5. Carlisle
5
Carlisle
O n Thursday morning, I limp into work a few minutes late because I’m hungover. My head is pounding, and it is taking all my concentration not to regurgitate last night’s dinner.
My life is full of regrets, but at the top of that list is deciding to have a third margarita.
Why did I do that to myself?
Oh, wait. I know why. I was trying to drown out the disappointment I feel that Brent hasn’t contacted me since the weekend. Stupidly, I’d gotten my hopes up that he enjoyed talking to me as much I did him.
Sliding my bag under my desk, I turn on my computer and wait for the ancient beast to roar to life. I amble into the break room to grab a mug of coffee. Hopefully the one-two punch of caffeine and ibuprofen will quieten the drums that are playing directly on my brain.
Sipping my coffee, I start working on crossing things off my to-do list. Starting with the easiest items first, I finish some filing and then move on to updating our client database. As always, I keep an eye on Mr. King’s office and try to avoid any interaction with him. Luckily, my hangover abates, and I get lost in my daily tasks .
When my stomach growls loudly, I’m surprised to realize that it’s already past my normal lunch hour. Most of my co-workers go out to lunch each day, but I so rarely join them that they've stopped inviting me. When I first started working here, I tagged along a few times, but I don’t have anything in common with them. They’ve been working at Staples King for years, if not decades, and most are married with kids or even grandkids. While I’m drooling over a new purse or fantasizing about a cute guy, they’re planning for retirement, college funds, and knee replacement surgeries.
I grab my lunch from my tote bag and eat it at my desk while researching recipe ideas and jotting down a grocery list. A recipe for bulgogi burgers begins to coalesce in my mind. Ground beef patties seasoned with garlic, ginger, and dark soy sauce and topped with thinly sliced cucumbers, kimchi, and spicy mayo.
In addition to my day job, I’m a small-time food and recipe social media influencer—emphasis on small-time. It’s not making me rich, but I feel lucky to earn a little money each month from pursuing a much-loved hobby.
I started cooking during my sophomore year of college after my mom passed away. My childhood is filled with memories of spending time in the kitchen with my mom, so I began recreating her favorite recipes as a means of holding her memory close. With Harper’s encouragement, I documented both my grief and my mom’s recipes online. My authenticity and vulnerability hit a chord with social media users, and more people started to follow my journey. Over the years, my reach has grown steadily, and I hope it will continue to grow because cooking has become my favorite creative outlet.
After I finish my grocery list, I scroll mindlessly through Instagram and TikTok while I finish my lunch. Jumping up from my desk, I walk to the breakroom to throw away my trash, ready to get back to the doldrums of my day job.
But as I re-enter my cubicle, I have an unpleasant surprise waiting for me. Mr. King. He’s sitting at my desk holding my phone, which is still open to TikTok. He raises his bushy eyebrows at me and flashes my phone screen towards me.
“Now, now, Carlisle,” he tsks. “It’s against company policy to use social media during working hours.” He drops my phone onto the desk with a clatter.
“I was using it while I was—” I start to explain that I was on my lunch break when he cuts me off by raising a meaty hand. He lumbers out of my chair, his large body dwarfing the tiny cubicle. In such close quarters, I notice the red spiderwebs of broken capillaries peppered across his cheeks and the stringent odor of the aftershave he uses to cover the smell of alcohol on his breath.
“I don't want to hear excuses, Carlisle.” I shrink against the cubicle wall making myself as small as possible, when he brushes his body against the front of mine as he exits. I fail to repress a shudder at the feel of his body touching mine, which Mr. King misinterprets.
He shoots me a leering smile and murmurs, “If you keep misbehaving, I’ll be forced to punish you. But something tells me, you might enjoy that."
Oh, gross.
I fight the urge to gag, and my reaction has nothing to do with my earlier hangover and everything to do with my creepy boss.
Truthfully, Mr. King's harassment scares me, but my hands are tied. If I report our conversation to human resources, he’d deny that there was anything sexual about his comment. Additionally, he’s the owner of the company. Who is HR going to believe—the boss or a lowly, entry-level assistant who got caught using social media during working hours?
As soon as Mr. King retreats to his office, I fish a small red notebook out of my purse and jot down the details of our latest interaction.
When Mr. King’s inappropriate advances first started, I told Harper about it, and she persuaded me to take notes detailing each incident. I don’t know if any good will come of it, but I dutifully write about each encounter. Afterwards, I return the notebook to my purse and get back to work, but it’s difficult to shake off the persistent feelings of humiliation and discomfort that Mr. King left in his wake.
I’m almost finished cooking our dinner when Harper arrives home from work.
“Hey, Car!” Harper singsongs when she comes in the door. “Smells good in here! I’m starving and I’m so lucky to have the best roommate in the world who cooks for me.” Harper and I have an easy division of labor in the apartment—I cook, she cleans. That’s a deal I’ll take any day of the week. “How was work?”
“During my lunch break, Mr. King caught me on TikTok and threatened to punish me,” I say, putting finger quotes around the last two words.
“Of course he did. What a perve,” Harper grumbles. She dislikes my boss almost as much as I do.
“How’s everything going with Philip? You two certainly looked cozy last night,” I wiggle my eyebrows. Philip joined us yesterday for dinner and Harper couldn’t keep her hands off him. It was cute, but nauseating.
She nibbles on a slice of cucumber, and a dreamy look crosses her face. “He’s great. I really like him, Carlisle."
I’m not surprised. Once Harper finds someone she likes, she jumps in headfirst—no hesitation, no game-playing, no nonsense. She voices her feelings and sees if they’re returned. Sometimes it backfires and freaks guys out, but other times, it works out well. I’ve always been envious of Harper’s self-confident approach to dating because she never wastes time devoting herself to guys who are ambivalent or uninterested.
I should probably take a page out of her playbook because I've been wasting a lot of time thinking about a guy who hasn't called or texted in days.
I plate our burgers and pull the sweet potato fries out of the oven as she tells me all the nitty-gritty details of her romance with Philip.
Bumping me with her hip, she asks with a teasing smile, “How’s your stalker? Y’all are still talking, right?”
Since Brent hasn't come to kidnap me yet, Harper has had a change of heart regarding him. Her turnaround is also probably due to being bitten by the lovebug herself.
As is our custom, we carry our dinner plates into the living room to eat at the coffee table while we watch TV and talk.
“No, I haven’t heard from Brent in a few days,” I reply nonchalantly.
Harper hums, hit with an epiphany, “Ah, that explains the number of margaritas you drank last night.”
Scrunching my nose, I hate to admit that she’s right, so I downplay it. “Anyway, let’s forget about Brent. It was a wrong number gone awry.”
“Yeah, a wrong number who kept contacting you.”
“Unlike you, I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
I’ve been using that excuse ever since I broke up with my college boyfriend two years ago, but for the first time, when the words roll off my tongue, they feel less than true.
My life has been in a tailspin ever since my mom died and my dad quickly remarried. Moving to LA has given me a chance at freedom from my fractured family, but I'm still not sure that I'm ready to date. Shouldn't I be financially stable and emotionally healed before I try to find happiness with someone else?
However, I have a bit of a crush on Brent. I may feel like I shouldn't start dating, but I haven't been able to stop myself from developing feelings for Brent either.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I play the what if game in my mind.
What if I allow this opportunity to pass me by because I'm hung up on that idea that I'm not ready to date? What if I miss out on something great?
What if fate just dropped the perfect guy into my lap at the imperfect time?
Harper cocks her head to one side and raises her eyebrows. “You never know, Carlisle. Weirder things have happened.”
“It doesn't matter because I haven’t heard from him since this weekend. Four days!” I push my plate away and flop back against the sofa. “We talked and texted nearly nonstop for three days and then four days of silence.”
“Not that you’re counting or anything,” Harper teases.
“I think I scared him off. I told him about my family drama. I can’t believe I got that serious over the phone,” I grimace, as my cheeks flush, remembering our call on Sunday evening. "I definitely over-shared."
In the moment, it was healing and freeing to talk to Brent about my family, but now, it feels terribly vulnerable to have been that open.
If my own dad found it easy to cut me out of his life, why would anyone else voluntarily choose to stay with me? I shouldn’t be surprised that Brent didn’t stick around after I trauma dumped on him last weekend.
“Hey, if Brent can’t take you on your worst days, then he doesn’t deserve you on your best. Besides, I bet he has a reason why he hasn’t contacted you again.” Harper pats my knee and shoots a small smile in my direction. A look of delight dances across Harper’s face as she says, “Oh! He could be married and his wife, who was out of town for a weekend trip, is back home so he can’t call you again. Or maybe he got into a car accident and is in a coma. Or maybe he's ugly and could tell by your voice that you're out of his league, so he decided to move on before you could break his heart. There are so many possibilities!”
"Were any of those scenarios supposed to make me feel better?" Laughing, I toss a throw pillow at her, which she easily deflects.
"Got you to laugh, didn't I?" Raising the remote, Harper unmutes the TV as the current entertainment news clip ends and the TV anchors begin discussing a new story. “OMG, did you see that last photo? We missed the story about Ben Sutton’s new movie. God, he is gorgeous.” She places the back of her hand to her forehead, swooning dramatically.
“Who’s Ben Sutton again?” I query. I recognize the name, but I don’t know anything about him. Keeping up with Hollywood drama isn’t high on my list of priorities.
Conversely, Harper reads every entertainment magazine and follows all the social media celebrity gossip accounts. She’s convinced since we live in LA that we’ll run into famous people, and she wants to be ready. So far, she’s only seen Gary Busey once at dinner. Harper was not impressed.
“He’s an insanely hot actor. I mean, did you see that face? Gah!” She starts fanning herself and humming Nelly’s Hot in Herre . “He’s been in a bunch of movies, and he has a superhero movie coming out. He’s starring in it with Willa Radford, and I cannot wait for it to come out. We should get tickets to see it!”
Harper’s phone dings from an incoming text from Philip. She bites her lip and looks at me apologetically while twisting her fingers nervously. “I hate to eat and run, but is it okay if I stay the night at Philip’s again? I promise to hang out with you tomorrow night!”
“Harper, you do not have to ask my permission to live your life. Go have fun with your boy toy.”
After she leaves, I realize that I'm jealous of Harper's love life. Jealous that she met a guy who is just as infatuated with her as she is with him.
I never thought that when I moved to a city with millions of people, I would feel this lonely.