Rachel
On the day when my life goes off the rails, the first sign of trouble comes at 9:18 a.m. That’s when my boss comes into our shared office in the children’s department of the library and hands me a chocolate frosted donut and a cup of coffee.
I stare at her, confused, because Hettie has never brought me anything before. She’s a statuesque woman with corkscrew curls, a no-nonsense manner, and an iron hand. A good boss, but not a donut bringer.
She delivers the bad news quickly, like an experienced nurse giving a flu vaccine. I’ve been laid off, effective next month.
My position has been replaced city-wide by a kiosk equipped with artificial intelligence that can recommend books to patrons and read books out loud to children.
I stare at her with my mouth open. “Are you serious?”
She winces. “I’m afraid so.”
“Does it wipe their noses if they cry? Does it remind them to wash their hands after they use the bathroom? Can it shelf every book in the YA section without having to look up the series order?”
“I’m so, so sorry, Rachel.” Her face is soft with pity and apology. ”You’ve been amazing. The perfect employee, on every axis. You work hard, you’re good with the patrons, I can always count on you, everyone likes you. This has nothing to do with you. It’s all about money.”
“I’m sorry for snarking,” I tell her, because she looks just as miserable as I feel.
“We’ll miss you so much, Rachel,” she says helplessly.
Then she tells me to take the rest of my notice period as paid vacation and sends me home.
I’m not one of those people who has a ton of stuff to pack up. I leave behind the office supplies, because the library never has enough money for good pens or staplers to go around. I take my coffee mug, my water bottle, my lip balm, my photos, and the small sign that hangs over my desk.
“Stick to the Plan!” it says. And then, below, in smaller letters, “(First, make a plan.)”
Oh, God, this so does not go with the plan!
I toss the donut in the trash can—no appetite—and drive home in a blur of panic. I’ve never not had a job. From the time I was a little kid, I was a good girl: respectful, obedient, high-achieving. I’m good at being careful. I pay my bills early. I toe the line. I make plans. I had my first job lined up before I finished my library science program, part of my master plan:
1. 4.0 in high school
2. College
3. Grad school
4. Great apartment
5. The library job of my dream
6. Awesome boyfriend
7. Meet the parents
8. Get engaged
9. Get married
10. Have two point five kids (I can’t decide between two and three)
11. Live happily ever after
Getting laid off feels like getting a C on a test I studied really hard for. I can’t even bring myself to call my parents or my best friend Louisa, because even though I know I didn’t do anything wrong (“the perfect employee,” Hettie said), I still feel oddly ashamed.
Okay, I tell myself, as I drive around in circles near the Somerville apartment I share with my boyfriend, Werner (step six), looking for a parking space. I got laid off, and that sucks. But, tonight I will be able to check off step seven on the master plan. I am meeting my boyfriend, Werner’s, parents. And meeting the parents is the perfect stepping stone to step eight.
Werner’s and my one-year dating anniversary is just a few weeks from now, and I’ve been fantasizing that he’ll propose.
Candlelit dinner, champagne, a ring box, or, better yet, a ring atop a chocolate lava cake or a tiramisu… And Werner on one knee, eyes glittering with love, telling me that since the moment he first saw me at the college alumni event and crossed the room to talk to me, he’s known that this was where we were headed…
Then a nine-month engagement, a spring wedding, a year of getting to know each other as man and wife, and the two-point-five kiddos…
(I will make up my mind by then. I’m not planning to deal in fractional kiddos, I swear.)
The layoff is a minor setback, I tell myself. As a step in the plan, it isn’t even essential to the success of the next few steps.
Whereas meeting the parents is key. And—silver lining—the early dismissal today gives me plenty of time to finish cleaning the apartment and make a few pies. It’s only 10:22.
I slide my Prius into a skinny little parking space and walk the three blocks to the two-family where Werner and I live. As I unlock the door and let myself in, I can smell the roast I left simmering in the slow cooker. And the cleaning products I used this morning as I started the process of making everything perfect for the parent visit.
I take another step and trip over something, a pile of black fabric on the floor of the foyer, a tossed-aside heap.
Absentmindedly, I bend down and pick it up.
It’s a short, black skirt with a lacy hem. Pretty. Sexy.
My mind stops, like someone jammed a stick into the spokes of the hamster wheel.
I don’t wear skirts.
And then I hear the sounds. Two voices. One low, familiar, grunting, the other higher-pitched, whimpering.
My brain tries to provide any possible explanation except the obvious one. And part of me must not want to know the truth, because I start making up reasons I shouldn’t walk towards the sounds.
There might be an intruder in our apartment.
Werner might be doing something private he doesn’t want me to walk in on (by himself).
A dying animal somehow got into our bedroom?
Or it’s just the television.
Despite my brain’s attempt to save me from the truth, my feet carry me inexorably toward the bedroom door, past a woman’s blouse and Werner’s shirt, both discarded on the floor. By now, my denial is morphing into a slow-growing rage. I turn the knob. Push the door open.
I see Werner’s butt first. I recognize it, somehow, even though I’ve never seen it from this angle. I know what it’s doing, even though I never see it clenching and thrusting like that. We’re not the type of couple that uses mirrors or makes videos of ourselves. We have plain vanilla missionary sex under the covers, because that’s how we like it.
That’s how Werner said he likes it.
Right now, however, he is standing at the side of the bed, pounding into someone who is on all fours on his—our—bed.
“What the hell?”
That’s my voice. Which is remarkable for two reasons. One: I didn’t mean to speak. And two: I never swear.
Werner yanks himself free of the woman underneath him so fast I’m surprised he doesn’t break something. Which leaves me a totally different unwanted backside view—ugh.
It takes the owner of this view a little longer than Werner to realize what’s going on, but when she does, she gasps and grasps for anything she can find to cover herself. Even so, as she clutches Werner’s quilt to her body, tugging it off the bed, I catch the front view: lacy red lace-up teddy, breasts pushed up to her chin.
Is that thing crotchless? my mind demands, despite the urgency and absurdity of the situation.
I’ve never seen her before, which is a very slim relief.
“Get out,” I tell her, and, to her credit, she gets, grabbing her clothes as she goes. I can hear her beginning to cry as she removes herself.
I’m alone with Werner now. He’s desperately trying to get himself back into his tighty-whities. I guess it’s a survival instinct, covering up your parts when you’ve been caught. He’s red and breathless and saying my name, begging me.
“Rachel, please, it’s not what it looks like.”
“I don’t think that’s even possible.” A weird calm settles over me. If someone turns out not to be the man you thought he was, can you fall instantly out of love with him?
If someone disappoints you completely, do they lost their power to break your heart?
Or am I just in shock?
Much more likely. But I plan to take advantage of the numbness and clarity of mind while it lasts. “You were having sex with another woman in our bedroom. It’s exactly what it looks like.”
The bedroom I never quite stopped thinking of as his bedroom, my mind observes.
Stupid mind, shut up.
“Rachel, please, listen. You’re the one who’s meeting my parents tonight.”
“Oh, my God, is that supposed to help? You’ve just shown me your butt. Literally! The butt of a man who’d have sex with one woman on the same day another one is cooking for your parents!”
“Rachel, please. You’re the girl I want to marry.”
Those words stop me cold, for half a second. Because they’re the prize I coveted.
And then I come to my senses: Werner is not a prize.
He’s a total and complete loser who just did the lowest thing a man can do.
“Sure.” I barely recognize my voice. It is hard, cold, dark, cynical. “She’s just the girl you…”
But apparently I have used up my ration of curses this morning, and I don’t finish the sentence.
“Rachel, listen to me. If you leave because of this, I’ll never forgive myself. You’re my perfect woman.”
My perfect woman.
And what was it Hettie called me at work today, just before the town of Somerville replaced me with a kiosk? The perfect employee.
Perfect.
Perfect.
What horse pucky.
This being perfect thing?
It’s not working out for me.
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