Monday at the office, I’m happily shuffling through all the amazing photos Adam sent me when my personal inbox flashes on the computer screen.
Transfixed, I stare at the sender’s name and subject for a few seconds.
Date: Mon, May 1 at 9:18 AM
From: gerard.wakefield@aol.com
To: blair.walker@yahoo.com
Subject: Our Breakup
I haven’t heard from the ex since spaghetti night. What does he want? Despite myself, my pulse quickens. I let the mouse hover over the subject line without actually opening the email. What will the text say? What do I want it to say? Do I want it to be a groveling apology and desperate plea for me to take him back? Sure. But why? Is it only pride or am I kidding myself thinking I could get over a three-year story in less than a month?
After some serious soul-searching, I’m ready to read what Gerard has to say. Yes, I want him to apologize for cheating on me with his secretary. But, no, I don’t want Gerard back. Our breakup, however un-classy it was on both our parts, was the right call.
One click and the full message appears on the screen. With every passing line I read, bile swells in my throat, and by the end, I’m full of acid and anger. To think that for a second I even considered taking him back!
When I hit reply and start playing whack-a-mole with my keyboard, Indira stops her work and turns to stare at me.
“What’s the matter?” she asks. “If you keep batting the keys like that your fingertips will bruise.”
“The matter,” I hiss, whacking along, “is that I wasted the last three years of my life dating an imbecile—”
“Imbecile?” Indira arches her brows. “Are you classy even when you swear?”
I finish my reply and hit the send button with satisfied ferocity.
Indira studies me a little longer and says, “Repeat after me. My ex-boyfriend is a dickhead.”
“Is that the best insult you can muster?”
“I agree, we can do better. How about—”
My phone rings, interrupting her.
“It’s him,” I say.
I press a button to silence the ringtone.
“Care to tell me what happened?”
“The imbecile sent me an email offering not to sue me for throwing a plate of spaghetti on his dick-head if I sign a confidentiality agreement about his affair. He basically wants me to sign a document that says it’s okay for him to keep screwing his secretary.”
“Mmm.” Indira purses her lips. “And what did you reply?”
“I thanked him for providing written proof of his misconduct at work in case the senior partners at his firm needed it on paper. And I told him he can expect news from my lawyer as I’m the one suing him for emotional damages.”
Indira makes a fist and swirls her arm in the air in circles. “Go, girl. Finally, the redhead in you comes out!”
When the phone rings again, I’m about to put it permanently to silent but Indira stops me.
“Let me handle him.” She picks up the phone, frowning at the caller ID. “Edward Cullen? What’s his real name?”
I have this little habit of naming my contacts after book or movie characters, and I still haven’t updated Gerard’s to a more appropriate one.
“Right, I need to change that. Real name’s Gerard.”
“What a sorry-ass name. Surname?”
“Wakefield.”
Indira makes a gagging face and answers. “Blair Walker’s phone.”
I can hear Gerard’s voice even if the phone’s not on speaker. “Hello, who is this?”
“Hello, Mr. Wakefield. This is Indira Singh, Miss Walker’s attorney.”
“She hired an attorney? What’s the name of your firm? Is this for real?”
“Given the considerable amount of emotional distress you caused my client, Miss Walker intends to pursue legal action against you. We should probably thank you for sending a written confession of your immoral conduct, Mr. Wakefield. It couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Blair is pressing charges against me? After what she did?” Gerard is yelling now. I imagine his face red and contorted with rage as he spits into the phone, “Should I remind you she’s the one who threw a bowl of scorching pasta over my head? Are you out of your mind? What kind of lawyer are y—”
“As I’m sure you’re aware, I can’t discuss any details of the proceedings with the counterpart. You can expect to hear from us soon. Have a good day.” Indira ends the call and gives me the phone back. “Let the vermin squirm in fear for a little longer.”
Our eyes meet, and we collapse in a fit of laughter. We stop, try to remain serious, only to burst out worse than before. It takes Richard passing by and asking us what’s so funny for me to sober up. I give Indira a warning stare. I’d rather the boss didn’t know I’m so lame my ex sent me a confidentiality agreement about his affair.
Indira shrugs. “Girl stuff.”
I shrug as well, making an innocent face.
Richard shakes his head and moves along. “I suppose I don’t want to know.”
“Sage, boss,” Indira calls after him.
We share another secretive smile and get back to our respective jobs.
Since my center of gravity shifted to Brooklyn, this is the first time I’m glad for the forced change of scenery.
I can’t help but think my old colleagues would’ve been more snickering than supportive about my breakup with Gerard. Everything at Évoque was so competitive. All people thought about was who had the best job, clothes, boyfriend, house, vacations. No one would’ve had my back the way Indira did today. The bitches would’ve probably been happy my perfect lawyer boyfriend had ditched me. At Inceptor, I feel part of a family.
***
When the first editorial photo shoot of Saskia goes live, it’s an instant hit. In its first week, it gathers so many page views that I’m sure I’ll be able to pay rent this month. That five-percent commission didn’t turn out to be so bad after all. Anyway, one success—however big—doesn’t mean I can rest on my laurels.
“Do we have the budget to rent a car?” I ask Indira.
“Honey”—she detaches her gaze from her screen to fix me with a look—“after your Saskia Landon stunt, you can ask for a Ferrari.”
“Thanks, but a compact for the day is plenty.”
“That will do, too. Where are you going?”
“Cherry Hill, New Jersey.”
“What for?”
“I want to convince a big makeup house to sponsor a regular feature. I convinced Adam’s wife—the photographer for Saskia’s shoot—to video blog for us. She’s a YouTube tutorials star, and she’s agreed to work with me. Now we’re only missing some cool products for her to vlog about.”
“When do you need the car?”
“Tomorrow. Please make the pickup time as early as possible and in Manhattan, near my house. The drive to New Jersey will take at least two hours.”
“All right.” Indira taps her keyboard. “You have a Hyundai Elantra booked for tomorrow morning at seven-thirty. Return time is the same the next day.” She prints a page and gives it to me.
The rental office address is just a block from my house. “What time do they close in the evening?”
She checks the screen. “Six.”
“Hopefully I’ll be able to return it the same day. It would cost more to park the car overnight than to rent it.”
“The joys of living in Manhattan,” Indira replies.
***
As expected, the drive out of New York is a nightmare. But having left early, I manage to get to my before-lunch appointment in time. Brenda, my contact from my old job, welcomes me into her office with a tight smile.
Still, coming off from my Saskia Landon success, I’m confident. I finally have the validation my fashion pages needed. Now I need to secure the same big-brand recognition for the beauty section.
The meeting doesn’t last long. Skeptical as Brenda might have been, I came with my marketing guns loaded. Having Tracy Bell as the beauty vlogger and mentioning Saskia is enough to lock in a weekly supply of products for Tracy to test, review, and give away. Brenda doesn’t agree on any extra paid advertisement, but that was only a long shot I had to try. All in all, I get to go home satisfied.
When I stop to fill the tank two hours later, my body is a muscle-cramping mess. I just crossed over into Manhattan, and I can’t wait to give this metal box back. I use every movement getting out of the car to stretch a needy muscle, anticipating the yoga workout I’ve been planning in my head for the entire return drive.
It takes me a minute to locate the button to release the gasoline cover. Why would they hide it almost under the driver seat? As I round the car, I catch the eye of a guy refueling his bike at the next pump. He’s clearly giving me a sexist woman-at-the-wheel stare. Chin up, I ignore him and move along with my business.
As I’m struggling to lock the hose, something cold and moist touches my naked calf. I jerk back and yell in surprise. Unfortunately, I yank the hose away from the tank as well, spilling gasoline all over the station and my legs. I release the handle and try to assess the damage. My skirt is soaked and I’ve spilled gasoline on the side of the car and… on the dog at my feet.
“Hello. Who are you?”
The small animal yelps pityingly and sniffs my calf again. I put the hose back into the tank and kneel down. The dog, more of a puppy actually, tries to jump in my lap. “Oh, look at you. Are you alone?”
I get another cry for an answer. My heart breaks. The pup looks like a golden retriever with more of a dirty brown fur and a longer snout. He must be a mutt. Apparently an abandoned mutt.
“You smell awful.” He must have even before my gasoline shower seeing how dirty he is. I pat his head all the same and he waggles his tail happily in response. “Oh, I see what you’re trying to do. Forget it; I can’t have a pet.” As if in protest, the dog sits on my feet. Is he trying to prevent me from leaving? Maybe the puppy isn’t as abandoned as he looks. What if it the gasoline alone got him dirty? He might be lost. But he has no collar or tag.
Let’s finish with the gas, and then I’ll see.
When the tank is full, I go inside the convenience store to pay. Someone there may know whose dog he is. But as soon as I step a foot inside, the clerk says, “Hey, miss, you can’t bring your dog in here.”
Startled by the remark, I lower my gaze. The pup has followed me inside.
“This is not my dog. Actually, I wanted to ask you if you knew who he belonged to.”
“Are you sure it ain’t yours?” The man looks suspiciously at my feet where the puppy has stopped next to me, sitting down as if trained to do so.
“Yes. I was filling the tank, and he came out of nowhere.”
“Well, if it ain’t yours, I’ll have to call pest control.”
“Pest control? He’s no pest he’s just an abandoned puppy.”
“Sorry, but I can’t have no stray dogs in my station.”
“I’m sure there’s a better way to solve the problem.”
“If you’re so worried about the fur ball, why don’t you take it?”
“I can’t keep a dog.”
This statement earns me a desperate, pleading howl from the little mutt.
“What?” I lower my gaze to him again. “You speak English?”
I get a subdued bark as a reply.
“Listen, miss, if you ain’t taking the dog, I’m calling pest control or animal control or whatever you like to call it.”
“All right, all right,” I say impulsively. “Tell me how much it is for the gas, and I’ll deal with the puppy.”
“Thirty-nine dollars.”
I give him my card. “Wait. Do you sell garbage bags?”
“Third aisle behind you.”
I grab an eighty pack of perfumed ones, pay, and exit. Mr. Mutt walks at my heel again.
Back to the car, I kneel down next to the puppy.
“Just to be clear, this is a temporary arrangement,” I tell him. I swear the dog smiles at me. “There’s no way I can keep you in my tiny Manhattan apartment. Understood?”
I get two enthusiastic barks back.
I open the trunk, remove the security shade cover, and line the inside and the rear of the backseats with garbage bags.
“All right.” I pat the bumper twice. “Up.”
Mr. Mutt gives me another excited bark and jumps in.
“Please be good while I figure out where to take you.”
He starts whining again.
Since my skirt is still soaked in gasoline, I line the driver seat with another garbage bag and search for a dog shelter on my phone. There’s one not too far from my apartment. I copy the address in the map app and pull out of the gas station.
Less than a mile from the shelter, blue and red lights appear in the rearview mirror. The police must be trying to pull someone over. I keep driving, being extra careful to avoid any infraction, but the flashing lights stay with me. I check the left lane for suspicious-looking cars, but it’s empty.
Those flashing lights are making me irrationally nervous, so I turn right even if the navigator is telling me to go straight. But I’m out of luck, the police car turns right after me, and not just that, they flash their headlights twice and turn on the siren.
Crap, they were following me. I pull over and watch the side view mirror as a police officer ominously approaches.