LoveLines (36 page)

“I know you have nothing to do with it. Well, I mean you have something to do with it. He needs you back to your old creative self, or something like that. And I get it. I really do.”

“Bailey, I told him I’d walk out that door if he fired you,” Reece said.

“I know, Reece. It’s okay. I know you’re not in cahoots with him,” I replied.

He relaxed some.

“So I’m gonna quit. Save Dan the trouble of coming up with some bullshit excuse for letting me go. Save him the trouble of having to pull me into his office and all that. Save myself from the embarrassment.”

Reece’s face fell. “Please don’t,” he said before he could stop himself.

“I think it’s the wise thing to do,” I replied. “I don’t think we can work like this anymore. I don’t think it’s healthy.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

“You’re really creative, Reece. And you’re kickass at your job, and you’ve gotta get back to that.”

“Your job matters, too,” he said angrily.

“Oh, I can find a proofreading job anywhere,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand.

“I can find a marketing job anywhere,” he countered.

“But I don’t want you to,” I explained. “And anyway, you’re not the one Dan wants to see go. I am. So I’m going.”

“Please wait until you find another job, Bailey. You have a house and a mortgage and bills.”

“It’s all right,” I replied.

“Please,” he insisted.

“It’s all right,” I repeated softly.

There was nothing left to say. I wanted to ask him how he was doing, but I had no business prying. It would be totally offensive since I was the one who made him leave. He couldn’t know that I was already working on myself—trying really hard to find balance in my life. It wasn’t easy, and I was still a broken mess, but I was starting to put myself together again. Last night I lay awake in bed feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks. I almost called him to tell him. But that would have been selfish. Why should he care to celebrate my small accomplishments, especially from far away?

“I better go,” Reece said. “Clients don’t wait.” He held up his stack of copies.

“I . . .” My voice trailed off. I didn’t know what to say.

He looked at me helplessly, but only for a second before he adjusted his face, hiding any emotion.

“Goodbye, Baile
y.”

***

Kat Kreates was a bullshit firm. It constantly tried to undermine Beach Elite and steal all its clients. It was a bully firm stacked with weasels who didn’t understand the concept of work ethics. It operated with no definable moral compass and was an all-around shady business. And I couldn’t care less. They offered me thirty dollars an hour to proofread their ad campaigns, and I wasn’t about to pass that up.

I will not
pretend, however, that I didn’t miss Marjorie or Christopher. Or even Reece. I was well into my second month at the firm, and the job was lonely. I didn’t bother to make new friends because I convinced myself that all my coworkers were wily. I tucked myself away instead, many days going without uttering a word. While in the past I enjoyed the solitary nature of proofing, I knew my heart and mind had changed. He changed me. He left something inside of me I couldn’t get rid of. It was a small pinprick of light that glowed deep in my belly that suggested the irrefutable change. The love had been planted, and now I couldn’t escape it. I battled it. I knew I was no good for anyone, but the love remained anyway, pulsing a message of hope: You don’t have to be alone.

And I didn’t want to
.

“Hey, new girl,” someone said above my shoulder. I looked up.

He smiled down and extended his hand, offering me a Lindt truffle.

“Thanks,” I replied, taking the chocolate.
I didn’t miss out on the fact that he was very cute, but remember: he was wily, too. They all were.

“Name?”

“I don’t have one,” I replied. I’ve no idea why that came out of my mouth.

He looked at me
, confused. And then a smile spread slowly across his face, revealing perfect teeth. I hated perfect teeth. I hated my own perfect teeth, for that matter.

“That’s cute,” he said. “Now tell me your name. Seriously.”

“Beboppin’ Bailey.” The words just tumbled out, and I clapped a hand over my mouth.

He burst out laughing. “Is that, like, a nickname from childhood?”

I shook my head, hand still stuck to my face.

“Well, I like it.
Beboppin’ Bailey,” he said, and my heart clenched.

Don’t you dare repeat it,
I thought.
Don’t you dare use his name.

“So
, Beboppin’ Bailey,” he began, “how are you liking your new job? I’ve seen you around from time to time. You just do your own thing, don’t you? Never see you talk to anyone.”

He moseyed into my cubicle and got comfortable on my desk. Bile shot up into my throat. No lie.

“No one calls me Beboppin’ Bailey anymore,” I explained. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just Bailey. Plain ol’ Bailey.”

“Nah. I like
Beboppin’ Bailey much better,” he replied.

“Well, I don’t,” I clipped.

He cocked his head at me. “Okay then. Bailey it is.”

“And what’s your name?” I don’t know why I asked. I didn’t care at all.

“Stephen,” he said.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You sure about that? You seem like you’re not sure. Did I do or say something to offend you?”

I shook my head. “Not at all.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I nodded. I really wanted to get back to my work. I wasn’t on a schedule anymore, and for the first time in months, I wish I was. It would provide me the excuse I needed to get this jackass out of my workspace.
Why, Bailey? Why did you have to get better?
I thought bitterly.

“All right then,” he replied. “So what are you doing after work?”

Erica burst out laughing later that night when I relayed the conversation. I went to her house for dinner. I was excited to see her, but truthfully, I was more excited to play with her kids. I brought along Poppy who was the only Westie I knew who actually liked small children.

“What a total douche,” she said, giggling.

“I know, right? I fu— freaking hate that place.” Caught myself.

“Find another job,” Erica said.

“Erica, they pay better than any other firm. I’m sticking it out for a while,” I replied.

“I get it,” she said, “but it’s so important to love what you do.”

“And it’s also important to pay your mortgage,” I replied.

She grunted.
“Oh, I totally forgot to tell you that I have a client coming over in—” She checked the time. “—about ten minutes.”

“Huh?”

“And Taylor’s coming, too. She’s gonna start tanning Courtney, so I’m introducing them.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “You needed a babysitter.”

“Hey, I’m gonna feed you afterward. Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”

“Do your thing. It’s fine.
I really came over to see your kids anyway. Not you. And don’t get pissed if Poppy licks your client’s leg when she leaves.”

“
Ohhhh, yeah. That’s so not happening. You need to put that mongrel in a room,” Erica said.

“How about we
all hole up in the playroom. Will that work?” I asked.

“You’re the best!”

We herded Little Noah, Annie, and Poppy into the playroom right as the doorbell rang. It was Taylor, and I said a quick hello. I’d met Taylor months ago when Erica introduced us. We went out for drinks after a particularly grueling work day: I was yelled at for printing up an ad campaign and proofing it with my red pen instead of using the computer. Erica and Taylor were yelled at by a client who developed a nasty rash the day after she was tanned.

“The world’s filled with
nothin’ but bitches,” I slurred in the taxi cab on the way home.

Erica was right. W
hen all was said and done, it took about half an hour to tan her client. I heard the murmuring coming from the foyer and thought it was safe to open the playroom door. I swore I heard the alarm beep, signaling someone had opened the front door to leave.

Poppy darted out in an instant, high on t
he scent. She zeroed in on Courtney, who stood in the open doorway saying her goodbyes.

“Oh God,” I whispered and raced to the foyer. “No, Poppy!
Noooooo!!”

But it was too late. Tongue everywhere. Tongue on her toes. Tongue on her calves. Tongue on her sh
ins. Courtney danced around the room, trying to get away, and Poppy thought it was a game. The damage had been done long before I got my hands on her wriggly body. I couldn’t look at Erica. I couldn’t look at anyone as I apologized profusely.

“I’ll pay for your tan,” I said, hanging my head.

Courtney waved it off. “I’m sooo not one of those biatches,” she said.

I learned in that moment that Courtney was either still in high school or a freshman in college.

“But she ruined your tan!” I said.

That’s what touch-ups are for, right?”
Courtney asked. “And your dog is so freakin’ adorable.”

“You’re the coolest,” I whispered, then felt like a dumbass.

“Erica, can you fit me in tomorrow?” she said, turning to my best friend who was about to yell at me in approximately thirty seconds. Or thirty-one. Let’s make it thirty-one since that’s my bad luck number.

“You know I will,” Erica replied.

“Then no harm done,” Courtney squeaked. “Call me, bitch,” she said, holding her hand up to her ear like a phone.

I stifled a giggle.

Courtney bounced out, and Erica closed the door.

“Really, Bailey? For
freakin’ real right now?! That girl drives me insane, and now I have to see her again tomorrow!”

“So that’s why you’re handing her over to me, huh?” Taylor asked. She laughed.

“And just prepare yourself,” Erica said. “She gets sprayed every seven days.”

“Dear Lord,” Taylor muttered.

Erica whipped her head in my direction. “Thanks a lot,” she griped.

“I’m sorry!” I laughed.

“Your dog is a nuisance.” She looked around the living room. “And where are my children? You’re, like, the worst sitter ever.”

“They’re in the playroom. Jeez. Take it easy,” I replied. “Now where’s my dinner?”

“Fuck your dinner, Bailey,” she hissed. “You’re not getting any fucking dinner.”

Taylor erupted
with laughter.

“I watched your kids!” I argued.

“Really? ‘Cause I don’t see them. And anyway, your dog ruined my Saturday. No dinner for you.” Erica rubbed her face. “I can’t
believe
I have to see that chick again. ‘Call me, bitch,’” she mimicked, and I cracked up.

“I’m so saying that every time we say goodbye,” I said.

“Bitch, you better not,” Erica replied, and we all three stood in the foyer laughing. It wasn’t even that funny, but sometimes life’s inconveniences wound up that way. If you let go and let them.

“That’s pretty good, girl!” Christopher called down the shore.

I ran to him, huffing and puffing.

“Thanks! Gosh, I’m beat,” I panted. “Those waves . . .” I paused, trying
to catch my breath. “You’d think another hurricane was coming!”

“In July?”

“Well, whatever.”

“Aren’t you glad I called you?” he asked.

“Totally,” I replied.

We walked up the bank and plopped our boards in the sizzling sand. Then we sat down, side by side, watching the surfers
dance along the waves. Up and down and up and down—riding the high of a perfect surfing day.

“How’s Reece?” I ventured, twirling my forefinger in the sand.

Christopher didn’t look at me.

“He’s all right. Been
workin’ really hard on a perfume campaign. The commercial airs tonight.”

“Oh, really?” I was intrigued. And, of course, I’d watch it!

“Smack dab in the middle of your little vampire show,” Christopher replied.

I smiled.
I would definitely watch it. “He’s really good at what he does.”

“Yep.”

I continued tracing hearts in the sand.

“How’s his social life?” I asked. I could
feel
Christopher’s grin.

“You mean, is he dating anyone?” he asked.

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. I hated when I did that: asking questions when I really didn’t want answers.

“He’s not seeing anyone.”

I exhaled a little too loudly.

“
He misses you,” Christopher added. “I think he keeps hoping you’ll call.”

I shook my head. “I messed it all up. I let him go. He wouldn’t want to hear from me.”

“How do you know that unless you call him?”

“I’m embarrassed.
It’s been, like, four months since we’ve talked. I wouldn’t even know what to say to him.”

“
Seriously, Bailey? How about that you love him.”

I grunted.

“You obviously still love him, or else you wouldn’t ask me about him every time I see you,” Christopher pointed out.

“I do love him,” I said softly. “Very much. But it’s not fair for me to ask him to be with me, Chris. I’m fucked up. No one should have to deal with that.”

“Bailey, we’re all fucked up to a certain extent. Okay? You act like you some lunatic.”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not. You’re a girl who likes to put her shit in order. I can think of a lot worse things. And anyway, weren’t you the one telling me a month ago how much better you’re getting?”

“Yeah, until another disaster strikes,” I muttered.

“That’s life, girl! It’s gonna happen! You can’t control everything, Bailey. You gonna hurt again. You gonna go through another bad time. That’s inevitable. Doesn’t mean you’re not worth loving. And you found a man who was willing to help you through those bad times. Why’d you push him away?”

“I
don’t know.”

“You can’t play victim here when you ordered him out.”

“I was trying to save him a lifetime of heartache,” I argued.

“You let
him
decide what he wants to do with his life, Bailey. You don’t get to make that decision. If the man wanna love you, let him love you!”

I buried my face in my hands. There were no tears, just a healthy dose of embarrassment.
And regret.

“I really fucked up.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

Christopher was quiet for a second.

“Well, go find your answer, B. She
’s out there waiting,” he said, pointing to the water.

I hadn’t let go all morning. Not really. I was too concerned with beating Christopher for most waves ridden. I was focused on the competition instead of nurturing my heart. Finding answers. Discovering how to apologize and handle the rejection if it came. I had to consider it, though it made my stomach churn. Apologies are not automatic fresh starts. Reece could very well accept my apology and then close the door gently in my face.

“Go on,” Christopher urged.

“You’ll wait for me?” I asked.

“I’ll wait for you.”

I stood up and hugged my board tight
to my side. I walked to the shore and studied the waves while bubbly surf water lapped my feet.

“You’re bigger. You’re stronger
. And I give you mad props,” I said softly. “And . . .”

There had never been an “and” in the history of my surfing. I made three statements. That’s what I did. That was the routine. But now I knew everything had to change, to shift just a little, if I wanted the happiness returned to my life. If I wanted Reece returned to me.

“And I need your help,” I whispered.

I walked in waist deep and hopped on my board. I pumped my arms ha
rd, searching for the meaning to my inheritance—a condition that left me alone for so many years because compulsion always superseded love. I wanted to really challenge it this time. When I first began my relationship with Reece, I gave up the urges because he distracted me. He acted as the emollient to my anxiety. The problem was that I never tried to battle it on my own. I just used him, and when he stopped working after my father died, I hated him for it.

I paddled fa
rther out to sea and waited. The wave was building hard and high. She’d be a perfect one to ride.

Wait for it. Wait . . . for . . . it . . .

I caught her. The Atlantic wanted me to. She had something important to tell me, and I leaned into her, listening closely to her waves of wisdom.

“You decide,” she whispered over the hissing swirl. “You decide.”

“Decide what?!” I cried.

“You decide,” she repeated, pushing me closer and closer to shore. I wasn’t ready to leave her. I needed to hear the rest of the message.

“Don’t go!” I called as I fell off my board into the surf.

I got up and paddled back out.
I caught another wave. She whispered the next part, and I could barely hear it over the rush of water.

“It’s not up to them,” she
said. “It’s up to you.”

I knew she meant the managing of my OCD. I knew because Dr. Gordon had been drilling it into my skull for the past six months. I knew now that I had power over my urges—real power—and I realized it on the morning I awoke and the battling voices had vanished from my head.
It wasn’t overnight, but it happened. No more voices. Just the quiet stillness of maybe. Maybe I didn’t have to be alone. Maybe there was a future.

If I ha
d the power to finally overcome my OCD—to manage it in healthy ways—then surely that meant I had the power to put other pieces of my life back together. Reece. Getting Reece back. It wasn’t up to him, she whispered in my ear. It was up to me. I had to stop sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I had to stop living in the fear that he would reject me. I had to try. To really try!

I walked back to Christopher, and he pointed out my silly grin.

“Well, someone must have received a pretty awesome revelation,” he said as we headed for our cars.

“I did,” I replied.

“And can you share?”

“If you promise not to tell,” I said.

“My lips are sealed,” he promised.

I stopped short and turned to him.

“I’m gonna ask Reece to marry me.”

***

I thought if I watched Reece’s commercial, it would act as a pre-game energizer—pump up my adrenaline for the big show. Perhaps the most important show of my life. I planned to go to him tomorrow and ask for forgiveness. Ask him to be mine.

I pulled Poppy onto my lap and
snuggled her against her wishes. She’d softened only a little over the last few months when she realized holding a grudge would be futile. It wouldn’t bring back her daddy. So then the grudge turned into a depression, and she was only just now getting better. Still, I knew as I cuddled her and kissed her snowy head that she’d rather have her daddy. I picked her out, but Reece became her favorite.

“You
wanna watch some TV?” I asked her.

She turned her face.

“I love you even though you hate my guts,” I said, lips pressed to her cotton ear. “I’m gonna make it right. I promise.”

I pressed
POWER
on the remote and settled in for a night of vampires, blood, broken promises, and Reece’s perfume campaign. Every time the show went to commercial, my heart leapt into my throat. And after several commercial breaks, I was on edge. I felt like the girl who hadn’t seen her boyfriend in months—the one who went away to college—and she was nervous to see him during fall break, just like she’d felt on their first date. Excited. Hopeful. I’d gone months with no Reece, and the thought of seeing his commercial—that creative part of him—well, it was simply that: The thought of him. The very thought of him.

Poppy wriggl
ed out of my arms. She had enough of my racing pulse and the nervous heat emitting from my body. She jumped off the couch and stretched out on the floor, panting lightly. I tested my underarm.

“Dear Lord,” I wh
ispered, fingering my moist pit. “That’s disgusting.”

And then I fell silent as I appeared on the TV screen. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. I was there, dressed in red pants and a little blouse with cherries all over. My dark hair whipped about in the breeze as I ran, looking behind me every so often. Smiling and laughing.

“Catch me!” I squealed and raced ahead, weaving in and out of pedestrians on the crowded sidewalk. Busy. Loud. Smoky grayscale city. The only color was my pants and the cherries on my shirt. They disappeared then reappeared. In and out. Left to right and back again. A flash of red. Muted color. And another flash. Legs moving faster.

“Catch me!” I cried.

I giggled and ran on, turning my head, surprise in my eyes as he narrowed the gap, coming faster, camera bobbing with the messy nature of a documentary film. Like I was meant to see it through his eyes. The man trying to keep up. The man who loved me and wouldn’t let me slip away.

“Catch me!” I called, rounding the corner.

The camera turned, jolted and froze—a freeze frame on my serious face. Up close. Too intimate. Freckles and laugh lines and strands of hair in my eyes.

“Catch me. Keep me,” I
whispered, and the camera panned back, revealing my pursuer. He looked like Reece, and he set his mouth on mine. A flag in the ground. A claim. The camera zoomed in. Just our mouths. Teeth sinking into soft, fleshy lips.

I barely heard the ending: “‘Catch,’ the
new fragrance from Pop Art Perfume.”

The tears in my eyes distorted the screen, and a blaring potato chip commercial
threatened to distract me. I needed to think. To think to think to think. I turned off the TV and sat in stunned silence. It was too easy to convince myself I’d made it up. Many girls are short. Many girls have long brown hair. Many girls wear red pants and blouses with cherries on them. Many girls . . .

The doorbell rang. I jumped. Poppy hopped up and barked
her brains out. I assumed it was Soledad. She came over at night sometimes just to check on me. I couldn’t make her understand that ringing my doorbell at ten at night was not comforting. It didn’t make me feel safe. It scared the shit out of me.

The
front door was solid. I could only peer out the living room window, and even then, I knew I wouldn’t be able to see who stood on my stoop.

“Honey,
I’ll be right back!” I called, and then added reluctantly through the door, “Who is it?”

“It . . .
It’s Reece,” he said. I could hear the shock underlying his words. He thought there was another man in my house! I ripped open the door.

“Reece!”

“I . . . I thought . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Is this a bad time? You sounded like you’re busy.”

“No
no! I’m not!” I cried. I grabbed his forearm and pulled him inside.