Chapter 1
Chapter One
SCOTTIE
“Meeting in ten,” Duncan says while knocking on the casing to the door of my office.
“Well aware,” I mutter as I press my fingers into my brow. I don’t need the reminder.
Another freaking Thursday morning meeting where obnoxious blowhards like to hear themselves speak while absolutely nothing is accomplished.
Great.
It’s been three months at this job, and it’s like clockwork. We shuffle into the conference room. Brad S carries around a putter like he’s King Arthur at the Round Table and talks about the eighteen holes he plans on playing this weekend while Brad F—or Finky—and Chad cheer him on from the sidelines like a bunch of fanboys, frothing at the mouth for the attention of their leader.
Yup, Brad, Brad, and Chad.
The Brads and Chad.
I stare off into the pit of the office. Rows of glass desks, all stacked right next to the other, placed on top of puttable Astroturf flooring. Bobbleheads showcasing a variety of sports heroes are perched atop said desks, jouncing while penis after penis walks by.
Yes, you read that right…penis after chino-encased penis.
To tell it to you straight, I work surrounded by a real sausage fest.
And not just any sausage fest but the worst kind.
It’s what the youth are calling…the finance bros.
*Shudders*
Sure, they’re not actually “finance bros” given they work for a golf company, but they sure as hell have the aesthetic down to a science.
Every day, I’m subjected to an agglomeration of company-embroidered vests, khaki chino shorts, boat shoes, and polos, all entwining with early morning bro hugs and gentle razzing.
Why does this bother me? Well, besides the fact that they are impossibly annoying to be around, I’m the only woman at the company besides the CEO. She, however, is barely in the office, especially with the launch of a new brand of Butter Putter mini golf courses.
But what really grates on my nerves and has me breathing into my desk drawer like it’s a paper bag at least once a week: they’re all married.
Every last one of them.
And sure, that’s not a bad thing, but if I’m honest, it’s not that they’re married that’s the issue. I’m the issue. It’s me. Because I too was once blissfully married.
And at the beginning of my marriage, there was love between me and my ex, there was excitement, there was passion. But as time went on, year by year, I could start to see my husband’s interest in me slip. His passion to hold my hand, cuddle, kiss me good night—no longer there. And the love diminished until the last year of my marriage, when it came crashing down after my husband forgot my birthday, leaving me to eat a piece of cake I bought for myself alone at the dining room table while he played video games.
So being in an office building surrounded by men who are happily married…it’s…it’s just hard. Makes me think of Matt, makes me think of how inadequate I am, how I wasn’t good enough to hold his attention.
Not to mention I have nothing in common with them, unless they want to hear about the gum that got stuck on the bottom of my shoe while on a single-lady walk through Central Park over the weekend.
Nor do they care about my Sunday night girl dinner, which consisted of two dill pickles, one single Triscuit, and a cup of applesauce that I ate alone while watching the Menendez brothers documentary on Netflix.
There is a marriage cult, and I’m on the outside, looking in. Heaven forbid they ever find out I’m divorced. I can’t imagine the clutching of their embroidered vests, the horror that would wash over their freshly shaven faces.
Scottie Price, the single one, sequestered in her office, not to go near in case she’s contaminated with the “divorcées,” a rare condition that could spread if one comes in close contact.
“You coming?” Finky asks, nodding toward the conference room.
My nostrils flare. “Yes, on my way.”
“Good, don’t want to be late. Ellison is here today.”
My estrogen sonar perks up.
“Ellison is here? Really?”
“Yes. And you don’t want to be the last one in the conference room.”
No, I don’t.
I quickly grab a notepad and pen, secure my coffee, and then head out into the pit and across the office to the conference room, where the men are already gathering. As I move around the table and find a seat, I scan the room, my mind picking them out one by one in my editor brain.
Brad S: never uses an uppercase T when writing T-shirt , despite how many times I remind him.
Duncan: can’t remember to cite his sources, ever. I’m constantly chasing after him.
Finky: funny, but if he has to describe a putter, might as well settle for hard and gray as his description.
Chad: oh, Chad, the resident artist. I have to go over his mock-ups with a fine-tooth comb because he’ll even spell his name wrong.
Then there are Kyle, Ben, and Shawn, all righteous idiot interns who I think are here for the free swag rather than the experience in business.
And that’s only to name a few.
“What are your plans this weekend?” Finky asks Chad as we wait for Ellison to show up.
“Taking Danielle out to Fire Island for a concert. She has the whole thing planned. What about you?”
“Wine tasting upstate,” Finky answers. “Lindsey told me this morning that she plans on getting drunk and not remembering a thing.”
“Who does?” Ellison says, coming into the conference room, looking stunning with her long blond hair tied back into a pony and her power suit tailored expertly for her frame.
Okay, it’s happening; everyone stay calm. She’s here.
If there’s anyone in this office that I want to impress, it’s her.
Finky moves aside and says, “My wife. Taking her up to the Finger Lakes this weekend for a wine tasting.”
“I was just there with Sanders,” she says as she takes a seat at the head of the table. God, look at her poise. Beauty and grace. Shoulders back, an air of confidence surrounding her, demanding respect. “Stayed at a really nice bed-and-breakfast. The cinnamon rolls were to die for.”
“Was it the place I recommended?” Brad S asks, hope in his eyes.
“It was,” Ellison says. “We did the lovers special like you said, and it was fantastic.”
Freaking lovers special.
What does that entail? Petting each other with a purple rabbit’s foot for luck while staring deeply into each other’s eyes?
“I was thinking about taking the hubby there,” Duncan chimes in, looking all kinds of squirrely, trying to get her attention. “Maybe I can take him there for his birthday.”
“When is his birthday?” Ellison asks as she leans back in her chair and brings her cup of coffee with her.
“Next month,” Duncan says.
“If he likes wine and cinnamon buns, then he’ll love it.” She then turns to Chad and asks, “How’s Danielle?”
Chad’s stupid face lights up. “She’s great. Still trying to get pregnant. Taking her to Fire Island this weekend to help her relax. I think she’s putting too much stress on herself.”
“I think that’s a very smart decision,” Ellison says. “If you’re looking for more assistance or outside-the-box thinking, I have a wonderful acupuncturist that can help.”
“I’ll send you an email.” Chad winks.
I’m annoyed.
The winks, the suggestions, the palling around…
Of course they’re all friendly with Ellison, because they’re all married.
Like I said, a cult. A freaking cult, and I’m the lonely spinster on the outside. Even the interns are either married or engaged to be married. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have assumed being paired up with a partner was a requirement to work at Butter Putter.
“Jenna made that recipe you sent the other day,” Brad S steps in. “The buffalo wing dip in the Crock-Pot.”
“How did it go?” Ellison asks.
Why wasn’t I sent the recipe?
I like buffalo dip.
Brad S chuckles and shakes his head. “Let’s just say she added a little too much sauce.” He rubs his stomach like a forty-year-old dad wearing jean shorts and New Balance sneakers with tube socks. “I had quite the bellyache.”
Ellison winces. “But I’m sure you ate it anyway, because that’s the kind of husband you are.”
“I sure did.”
This is a living nightmare.
Surrounded by happy couples boasting about their weekend plans, talking about their partners like they worship the ground they walk on. What’s that like? Couldn’t tell you.
And frankly, let’s call a spade a spade. It makes me jealous.
Insanely jealous.
Because, I’m going to be honest with you, the rom-com life I planned on living when I made the move to the city was not the kind of Nancy Meyers dream I was looking for. Sure, I might have the apartment aesthetic with the cozy, slipcovered furniture and herbs in the windowsill, but the falling in love with myself, not so much.
My neighbor next door to me keeps pointing out that I walk as if I have a lopsided leg. She’s on the younger side of eighty and holds a broom as a cane, so I don’t think she cares much about what others think of her, hence telling me I walk weird.
I also caught a reflection of myself in the Trader Joe’s window a week or so ago, and guess what? I looked like a crazy bag lady who feeds pigeons because they’re the only beings that will give her the time of day.
It was horrifying.
And worst of all, I woke myself up in the middle of the night precisely three days ago because I suffocated myself with morning breath. Yeah, popped those eyes right open as I gasped for air, only to realize the stench *whispers* was me.
So falling in love, not so much.
“What about you, Scarlett?”
I’m knocked out of my thoughts as I look up and all eyes are on me.
Did Ellison just call me Scarlett?
“Uh…” I drag out. “It’s Scottie actually.”
“Oh, my apologies,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest. “I don’t know why I said Scarlett. I know it’s Scottie.”
Bet she wouldn’t call Brad Bueford. Or Chad Charles.
No, just the lopsided single pigeon lady with dragon breath.
“So, what do you plan on doing this weekend?” she asks, a smile on her lips.
I glance around the table, beards and puffy vests all staring back at me, waiting for an answer, probably expecting me to talk about the yoga class in the park that I say I’m going to but actually just watch as I eat a chocolate croissant.
They’ll humor me, but none of them will ask me what class. No, they’ll just move on, and after the meeting, I’ll skulk back to my office and sit in front of a computer to correct all their copy for every single social media post and article.
Maybe not this time though.
Maybe, just maybe, I could fit in.
Ellison’s here, this is my chance to impress her, and maybe she’ll notice me if I actually have something to connect with her on.
Maybe she’ll find me so arousing that she’ll consider me for a possible promotion to, let’s say, the magazine, Golf Galaxy . Now wouldn’t that be a dream? Instead of working with all these social media munchers, I could do more print work, which could give me experience to work at other magazines, like the mecca of all glossy print, Better Homes and Gardens .
And then instead of just living the Nancy Meyers aesthetic, I could write about it too.
I couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling than that.
Then it’s settled.
We’ve made an executive decision.
It’s time to fit in.
Smiling at my audience, I cross one leg over the other and say, “Hitting up some antique stores with the husband this weekend.”
The moment the word husband passes over my tongue and right out of my mouth, I realize the grave mistake I’ve made, because the shock that registers across every single face in the room is not the kind of shock you want to see.
“Your husband?” Ellison asks. “I guess I wasn’t aware that you were married.”
“Well—”
“Yeah, none of us were,” Chad says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like he’s ready to dive into a “gotcha” moment.
“Yeah, well, it’s one of those?—”
“You’re not even wearing a wedding ring,” Chad continues.
Then every single pair of eyes in this pressure cooker that is a conference room zeroes in on my left hand.
What’s a girl to say to that?
Nervously, I smile and casually slide my ring-less hand under the table and place it on my trembling leg.
“Um, about that…”
“Scottie,” Chad says, leveling with me as if he’s my father catching me in a lie. “We know you’re not married. If you’re trying to fit in, please don’t make up lies.”
The audacity of this guy!
Uh, news flash, Chad, you don’t know how to properly use a comma, you nitwit, so cut the investigative report on my love life.
“Is he right?” Ellison asks, her brow pulling together. “Are you really not married?”
And this, my friends, is why you don’t lie.
Because you have a simp like Chad trying to play Sherlock Holmes and blow up your spot.
That being said, I have two ways I can react to such an accusation. I can nod in shame, suck in my pride, and tell the truth, letting Chad take all the fame and glory. I can confess to them that I was so desperate to fit in that I made up a fictional man to make me look like less of an old maid.
Or I can dig in deep, save face, and run with the lie while making Chad eat his words with a side of guilt and a sprinkle of embarrassment.
The first option, dignified and shows true character.
The second option, a battle cry to all women out there that the Brads and Chads of this world cannot take us down!
I think we know where I’m going with this.
Gird your loins and hoist your bras, ladies. We’re digging in.
Looking Chad in the eyes, I say, “Thank you, Chad, for bringing my ring-less finger to everyone’s attention.” I set my shoulders back and lift my chin. “I didn’t plan on sharing this with the group, but my husband and I are actually going through a rocky time at the moment, and we’ve taken some breaks, hence the no ring.”
Ha-HA!
In your face, Chad.
Take that.
Eat it.
And gag.
Yup. Freaking gag.
The room falls silent. Only the hushed hum of computer monitors fills the office space.
I hope you’re all happy, you married-loving cult. I hope you all look in the mirror and think how horrible it is that you humiliated poor, poor Scottie to the point of having to air out her marital issues in front of floor twenty-three, all because Chad just had to make his dick look big.
Well, guess what, Chad? Your hands are small, your fingers are thin, and I think we all know that that means?—
“Scottie,” Ellison says, grabbing my attention. “May I please speak with you in private?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up as I feel Ellison’s gaze zero in on me. She, uh, she wants to see me in private?
Well, that’s unsettling, because this can go two ways.
One: she can see right through my lies like the hawk that she is.
Or two: she’s about to lay down an apology tour for the adolescent behavior of my coworkers.
One will terrify me. Two…now two I could get on board with.
Two could possibly lead to a long road of HR meetings for Chad, which I should probably feel bad about, but I absolutely do not. He tried to fight with fire, and he’s about to get burned.
“See me out in the hallway?” I clear my throat. “Of course.”
Ellison stands and gestures to the door. I stand as well, gathering my items and hoping this creates a half day for me, because I have a half tub of cookie dough in my fridge and the rest of the Menendez brothers documentary to consume, and it would be amazing if this guaranteed me some more time to rot on my couch.
As I walk past Chad, I have the distinct urge to stick my tongue out at him but realize just how immature that would be. Let’s keep the childish games to Chad and lead with respect and dignity just in case this doesn’t go my way.
When I exit the conference room, Ellison pulls me off to the side and presses her hand to my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry to hear about you and your husband.”
Whew, bullet averted. I’m here to file all of the reports. HR, here I come.
I nod solemnly. “Thank you. It’s been tough, but, you know, we’re trying.”
“That’s commendable. It can’t be easy working in an environment where everyone is happily married.”
“It’s had its strains,” I admit, because that is the truth.
“Well, I am proud to say with confidence why everyone is so happily married here.”
Huh?
I look up at her as she continues, “My husband is Sanders Martin.”
Err, am I supposed to know who the hell that is?
“Word on the street is, he’s the most prestigious marriage counselor in the Northeast, and he has made it his mission to work with all the people in the office who are willing and ready.” She squeezes my arm and says, “And please know, I’ve received consent to discuss because everyone has been so happy.”
Uh-oh.
I fear that I know where this is going.
“Oh, that’s really cool,” I say, wanting to slowly back into a bush, maybe go watch an after-school special about lying and why it’s a bad thing.
“I would really love for you to talk with him; I know he can help.”
And there it is, my grave, the one I’ve been digging this entire time, just waiting for me to rest in it.
“And I know this is coming out of the blue, and I don’t want to pressure you, but I can sense that you’re trying to reconcile. Am I wrong about that? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
Uh, yeah, Ellison, you should mind your own business. You should be leading a company meeting right now, not trying to help me with my fake marriage woes.
But alas, it’s not like I can say that to her.
“I can sense that you’re not comfortable talking about it,” she says. “That’s okay?—”
“Oh no, I’m comfortable having this conversation.” Panic surges through me because I can see the disappointment in her face. “Just, uh, wasn’t expecting to have such a magnificent mind at my disposal.”
Magnificent mind? Tone it down, girl.
“That’s so kind of you to say. Sanders really does wonders. Let me just text him real quick.”
Oh, she’s just going to do that, right now? When we should be having a meeting?
She pulls out her phone from her pocket, and yup, she starts texting.
“Would nine tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Tomorrow?” I nervously say. “That’s, uh, well, I’m working.”
Ellison waves her hand in dismissal. “You can take a break for this.”
“Great.” I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth.
“Oh perfect, he has an opening tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”
“Ooof, nine a.m., that might be hard with the hubby’s job.” There we go, blame it on the husband.
“Oh, he says he can do seven thirty in the morning for you so everyone gets to work on time. You’re so lucky. He rarely offers the seven thirty appointment.”
7:30 a.m.? Jesus, aren’t people mainlining their coffee and getting their faculties together at that hour? Not to mention, if he’s the best in the Northeast, doesn’t he have a waitlist? Usually takes six months and your first unborn child to make an appointment in the city, not a quick text.
“Why don’t you check with your husband?” She encourages me with a head nod.
“Uh yeah, let me, uh, let me just text him.”
I hold my phone, straight up so she can’t see my screen, and I tap away on it, pretending to text, all the while in my head saying, Beep, boop, bop, texting my husband, beep beep, bop, my nonexistent husband .
“What does he say? Seven thirty or nine a.m.?” She bounces in excitement as if her happiness relies on this moment and this moment alone.
And it seems like I’m not getting out of it. No backing down, not at this point. We have dug the grave, might as well try to find a way out of it…and a way that doesn’t require me to be out of the house by seven.
Smiling at Ellison, I say, “Uh, nine works.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let him know right now.”
As she texts her husband, I glance down at my screen, where I pulled up my solitaire app rather than texting a real-life person. I can tell you right now, this is not going to end well.
“You’re set for nine a.m. I’ll email you the details of where to find his office. He’s looking forward to working with you.”
“Great.” I smile, knowing damn well it’s the fakest smile I’ve ever concocted. “Can’t…can’t wait.”
She gestures to the conference room. “Now, let’s get back to work, shall we?”
Back to work?
Does she really think I can get back to work after I just sabotaged my own world?
I’m lucky I haven’t fainted from the anxiety driving through me, because I just agreed to a marriage counseling appointment with my boss’s husband. With a nonexistent person who needs to materialize in, oh, about twenty-three hours’ time.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Yeah, work, yay,” I say with a fist pump to the air. “Love the work.”
She smiles softly. “Good, because us girls have to stick together.” She offers me a wink and then walks back into the conference room.
Well, fuck. I got what I wanted. I became buddy-buddy with my boss in an instant.
But the cost will be hefty…finding a husband by tomorrow.