Chapter 25 – Rule #12 It’s not real, it’s acting. Be creative—he can get mediocre sex in the real world. #2
I fake a smile and nod. Numb keeps the tears away.
Thinking about him does not. Cassandra/Julie wanders by and says, “He’s going to call back before you go.
I mean, we’re talking about the guy who sent us those tiny Valentine’s Day cards like in elementary.
It was dorky and ridiculous, and I loved it.
He must have planned that weeks in advance.
I mean, he sent them to you, but he sent them to us too. ”
I forgot about that. He asked me who was scheduled to work, and then he sent an envelope full of those ridiculous tiny valentines, with each of our names handwritten on the front.
I know those valentines probably cost five dollars, including mailing them, but my heart melted when I opened that envelope.
She continues, rubbing salt in the gaping, oozing wound.
“Kait, he acted like you were his girl, and we were the officemates of his girl. It was too cute for words, and I’ve never seen you smile like Henry made you smile.
He’s softened you.” Yup, softened and squashed like a jelly doughnut that falls on a dirty sidewalk, with my innards spooging out onto the concrete and getting eaten by ants and maybe touching bird poop and a blade of grass getting mixed in with the dirt-coated filling. Perfect.
Evangeline/Elizabeth stops by next, and I’m not sure why they all think I want to hear nice things about the guy who fired me, but she stands outside my cubby and laughs about the week when my Christmas presents showed up.
I pull the scrunchie out of my hair to repair my messy bun, and I can smell the verbena from my shampoo. He’s everywhere. I’ll pick up some Suave, anything, really, just not verbena.
By the end of the night, I’m convinced my coworkers like him more than me. They all have some story that paints him in an endearing light, and they all want to share that story with me. It’s like being dumped by a saint, and your friends are disappointed that you get to keep them in the breakup.
If I have to hear the strep throat story one more time, I’ll hurl myself out the window.
It’s a ground-floor office, so it’s not like I’ll plummet to my death, but the dramatics of it all might put an end to their moaning over the loss of their favorite human-golden-retriever-from-Chicago.
I pull up Spotify and choose “Die Motherfucker Die” by Get Set Go.
T minus five hours. I’m ready. Not because I think he’ll call—he won’t—but everyone around me is obsessing about it. I don’t have the heart to tell them they’re wasting their energy.
Anastascia pulls me out of my cubby and hugs me long and hard and tells me to log out of the phone. I protest until she does it for me, and then I go to the office and close the door to start boxing up records to ship to California.
Hunter wanders in and starts helping me box. Her presence, without the need to speak, is comforting.
“Tape?”
I point. “Over there.”
An hour passes, and when there are no more records to be boxed or labeled, she pulls one of my braids, says, “Good talk,” and wanders off to find something else to do. I do a few request calls when Jess asks, and when I emerge from my cubby, it’s looking like a party.
“Wow, you guys did a great job decorating while I was busy.”
Hunter’s desk is covered with a glittery tablecloth and staged with champagne glasses, noisemakers, party hats, and a Home Depot bucket filled with ice for champagne and sparkling grape juice.
T minus one hour. Thank god for my inner-circle callers with their requests to talk to me, unknowingly, for their final minutes with me. Time is flying.
I bump into Ana before the big final closing moments. I don’t have any words when she wraps me in a giant hug and squeezes again. I start to babble-thank her, and she stops me.
“Kaitlin, my deepest and wildest dream has come true, even though it is pretty tame as fantasies go around here. I’m a stay-at-home mom.
I’m not a complete fool, so there will be a nanny on speed dial for when I want to take a shower or need a nap, but I’m going to stay home with the boys and be their full-time mommy.
It’s only fair that your dreams come true too.
You’re already an amazing artist. I can’t wait to see what you do with your master’s. ”
She’s always been incredibly kind. I sniff as she gives me another squeeze.
“Can I ask one question?”
I nod, although I desperately want to say no. I know it’s going to be about him.
“This thing with Henry, can you call him and make it okay, like right now?”
“No.” Calling him doesn’t change anything. People who know me make fun of how honest I am. I returned a pen to the bank once, and I’ve gotten shit about it ever since. I thought he was one of them. I—stupidly—thought he knew me better than anyone. I was wrong.
“I thought since outside contact ceases to be a problem…”
I shake my head and sniff, desperately clinging to my dignity as tears threaten to spill. “It isn’t something that can be fixed after five. He needs someone he can trust, someone who isn’t a liar. After a year together—talking, I mean—he doesn’t trust me. That’s something that can’t be fixed.”
“Oh, honey, it’s like he never even knew you,” she says, concern and pain flitting over her warm expression.
“Or your honesty, your altruism, your incredible generosity with everything that isn’t money.
If I could make things right for you, I would.
I would’ve encouraged you to call him months ago if I had known this would happen. ”
Coming from Anastascia, this is a tremendous gift of friendship after our stalker creep incident. And that almost makes me cry, but my tears have been used up.
5:00 p.m. hits after a New Year’s–style countdown, and as the phones fall silent, we gather around a better-than-sex cake that we’re temporarily calling a better-than-phone-sex cake and snarf down a wide variety of naughty carbs.
The transition is official. Everyone who tries to call us in the future will be rerouted to California Girls.
I feel bad for my regulars because Kait is as dead as a girl who runs up the stairs in a horror movie.
No great loss. We make the announcement, break the news that this is a goodbye in a bigger sense than me heading off to school, and soften the blow with generous bonus checks and paperwork to continue working for California Girls.
It’s a win for them—they keep their jobs and get a fat unexpected check.
I take an Uber home because my presence is a downer.
The checks are big enough to soothe any sting our employees may feel.
Everyone is chipper, excited about the new opportunity.
I’m still tipsy when Jessica gets home. I’m pliable, so she sits me down in front of her laptop and starts the girlfriend experience episode.
One guy whines about how he bought what was probably great sex, and I realize the things Henry was saying make total sense in the context of this asshat getting dumped by the escort he was stalking.
When I see Marin on the screen, looking like the goddess that she is, I’m still drunk enough to be giggly.
“OMG, do you remember when Marin’s series came out, and like a month later, she ran from her cubby, and she looked green?
She leaned against the wall and said, ‘I knew there would be guys jerking off to my photos, but I never thought I would have to talk to him while he did it. He kept saying how hot he thought the Marine girl was. Marine! Like I’m a porpoise or wearing camouflage or something. ’”
I’ve never laughed so hard in my life as I did that day.
Jess makes me watch Tony—surprisingly attractive—tell the world to stay away from me. Tony’s doing a public service, warning people about Kaits everywhere. He’s not wrong. We might have been friends if we had met some other way.
My mouth is literally hanging open watching Tony talk. Whiney man says, “I tried to end it, and that was when she said, ‘I love you.’”
Got it. Now I understand. Just like that, I’m officially back to my favorite stage of grief: anger.