Chapter 15
T WO DAYS WENT BY without a reply from Pete.
On the third day, after putting together some admittedly sloppy traffic reports for Patricia, Avery took a stroll outside and stopped at a small gated park by her office, where a teenager with a handlebar mustache passionately played the saxophone and pigeons congregated around an old woman feeding them breadcrumbs from a plastic baggie.
Avery flinched as she walked past the pigeons vigorously ruffling their feathers to sit down on a bench far away.
Then she stared at the text she’d sent to Pete: hey i’m sorry for being weird this weekend.
can i buy you a drink to make it up to you?
totally understand if you hate me and never wanna see me again, but i figured i’d give it a shot
She tightened her grip on her phone, like if she squeezed hard enough those three little dots would pop up.
But the screen remained agonizingly blank.
She was starting to lose hope. She wasn’t clueless enough to think Pete lost his phone or was too busy with work or whatever people say to convince themselves they weren’t getting rejected.
She knew he was ignoring her. She almost didn’t want her phone to buzz again because she knew it wouldn’t be Pete.
It would just be someone else, or worse, one of those phantom vibrations that only come when you’re waiting for a text, and she’d have to relive the disappointment all over again.
Defeated, she spent the next few minutes listening numbly to the saxophone player before dragging herself back to her office building.
The doorman didn’t say hello to her, nor had he acknowledged her at all over the past few days.
He was always nicer to her when she looked pretty.
Lately, though, the dark circles under her eyes were extra deep and pronounced, and she came to work in a greasy bun and no makeup, which basically meant she was invisible.
“Do you think your pattern here isn’t obvious?” she asked, pointing to her face. “Honestly? Do you?”
The doorman’s eyes darted left and right. “Huh? Miss, what are you talking about?”
Avery shook her head. He was an idiot. And so was she, for letting this get to her.
So what if she was invisible to a doorman, as well as to most men over these last few days, who used to make small talk with her and hold the door open for her and generally act like she existed?
Who cared if they thought she wasn’t worth a second look now?
Well, she cared. She could always rely on the quick hit of male attention to make her feel better about herself, but now she didn’t even have that .
She’d have to suffer through the pain of rejection with nothing to temper it.
She knew her appearance was her biggest asset to men but, Christ, she was still a person.
She shouldn’t need to be dolled up to deserve a simple hello.
Back at the office, Avery decided to start the bridesmaids email chain to distract herself from waiting for Pete’s reply.
From: Avery Russo
To: Emma Smith, Kim Garrett, Sandra Santana, Justine Hartford, Blair Montgomery
Cc: Morgan Feeley
Subject: Hi, bridesmaids :)
Hey ladies!!!!
Avery figured if she used enough exclamation points nobody would know she was on the verge of a mental breakdown.
My name is Avery and I’m Morgan’s best friend and maid of honor. I realized I didn’t know everyone in the bridal party, so I wanted to send a group email to introduce myself as well as get to know all of you! I’m so excited for this year and I hope you all are, too.
I also wanted to provide some information about our first order of business.
Attached to this email are some photos of bridesmaids dresses.
Morgan wants us to love the dress so she’s asking us to choose, and we’re all going to vote for our favorites.
If you could send over your vote ASAP, along with your dress size, that would be awesome.
Best,
Avery
Blair replied, just to Avery, a few seconds later.
Thanks for finally sending this! Was wondering if I was going to have to do it.
Avery rolled her eyes. She and Morgan had just finalized some dress options. She typed a reply.
I got it thanks!!!
“Are you writing a story for us?” Kevin called out from his cubicle.
Avery glared at him over the dividers. “No.” Because she was a masochist, she peeked at her phone again to see if Pete had responded. He hadn’t.
Kevin glanced up from behind his laptop, his reading glasses perched on his nose. “Sorry, I heard some enthusiastic typing and got excited.”
Avery turned her phone face down again. A second later, she thought she heard it vibrate and turned it face up.
But it was blank, except for a notification from her Seamless app asking her to rate her recent order from The Mansion.
She sighed and flipped her phone face down again, but before her brain could tell her to stop, her fingers reached for it again to turn it back up.
She groaned and turned it back down. Then up.
Masochist , she thought. I simply must be a masochist.
Kevin rolled over to Avery’s desk. “By the way, I have a second round of interviews at Entertainment Weekly today,” he whispered. “For a principal product manager role.”
“That’s awesome!” Avery replied, also in a whisper. “I mean, I’ll hate you if you leave, but that’s very exciting.”
“I’m just over this place.” Kevin glanced over his shoulder. “Did you hear what happened with Patricia? A journalist at Bustle found one of her tweets from 2014 with the word ‘faggot’ in it.”
Avery made a face. “Wow, that’s shitty.”
“I know. She kept it very hush-hush here. I only know because my friend at GO Magazine told me. You should Google her Notes apology. It’s so pathetic. I take full responsibility for what I said and I am committed to amplifying the voices of the blah blah blah .”
“That is so lame.”
Kevin nodded and rolled back to his desk, then Avery turned back to her laptop to dig into some work.
Metropolitan broke a huge story today about a woman who accused famed TV producer Dave Moore of sexual assault, and Avery was tasked with writing all the social copy about it.
Moore was behind all kinds of beloved classic comedy dramas, so this allegation was huge.
Avery held her breath as she skimmed over Metropolitan’s account of what happened, careful not to read too many disturbing details—a difficult task, considering she needed to get the language exactly right in her copy.
Then she shared the story on Metropolitan’s social media channels.
It only took seconds for a torrent of replies to appear in their mentions.
These false rape accusations give a bad name to REAL rape victims, replied one user.
Another wrote, Noo! Me & You is my comfort show!
! I refuse to let there be a stain on its legacy.
An anonymous user replied with bullshit.
she’s mad that he didn’t give her a part in a show.
typical Hollywood drama. Yet another just wrote stupid sluts
Avery wrote the same social copy on Instagram, unwilling to do more than the bare minimum for this story. She hoped it would disappear soon so she wouldn’t have to keep covering it, because if not, she might be right behind Kevin in quitting.
Her phone buzzed. She snatched it face up, and her heart stopped when she read Pete’s name. She almost dropped her phone in the process of swiping it open.
Yea, that’s cool. Where did you have in mind?
Avery squealed and responded immediately. amazing!! how about Jimmy’s Corner? tonight at 6?
Jimmy’s Corner was an unassuming but classic dive bar near the center of Times Square, which—Avery knew—was objectively the worst place in Manhattan, with its blinding seizure-inducing billboards stretching twenty stories high and hostile tourists taking photos on their iPads.
But that area of Forty-Second Street was the easiest to get to no matter where you were in the city, and Avery didn’t want to complicate things with Pete any more than she already had.
Three dots appeared on the screen. Avery’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Pete was typing! He was using his fingers on the screen while their text message window was open! It was almost like they were touching.
Sure. See you then.
Avery spent the rest of the day avoiding work, specifically doing nothing more with the Dave Moore story, in favor of staring at the clock and watching the minutes drag.
At 5:30 PM on the dot she bolted from her desk and hustled to the bar to ensure she arrived early, then ordered the strongest beer on the menu and grabbed two empty stools toward the back.
The great thing about Jimmy’s Corner, besides the unique boxing memorabilia decorating the walls, was that despite being right in the middle of the city’s tourist trap, tourists rarely came here, meaning it was rarely crowded and there was always a place to sit.
Pete appeared at the front door at 6:10 with what looked like a fresh haircut, his shiny brown locks tamed while still retaining their signature thickness and volume. Avery’s fingers pulsed with the need to touch them.
“Hey,” Pete said when he approached her. His voice was cautious.
“Hi.” Avery gestured to the empty seat next to her, inviting Pete to sit. He obliged and waved down the bartender to order a beer.
“Put it on my tab,” Avery insisted.
Pete didn’t protest. He put in his order and then looked at her expectantly.
She wrung her hands out in her lap. Already her palms were sweating.