I’m lying in bed, just about to fall asleep, when my computer chimes. I recognize the chirping sound as a Twitter message. The only person who ever sends me private messages on Twitter is Heath, but he only left a half hour ago and it takes an hour to get back to San Pedro County, so he would still be on the freeway.
I click on the icon and bring up the app. When I click on the message, a picture instantly comes up. It’s from Heath’s account, but the photo isn’t of him. It’s of the Latina girl from the bar tonight. In the photo she’s blowing a kiss to the camera in front of the bar. Corbin is in the background serving someone a drink. I know it’s from tonight because I recognize several people who were there.
Another message pops us right after the first. It says: Look who got him in the end. He’s desperate to fuck me. Have a good night. I know I will.
I have to sit down because if I don’t I might throw up. My breathing starts to become erratic and all sense of reason goes out the window. My heart punches so ferociously at my ribcage that I can feel it pulsing in the back of my eyes, to the point where my vision blurs. I start to jab at my computer keys.
Me: Enjoy my sloppy seconds, bitch.
I look up from the blinding computer screen and stare at the wall. He went back. And now he’s with her. I’m so stupid. I actually believed him when he said he had to be to work the next day.
I’m shaking with rage and not thinking straight when I pick up my phone and dial his number.
He doesn’t answer. I try a second time and again it goes to voicemail. The third time I dial, I decide to leave a message. But instead of going to voicemail, someone answers.
“Hello?” says a woman’s sultry voice on the other end of the line.
“Put Heath on the phone.” My anger gives my voice sharp edges.
The woman makes giggling, mewling sounds on the other end before saying, “Sorry, Heath can’t talk right now. His mouth is a little busy.”
I hang up and throw my phone across the room. It shatters into pieces. I’m too pissed to care.
How could he be with me then go straight to her? Had they been flirting that entire time at the bar while I was there and I just didn’t notice it? Did he fuck me in that office just to get me off so he could send me home?
Questions scatter through my head in spinning fragments like debris during a hurricane. I can’t keep any of my thoughts straight. It’s all just questions only Heath can answer, but apparently his mouth is too busy to extend that courtesy.
A tear trickles down my cheek. I swat it away. Then more tears come. There are too many to brush off so I let them fall. Big deal. It’s not like there’s anyone here to see how pathetic I am for crying over someone I just met. So I just let it happen; wracking sobs, ugly crying, snotty nose and everything.
The next morning, I drag myself out of bed and go to work. My face is swollen from crying all night and my eyes burn. I didn’t bother to change out of the sweats I slept in. No makeup, hair unwashed. I’m quite the sight.
I’m like a zombie, hardly talking to anyone, mindlessly going through the motions, animated by muscle memory. All day Stephanie asks me what’s wrong and I tell her nothing, I’m just not feeling well. She knows me better than that and won’t let it go. So finally, during our lunch hour, I break down and tell her everything.
We sit in the women’s bathroom against the wall under a row of sinks. We work in an office full of men so there’s plenty of privacy.
“What a dick,” she says. “You should’ve called me. I would’ve gone to that bar and beat that bitch’s ass. I still carry my hockey stick in the trunk of my car.”
I want to smile, but my face stays the same wretched empty thing it’s been all day. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”
I shake my head, unable to completely wrap my head around the whole thing. “I can see him going to a bar and having sex with this women after me. Some guys are in it for the game. He’s young and hot and … whatever. But he just doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would let some random chick at a bar use his phone to torment another girl he’s sleeping with. Why would he do that? That kind of behavior is going to give him a bad reputation with women, and that’s not going to get him laid. No girl is going to tolerate being harassed by a side chick no matter how good the orgasms are.”
Stephanie pats me on the shoulder. “Maybe he wants two women fighting over him. Guys can be dicks like that.”
I sniff and wipe my nose with the wad of toilet paper in my hands. “Well, it’s not going to happen. If he wants her, he can have her, but I’m not going to wait around for my turn.”
She sighs. “Things will get better. Trust me. I’ve been through this same shit a million times. What you need is a distraction. Maybe you need a night with the janitor more than I do. Or maybe we can share.”
I look sideways at her.
“Just a thought,” she says.
“I don’t think I’m going to the Christmas party tonight,” I say. “I’m not up for it.”
“No, you’re not getting out of this one. You know Hank will never let that happen. He’ll hunt you down and shove his Christmas cheer so far down your throat that you’ll asphyxiate on it,” she says.
This is true. My boss never lets anyone get away with not attending his annual Christmas celebrations. The man is insane, high on yuletide and merriment. Once he even showed up at my apartment when I was recovering from a stomach virus and dragged me to the party. Nearly everyone who attended ended up calling in sick the next day because they were puking their guts out.
“You’re right,” I say. “A distraction will help. Even if it’s in the form of Christmas carols sung off-key and stale sugar cookies.”
“Someone spikes the eggnog every year, so you know it’ll be a good time,” Stephanie says.
“Okay, fine. I’ll go.”
8
I meet Stephanie in front of the hotel where the Christmas party is being held. It’s one of those five star places where one night in their cheapest room costs more than my monthly rent. There’s a beautiful display in the lobby with a massive tree decorated with powder blue and white ornaments, twinkling lights, and ribbon cascading down from the top. There is tinsel and garland strewn on every surface, reindeer made of glass, and candy canes made from crystal. The whole thing is a winter wonderland and captures those whimsical feelings the holidays gave me as a child.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I say.
“Let’s take a picture in front of it,” Stephanie suggests. “We look amazing too.”
“No pictures,” I say. Smiling feels like a chore right now.
“Come on. It’ll ma
ke you feel better. You are the ultimate vixen in that dress. You shouldn’t keep all that to yourself,” she says, making hand motions toward my body.
I decided to go with a silver mini dress with a low back and black stilettos, even though it’s a big risk with the slippery sidewalks. So far so good.
Heath ending up with that sexy Latina woman from the bar last night has depleted my self-esteem. My last chance at redemption is this dress and these heels. My boobs and legs are my best assets and this dress displays them perfectly without being slutty. At least I know the I.T. nerds at the office party will appreciate them.
“All right, one picture,” I say.
Stephanie finds a bellhop to take our picture in front of the tree. “Make sure to get her legs in the picture,” she says to him.
He nods, gaze sliding up my body, smiling his approval. “Of course.”
“Now smile,” Stephanie says to me. “Fake it till you make it.”
I do my best. When Stephanie gets her camera back from the bellhop and sees the picture of us, she squeals. “We look hot! This is going to be a great party this year. I can feel it.”
I hope so. All the different branches of the company will here, so it won’t be the same stiffs I see day in and day out, but still, it’s a computer logistics company whose techs spend 90% of their lives in their office running diagnostics and playing World of Warcraft. How fun can it be?
“What are you doing with your phone?” I ask, as she types away.
“Tagging you and sending it too all our social media.”
Fantastic. Another photo for the No-O file.
“Let’s get in there and get a drink before I change my mind,” I say.
The party isn’t half bad, actually. Hank liked his gift and the food is good. Last year it was an unfortunate potluck where everyone brought dishes. There were a whole lot of deviled eggs to the point where the entire room smelled like an outhouse. This year it’s catered, and there’s champagne. And, as always, the eggnog is spiked.