Chapter 8
The under eye mask that is supposed to steal away evidence of my night of unrest slides down my cheek and plunks right into my oatmeal.
“It’s for my portfolio, Harry,” I explain through the phone, which is on speaker, lying flat on my tiny kitchen table. I pinch the eye mask out and chuck it into the trash, and scoop another spoonful of oatmeal, blowing on it while I absorb Harry’s lecture.
“I understand that you feel compelled to rush and create a portfolio, but you can always create a portfolio of paid work as you go. All of this unpaid work is not a good look,” he begins, dipping his hand into his bag of hateful reasons why he can shit on me.
“Not to mention, a waste of your time… and talent, babe, that’s all I’m saying,” he says, his voice all nasally and high, the way it gets when I do something he doesn't agree with. He’s nasally a lot, if I’m honest.
But– “hey, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me talented,” I say, basking in the millisecond of sweetness, in the fact that my boyfriend finally complimented me.
“Juliette, you know you’re talented. Don’t fish for compliments. That’s a touch dramatic.”
“I–” I start, ready to argue that I wasn’t fishing at all, but merely acknowledging the tiny little bone he just threw me.
As if I would fish. I learned my lesson in month one of dating Harry that if I want something, I need to outright ask, because hints don’t work.
“Can you ever just be nice to me?” I ask, dropping my spoon back into the bowl, bite uneaten.
“You know, you’re my boyfriend right? You know you aren’t my arch enemy, or my mother, or my father who needs to point out every mistake I make.
You know you’re supposed to build me up, right? You know this?”
Harry’s sigh bears the weight of the world, and he wants to insinuate that I’m dramatic?
“Once again, Juliette, hearing something true that you dislike doesn’t mean I’m a bad guy.
It means you’ve not been told the truth enough.
And the truth is, you don’t need to take all these unpaid jobs.
You shouldn’t, in fact. And as your boyfriend, I have to tell you what I really think. I’m sorry, Julie.”
No one calls me Julie. My nickname isn’t Julie. I’ve told him plenty of times.
“Did you just call me talented to balance out all the other criticisms?” I ask, pushing away from my kitchen table because I no longer have an appetite. “Harry,” I sigh, his name curdling on my tongue.
I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth, steadying myself for a moment to continue.
Gripping the edge of the sink with one hand, and my phone with the other, I slowly open my eyes.
The sun pours through the window, making itself seen amidst the usual fog, and I know it’s going to be a beautiful day in the city.
A beautiful day period because I’m meeting Ford.
“You know I didn’t. That’s asinine, Juliette.
You know I believe in your work,” he defends, stealing all my irritation to claim it as his own, though I have no clue why he would be irritated.
I called him with good news–I’m going to take some great photos for my portfolio today–and he managed to turn it into a failure and a lecture, his favorite cocktail.
“Okay, I need to jet. Good luck. Call me later.”
“Wait–” I interject before he hangs up.
He huffs. “What?”
Friday is usually the night of the week that we have a date, and I sleepover at his place. But yesterday Kat invited me to her place for cocktails to help her and Zen with the seating chart. “We’re going to have a rain check tonight. I’m helping Kat with the seating chart.”
“You going to come sleep over here after?” he asks, sounding disinterested.
I think of Ford, and how he knew what name my father was programmed under in my phone, the way he naturally called me sweetheart, and how he pumped me up, saying, “show people what you can do” instead of lecturing me on not earning money.
Tears sting my eyes. Things used to be good with Harry.
I thought this relationship may help me get over my silly infatuation with Kat’s dad.
But no. Months on, and he’s only gotten worse and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even like me most of the time.
Voice wobbly, I say, “In the future, I’d like the man who is going to put his penis inside of me to have like, a tiny bit of excitement in his voice when finding out whether or not I’m coming to his house. ”
Tears roll down my face, curling into my lips, salty and warm.
I’m seeing Ford today–the last ten or so years of my life have been fantasizing about this day.
Ford Mercer invited me and only me somewhere.
A kiss (or more) is usually involved in my fantasies, of course, but still–alone with Ford is a dream.
And, work related or not, it’s happening today. And I just want to enjoy it.
But I can’t.
Because Dick and Balls is getting the best of me right now.
“You’re in quite the mood this morning, aren’t you?” He uses this mock nice voice to make a point that he doesn’t mean it, that he’s forcing it. “I’m always excited to see you, Juliette, but I’m trying to get out the door. Forgive me for not sounding jubilant. There. Okay? Are we okay?”
I sniffle. We aren’t okay, and I’m not okay, and I’m one-hundred percent certain that Harry, as a boyfriend, is not okay. But I do what every woman does upon discovering that they are not okay.
“Sure, I’m okay.” I lick the tears from my lips and swipe my cheek. “I’m not coming over tonight. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Goodbye Juliette. Have fun at that dive bar.” He hangs up before I can correct him.
He loves slighting Ford. Dive bar my ass. Velvet Whisper has been featured in Rolling Stone magazine. Ford has been on The Today Show. It isn’t some dive bar, and he knows it.
I waste no time getting dressed, choosing my black jumpsuit I ordered because the lead actress wore it on Fleabag.
I love it. It exposes just enough of my cleavage while being professional, and hugs my hips just right.
It is a bit slimming, though that’s not why I like it.
It’s comfortable and sexy, and that’s my style.
After styling my hair into loose waves–waves that the city will melt after one second in the bay area fog–I put on some make up, grab my charged batteries, my camera, purse and head out.
One cab ride later and I’m plopped between Kat and Zennie, both of them still in pajamas, with my head in my hands.
Kat smooths her hand up and down my back as I recount the awful phone call with Harry this morning. After it all topples out, the tears start. I prepared for this and packed my makeup because if there is anything that makes me teary, it’s the idea of failing at one more thing.
“I just don’t think he believes in me, and if he doesn’t believe in me, why is he with me?
” I ask, posing the question to my best friend and her partner.
Zennie and Kat share a glance, and Kat places her hand on my knee, and gives it a squeeze.
Zennie gets up, promising to be back with coffee and some muffins, leaving me and Kat with a sliver of unneeded privacy. But I love Zen for offering it.
“Jules, can I ask you something without upsetting you?” she starts, taking her hand off my knee long enough to tug a few tissues free from the box on the table.
I take the tissue and blow my nose, nodding my head because there is nothing off limits when I talk to Kat. She was the first person I told when I got my period. That kind of trust still stands.
“Why are you still with him? This is certainly not the first time you’ve felt unsupported, Jules, and I know it’s not the first time he’s made you feel less than.
And I’m sorry, I know the rule is you don’t talk about your bestie's man until he’s long into the ‘ex’ category but girl, it’s not even about him.
It’s about you. You can do so much better.
” She blinks as if she’s stating the sky is up and the ground is down. “You deserve so much better.”
Zennie reappears with a plate of fresh pastries that I have no doubt she made this week.
Zennie is one of these women that, without trying and certainly without intention, makes you count all the hours in your day to see where your time went.
She cooks (from scratch, and who even does that anymore?), she cleans, she’s organized and on-time, always dressed to the 9’s, never forgets anyone’s important days and always shows up for everyone in her life.
After sliding the plate onto the table, she kisses Kat and disappears into the kitchen, and a moment later the sound of porcelain clanking makes its way to us. Kat waits for my response.
I sigh. “I need a Zennie.”
Kat bumps my shoulder. “You really do. But let’s not invite bad karma. Dump Dick and Balls so you’re open to meeting a Zennie.”
Zennie returns with coffee, and in case she heard me, I clarify.
Tucking my hair behind my ears, my beach waves now just a memory, I cross my legs and grab my feet.
“Someone who does nice things for me would be amazing, but you know that’s not what I mean.
I want someone who is excited for my career, not continually reminding me that it doesn’t exist, you know?
I mean, I know he means well, trying to help me get on track and everything–”
Zennie quietly lifts a hand. “On track?”
I shrug a little. “Yeah, you know, help me find paying photography gigs, help me find gigs for a portfolio, stuff like that.”
Zennie smiles, but her brows pull together, a fine line forming on her forehead. “But if you don’t share the same vision for your career, that’s not help. That’s guiding you to become a version of yourself you don’t envision.”