I’m inside the new pop-up shop for Bed in a Box, surrounded by a full camera crew of eight, shooting a piece for a new mattress that splits down the middle to individualize the comfort level. The “ask” in PR terms is six Instastories, but the firm doesn’t want me to shoot them myself so they’ve hired a film crew instead. So as the mattress guy explains how the mattress works, the trio of assistants bustle around me, setting up lighting and testing out the best angles to shoot. Then they hand me the script, which I memorize. What I’m about to say isn’t even true, but I remind myself they’re paying me a lot of money to do this, and that I’m basically an actress. And so I ask myself, What would Reese Witherspoon do? (The answer: Reese Witherspoon would not take on this bad commercial job.) Years ago, I loved sharing new finds with followers on Instagram. It felt like a way to connect with people outside my core friend group who shared my interests. It came at the right time, too, as most of my friends were starting to have kids, and I was feeling disconnected from them.
“Hi guys,” I say to the camera with a wave. “As many of you know, I broke up with my boyfriend last year and now I live on my own. When I was looking for a new bed, the first brand I thought of was Bed in a Box. I love the convenience. All I had to do was order the mattress online and it arrived”—I snap my fingers—“just like that. I didn’t have to worry about delivery or set up. If you’re a single woman, you know what I mean. Now Bed in a Box has taken things to the next level by letting you customize both sides of your mattress. So if you and your partner are sleeping in separate rooms because you can’t stand to sleep together, this may be for you. I’m not saying it would’ve saved my relationship, but who knows, it might save yours.”
I cringe inwardly as the publicists clap and tell me how great I’m doing. I’m asked to repeat my lines another dozen or so times, just to make sure we’ve got the authenticity right. And then we move on to five different variations. I talk about how, with my steamy sex life (in not so many words), it’s nice to sleep on a bed I love, and how I don’t need a man to help me move furniture.
It’s after two when we wrap, and as part of my contract, I get to keep the mattress.
“Do you have someone to help you get this into your car?” the publicist asks as the camera crew packs away their equipment.
“Oh, they’re not delivering it? Isn’t that part of the appeal of a Bed in a Box purchase?” I don’t have a car. I don’t even have a driver’s license. But that’s not something I proudly reveal.
“But it’s out of the box,” she says, rooting around in her purse and then pulling out her phone. She looks at it, as though focusing on our conversation is too boring to keep her undivided attention.
“Well, can they put it back in the box? And then deliver it?” The irony that I’m asking for help with the very product I just finished raving about because it doesn’t require a man to move it is not lost on me.
She shakes her head and leans closer. “That’s the thing,” she whispers. “They come out of the box, but they don’t go back in.” She holds up her phone. “I’ve got to take this. Good luck with the mattress!”
The mattress weighs a ton. I pull it through the door and lean it up against the brick wall of the store then pull out my phone. When the Uber driver arrives with his SUV ten minutes later he says he won’t take the mattress. “Liability reasons,” he says. He drives off and I’m standing with my back against the mattress trying to decide what to do when I hear a voice beside me.
“Don’t tell me you gave up the glamorous Instagram life to sell mattresses on the side of the road.”
I swivel, preparing to give my best death glare to a stranger and find myself looking right into Will MacGregor’s green eyes. My breath catches. Of the more than four million people in the city, I have to run into him?
I roll my eyes. “No, I did not,” I huff, feeling embarrassed.
“Looks like you could use some help.”
Being out of alternatives, I nod. “Yes. Please.”
“You got it.” He lifts up the bottom end of the mattress and I struggle to hold on to the other end. We make our way down the sidewalk and stop at a red light.
“Where’s your car?” I puff.
“Two more blocks. You can do it.”
Of course I can do it. I hoist my side higher. When we approach a black pickup truck Will takes hold of the mattress, and heaves it into the back of the truck on his own.
“You can just drop me off, I’ll get the concierge to help me bring it up,” I say as we drive to my place. “I’m sure you have things to do. Or your daughter to pick up.” This is more a reminder for myself than for him. Don’t get involved, Kit.
“Are you OK?” he asks, glancing over at me.
I look out the window. “Yep.”
He pulls up in front of my building and I hop out and go around to the back. “I’ll climb in and help lift it out to you?” I say, pulling down the back flap on the cab.
I lift the mattress, noticing some slabs of wood underneath.
“Those are um…I was just getting rid of stuff in the basement and found these old shelves I wasn’t using, and I threw them in the back of my truck just for…next time I uh…anyway, I thought, if you wanted them…” His face is flushed. Did he plan to bring these over to me? “I know you said you could do it yourself.”
“Well, since they’re right here…” I smile, my eyes meeting his.
“Great. I’ll bring them in after we get the mattress up.” We maneuver the mattress through the double doors and then, after a five-minute debate with Ivan the Grumpy Concierge about not having booked the service elevator, we get the mattress up to the thirty-ninth floor. Then Will goes back down for the bookshelves and I do a quick run around the apartment to tidy up, but then study my armful of things and quickly toss everything about again. Why am I trying to impress him? It’s better if he thinks I’m a slob.
Will returns with the bookshelves and looks around. “Did you redo your apartment?”
I fan my hand. “It’s my June look. I call it my White Period.”
“Wait a sec. You bought an entire new set of furniture? For June? Maybe I should be rethinking my career.”
“Rented,” I say. I explain the campaign I have with Stay-a-While. In exchange for Instagram promotion, I have a free subscription, which means I can swap out my furniture as many times as I want for the next year.
“Why would anyone want to keep changing their furniture?” Will asks, putting the shelves down by the blank wall. “Furniture is supposed to make you feel at home. Comfortable, comforted. It’s supposed to be familiar. Do you have a cordless drill, by chance?”
“Actually, yes,” I say, going to the closet and grabbing the cordless drill bag. I hand it to Will, who looks surprised.
“I was kidding, you know.”
“And I told you I could do it myself.”
Will opens the bag and I look around the cold, white space. Comfortable is not an adjective I would use to describe my apartment at this moment. “You know, I do it—the furniture—for the illusion. So it looks like I have a bigger place,” I say. Will just stares at me so I explain. “A lot of my influencer competition is women who live in sprawling homes in the Midwest. On Instagram, no one considers that rent on a one-bedroom apartment can be as much as a mortgage on a four-thousand-square-foot home in the ’burbs.”
Will just sort of shakes his head, then says, “OK. But why would a normal person rent furniture?”
So I give him the spiel about trying out different styles before committing to costly renovations. How it’s great for roommates and college students. And also for short-term rental units. Even if I wasn’t being paid, I would still think it’s a great business model.
“Would they take a couch back if it was stained with markers and ketchup? Because this might be the solution to all my problems.” Will laughs. I don’t. I’m not going to pretend that I think it’s so cute that he’s got a daughter who makes a mess when I’m still bitter.
He finishes screwing hooks into the studs in the wall and bends down to lift up the first shelf, then slides it onto the hooks. He makes sure it’s secure, then takes a step back. “What do you think?”
The shelf actually looks great, and I’m excited to put books on it. “Thanks,” I say as he starts to secure hooks for the second shelf.
“You know this was all my plan to make sure you get your books out of your oven. The last thing I want is a hot firefighter showing up here and taking my place.”
My face heats up and I turn to the fridge and open it, letting the cool air blast onto my skin. “You want some water?”
He positions the second shelf on the hooks, then puts the drill back in the bag and zips it closed. “Sure.”
I pour him a glass and hand it to him. He’s wiping the sweat off his forehead with his shirt, his taut stomach showing.
“You should go before you get a ticket. I can handle the rest from here.”
He smirks. “Oh, come on. Let me help you get the mattresses swapped out.” And so we go into my bedroom and take the sheets off my bed, and lift the old mattress off. “More books, huh? I’m not sure why I’m surprised,” Will says, looking through the slats of the bed frame.
“Yep. Mysteries.”
“What do you want to do with this?” he asks, tapping my old mattress.
“I think we can just take it to the dumpster out back.”
“Great. Cuz it looks pretty uncomfortable.”
“Oh, and you’re a mattress expert?” I tease, walking out of my bedroom to get the new mattress.
“I like to think so,” he calls after me. “But you know what kind of mattress I’ve never tried?” I grab the new mattress by one end, turning to face Will, who’s grinning at me. “A Bed in a Box mattress.” We bring it into the bedroom and position it onto my bed frame. Then he leaps across the mattress so he’s on the same side as me. A line of perspiration has formed above his upper lip, and all I want to do is taste the salt. He moves closer but I force myself to put my hand on his chest. “Uh-uh. You have to go,” I say.
“Playing hard to get? I like it.” He takes a step closer, but I hold him back more firmly.
“Really. I can’t…” I know I should just tell him. Tell him why it would never work out between us. He’s going to find out eventually, if we’re forced to keep working together. Even though he doesn’t have social media, it’s surprising he hasn’t done a search on me and seen it all—my book, my website, the pages and pages of search results that show me being quoted about being child-free. But he hasn’t, I guess. And I don’t bring it up because people who have kids get all weird when they learn what I do, and we’re just cooking food—nothing more. He doesn’t need to know about the rest. And so I turn, heading out of the bedroom. “I’ve got—I’ve got this thing in twenty minutes. You have to leave.”