives to fill water glasses, list the specials, and take our order. A part of me wants her to never leave us, as if her orderly presence could forever keep any messy conversation or consequence to my relationship with Jacob at bay. But collected menus in hand, she leaves me to my fate.

Now it’s my turn to fidget, tracing the soft marigold petals
in the center bud vase. I can’t lie to Jacob. But I don’t want to hurt him either. Or lose him… if there’s any hope of fixing us. What’s the truth without being
too
truthful?

“Yesterday—in my office—was a huge misunderstanding,” I blurt out. “You’ve got nothing to worry about with Billy Fox.”

“That was a whole lot of tears over nothing.”

How do you refute that? Jacob’s no fool.

Deflect
.

“For weeks now, something’s been off between us,” I say. “You must have felt it too. We were in a rut.” And then I madly just blurt it out. “And then sometimes I think about the future.”

“I knew things were off. And I tried to get you to talk to me that night at your place. But what are you saying?”

“We’ve been together for nearly two years and I still don’t know where we’re going. You never discuss the future. I love you, Jacob. But I’m terrified that you’re comfortable with the status quo. And I’m… not.”

“Are you talking about marriage? Haven’t we both seen enough relationships fall apart over a piece of paper? We had something great here. Together. I don’t want to mess it up for some technicality.” I’m dumbstruck by his words. My gut was right—Jacob doesn’t want to marry me, as I feared all along. Obviously the word “marriage” is just not in his vocabulary, and I’m so hung up on hearing the void of it, I almost miss the next part. “I want to be with you and only you, Sophie. But let’s let the future be what the future will be.”

Happiness left to c’est la vie. It isn’t enough.

“I didn’t look for it,” I say, the words tumbling out, no matter
how much I wish to protect him. And us. I know the truth will harm him, but keeping it inside is perhaps more unfair to him. “I didn’t even believe it at first when Billy flirted with me. But the fact that I let myself be charmed… means something.”

“Yeah, that you’ll fall for a cliché.”
Ouch
. “Was George Clooney or Bradley Cooper unavailable? Why, Soph? And of all people…
him?!
Billy Fox? Is that even a real name or something they manufactured in Hollywood?”

Exit Easygoing Jacob. I know all about hurt pride.

“Look, I get that you’re upset… but nothing really happened. We made out. It’s not like we slept together. And I felt you and I had broken up.”

“Oh, well I guess everything’s great, then.”

“It was a mistake. I realize that now. Jacob, I want things to work out. I want you.”

“Well you have a funny way of showing it. Instead of being mature and, I don’t know,
talking about it
, you’re out test-driving, kissing other men—”

“
One man
. Once.”
No time to be a stickler
.

“Whatever.” He bitterly laughs, signaling the waitress for another beer. “If you’d had a ring on your finger, would that have made a difference with Billy Fucking Fox? And you’re asking
why
I haven’t proposed. Doesn’t that answer your own question?”

“That’s not fair…”

“No, what isn’t fair is that you decide our relationship is over without consulting me.”

“
You
spoke of our relationship in the past tense. The message was clear. Am I supposed to wait for the official press release?”

The fragrant food and Jacob’s second beer arrive, signaling
the end of Round One. The clued-in waitress can’t leave our table fast enough. In fact all eyes around us are conspicuously averted, the clearest indication that our heated row is tonight’s main entertainment. We pick at our meals in steely silence, becoming that dispassionate couple we used to privately point out and smugly whisper, “What’s
their
problem?”

Finally Jacob pushes aside his plate of Panang Curry. “I called you at work today to reconfirm, but Tru said you were ‘on leave.’ She seemed kind of surprised that I didn’t know.”

Round Two
.

I put down my own chopsticks, searching for any way to prevent a deepening crack from shattering. Why can’t we get to the “other stuff” later?

“Yeah. I’m taking some time off,” I say as if it’s nothing. As if Jacob doesn’t know any voluntary absence from work on my part would involve a serious medical condition or act of God. “Mental health day” isn’t exactly in my vocabulary.

“Oh really? Hmm. Finally making time for your scrapbooking?” Jacob says, and actually cracks a smile. Even with all the preceding tension, we share a laugh at the absurdity of the scenario. I’d sooner take up needlepoint or knit sweaters from cat hair.

“Belly dancing lessons actually,” I banter back, relieved to have some humor in this conversation. “Great for the core.” For a moment, we’re back to our old selves, exchanging sophomoric jokes. Relaxed and in tune with each other. My error is getting swept up in the easy flow. “I got screwed at work.”

The look on Jacob’s face makes me realize the incredibly poor choice of words.

“No! I mean I got in trouble with Elle. She heard about… the whole Billy thing.” I’m floundering, drowning in my own confession. “That was bad. But when the photos surfaced—”

“Photos?!”

“Yeah. It’s weird. I have no idea how someone managed to capture the kiss—”

“That’s what bothers you most? How you got
caught
?”

What a fool I am. Again. “No.” The respite we found, the welcome reminder of our chemistry, drops away as if we confused a tiny ledge for solid ground. His hazel eyes go blank and distant. “Jacob, please say something.”

“I think you should go.”

“Jacob.”

It can’t end like this.

“Just go,” he says flatly. “Please.”

There’s no arguing. I remove my wallet, drop some cash on the table, and reluctantly agree to his wishes.

“And just so we’re clear,” he says, as I take my first step away, “we’re done.”

I walk out with my head up even though I’m dying inside.

“Thank you! Have a good night!” chirps the miniskirted hostess on automatic pilot as I exit the restaurant.

Outside, the evening lights and traffic sounds on San Vicente Boulevard are disorienting. I pause under the gray-and-white striped awning, watching others go blithely about their lives. That’s when I realize I’m still clutching my wallet. As I return it safely to my purse, my hand brushes something cool and metallic.

The framed photo from my desk. I’d forgotten all about it.

It’s my wake-up call. I love Jacob, yet if it was meant to be—the
right
relationship—wouldn’t I have fought stronger? Refused to let it go? Wouldn’t he have gotten over himself months ago and proposed, determined never to lose me? Maybe he’s right.
C’est la vie
.

Keep telling yourself that, Sophie
.

And maybe, eventually, I’ll believe it.

Everyone knows,
like it or not, that life is full of surprises. But it still takes us off-guard when the unexpected comes from within, when we find that the unpredictable stranger is ourself. Why else would I be huddled here, in the telltale self-help section of my mom’s store, with a half-asleep cat in my lap?