He was attentive and wonderful, so I closed my eyes atallthe inches he was lacking.
Until yesterday. Yesterday, when I came back to his office late in the evening because I forgot my plans on his table, only to find he already had company on the very same table. Company being a half-naked woman. When I asked what had happened, he told me he was done with me and that I needed to leave the key to his place on the table when I went.
I was gutted and still processing everything when Archie called. I had some hesitations about the trip to Maine, but now I have nothing to lose. Nothing. My lease is up in a few months, and I can go and check out the place and see if I can do anything.
Shit. Shitty shit!I can’t do anything—I just got fired from one of the largest design companies in the city! I don’t have my own contractors or suppliers. They all belong to Randy.
I grab the pillow from the bed, burying my face in it as I let out all my rage. I’m angry with myself and furious with that asshole. How could I be one of those idiots who slept with their boss? I groan and throw the pillow away.
Padding across the floor to the small kitchen table, I grab the pizza and eat half of it without even noticing. Screw that, I’m going to eat as many carbs as I can handle right now—I deserve it.
* * *
A month went by. I gained eight pounds, three painful pimples, and zero job prospects. Since I moved to New York, I’ve battled with my weight, sweating my ass off at the gym six days a week and starving myself on no-calorie salads just so I can fit in with the models on the billboards, convincing myself that people wouldn’t trust my brand if I wasn’t skinny and perfect. Now I ask myself, what for? Life is too short, and recent events just proved it. Besides that, you can be perfect without being skinny. I was the only one limiting myself to hungry misery.
For the past week, I’ve been spending my dwindling dollars on new clothes to fit this new curvaceous body of mine. To be honest, doing so made me happy, which not much has been able to do in the current circumstances, so I embraced the demise of my bank account, attempting not to think about my future too hard. It’s too painful and miserable.
As for my plans to go to Maine—they had to be adjusted. Archie got shot, and he’s still recovering from his wounds. Thank God. When Alicia called me a couple of weeks ago and explained the situation, I cried for two days straight. Alicia also mentioned everyone was sure the wounds were fatal, and Leila was the only one who seemed sure he would make it. An amazing soul was almost taken from us much too soon.
Then Alicia called me later and let me know that he was awake and recovering, and I celebrated with the cheesiest pizza and a huge can of the sweetest soda I could find.
Life is good.
Well, not really.
My lease is up soon. Too soon. With recent events, I don’t think Archie will want to start the project anytime soon since he’ll be focusing on his recovery. And if he does want to start the project, I’ll be the first to talk him out of it—building a house is a very stressful project for a homeowner, and stress is the last thing he and Leila need right now.
I tried sending resumes and making phone calls but couldn’t get past a receptionist anywhere. It leads me to believe that I am indeed blacklisted in the fine New York community of designers. That’s what a name from old money can do. If I want to afford to live in this city, two hours from Manhattan if I’m lucky, I need to go back to waitressing—that’s what I was doing when I moved here. Or I can always go back to my small town.
I shudder at the thought—no, thank you. My own small town never treated me well, with its judgmental assholes and the nasty rumors they like to spread. And the sheriff, who always thought I was a thief when anything went missing and put me in the back of his cruiser. And my dad, who always picked me up from the station with the silent treatment. And my mom, who always asked the universe where she went wrong raising me that I turned out to be so ungrateful and put shame on the family name. I’ve been called a whore, a thief, a weirdo (a very nasty cursing word in our small town, maybe even worse than a thief), and many more.
I shudder again—nope, I’m staying and clawing my way back to normal life.
I look around my wonderful apartment. I’ve poured all my heart and soul into decorating this studio and was saving up for a down payment but never got enough.
And now I have to leave this place I’ve been calling home for three years because some asshole has a small dick that he can’t keep in his pants.
I want to say that I miss him, but I don’t. I think I always knew he wasn’t for me long-term, which, I admit, makes me extra stupid for involving myself with him in the first place. But I’ve been so scared of staying alone I clung to him with all my might. I had a high school sweetheart who was a real emo kid, and then I got a scholarship and moved to college. I was working and studying, trying to get myself through a tough five years, so I barely had time to breathe, let alone have a boyfriend.
It was such a lonely chapter of my life. Without my big, certifiably insane, but still family by my side and my boyfriend since eighth grade, life there wasn’t easy. Then I finished college, got my one suitcase together, bought a bus ticket, and moved to the Big Apple. The situation hadn’t changed for me—I had to work many, many hours, just like everyone else in this city.
And then I met Randy, thinking I hit the jackpot in the sweet boyfriend department. But a month ago, he was ‘kind’ enough to pull that pink veil away from my eyes. Bless his damned soul.
I pad to the kitchen and peek inside the fridge and find nothing. Just a carton of almond milk and expired orange juice. Pizza it is.
Right when I’m about to call the pizza place around the corner who already knows my order by heart, my phone rings.
“Hey, Archie!” I greet him cheerfully, sincerely happy that he’s well enough to make calls. “I’m so happy you’re okay!”
“Yeah,”he chuckles,“I’m actually really good. How are you?”
“I’m good. Real good!” I chirp happily.
Probably too happily because after a short pause, he asks again,“Are you sure? You sound… off.”
“Nope, I’m always good.” I’m a few seconds short of jumping and clapping my hands. “You know me.”
“Right,”he mumbles, clearly not believing me. “You’ll let me know if something is bothering you?”His voice drops, and he suddenly sounds threatening, but I’m not scared—I know he’s not mad at me.“Or someone.”
