Chapter 11 Abby
Abby
Isomehow manage to leave the office and make it home without running into a nemesis, sham boyfriend, suspicious boss, or ex-fiancé. So, suffice it to say, my evening is already looking better than the complete fiasco that was my morning through late afternoon.
I’m not usually one to be overly cautious…
who am I kidding? Of course I am. Still, is it just me, or is it weird that Jonathan’s genuinely willing to fake a relationship with me?
This is a man who once got Selena Gomez to let him buy her a drink and dance with him, without saying a single word.
Just a look. Just those stupidly hot features doing all the work.
That was pre-Benny engagement, obviously.
The fact that Jonathan pulled her? Wildly impressive.
We love our Queen Selena. I only wish I could’ve been there to meet her and warn her about Jonathan or at least tell her to schedule a rabies shot just in case.
Okay, that was mean. Also kind of true. He has never made my work life easy and now he suddenly wants to help me? It’s giving red flags and hidden agendas. I wouldn’t even consider going through with it if I wasn’t so utterly desperate.
Why do I feel the need to put on this elaborate show for Marcus anyway?
Parade around with my new boyfriend, who, yes, is objectively good-looking and independently wealthy even though Jonathan wouldn’t buy me a bagel, let alone dote on me.
Still, I need Marcus to see that I’ve moved on.
That the pain he caused by leaving me isn’t still wedged in my chest like a bent nail in drywall, impossible to pull out without busting the whole thing open.
So what if I’m lying? So what if I still think about Marcus almost daily, wondering what I did so wrong to make the man who once claimed to love me ditch me on the big day?
Not a week before. Not even twenty-four hours in advance.
Nope. He waited until I’d woken up with my girlfriends, had my hair and makeup done, slipped into my classy-yet-elegant wedding gown and rode all the way to the venue in a flipping limo…
just to be met inside by a very sweaty and visibly anxious best man who informed me Marcus “wouldn’t be coming. ” That was it.
And because we hadn’t officially moved in together yet, Marcus had the audacity to send a box of my stuff, left at his place, with the best man to my place.
The man didn’t even face me himself. The next time I saw him?
The other night. At The Yank. Good grief.
To be fair, the one gentlemanly thing he did manage to do was pay for the entire wedding.
He took care of everything. Which he could more than afford to, arguably. So… that’s still nice, right?
Of course, my problems didn’t end there.
I’d already given up my lease, because love makes you blind, so I had to beg, literally beg, my landlord to take me back.
He’d already promised the place to someone else, so I dropped to my knees, cried real tears and pleaded with him like I wish Marcus had done with me.
My landlord relented… not before jacking my rent up by two hundred bucks.
Still, I got it back. The only tiny sliver of normal I had left.
My sanctuary. The one safe space where I could shut the door, tune out the world and hide from it all; smug coworkers and ghosting ex-fiancés included.
When I walk through my front door, I immediately remember why I love living here.
It’s modest, sure. In New York City, though, landing a semi-rent-controlled unit that isn’t infested with rats or surrounded by sirens is practically winning the lottery.
My place sits right between the Lower East Side and SoHo; overpriced for the square footage, yet still a two-bedroom, one-bath with just enough charm to make me feel like I’ve got my life together.
The best part? My unit has access to a little middle terrace.
I’ve filled it with flowers, started a tiny garden and sometimes sit out there with a book, pretending I’m in a Nancy Meyers movie.
It’s a far cry from the luxury condo I was supposed to move into with Marcus, but honestly?
I’m happy here. I feel lucky, especially in a city where most people can’t afford to breathe.
For reasons I absolutely refuse to psychoanalyze, I find myself wondering what Jonathan’s place looks like.
I don’t know why I care. I shouldn’t care.
But I should ask. Just in case someone at work brings it up and I blank.
I mean, how can you be dating someone and not know what their apartment looks like?
The office gossip mill is going to feast on this one.
Me and Jonathan? It’s the juiciest news since Vanessa got caught making out with Xavier, the janitor, in the broom closet.
So cliché. So steamy. Tongue-on-tongue, right next to the mop bucket.
The joke’s on the gossipers though, they’re married now.
Vanessa’s pregnant. Evidently, love really can blossom in the workplace.
Too bad I didn’t find love, instead I found Jonathan Slack. A walking, talking, cocky-as-hell ulcer who just so happens to be my new, absurd office romance.
I barely get a chance to set my purse down and grab a water from the fridge before my phone buzzes.
It’s my best friend, Lila, currently in California filming a sitcom pilot.
She’s about to become famous and then take me to all the star-studded award shows so I can finally meet Chris Evans and make him fall in love with me. At least, that’s the shared dream.
“Hey, girl, hey,” she says the second I answer. She always has to speak first.
I chuckle. Just hearing her voice makes the day feel less like a disaster.
“Heyyyy,” I say back.
“How’s the East Coast, lovey?” she asks with a laugh.
“Missing a star, but otherwise it’s surviving,” I quip.
“Aww, I miss you too,” she replies, her tone warm and genuine.
She’s never been away this long. Sure, she’s always traveling for acting gigs, but this time she landed a sidekick role in a comedy series filming in Hollywood, so she’s been staying there the past month to shoot and charm the NBC execs.
“So… how’s Hollywood?” I ask, ready to live vicariously through the glamour and glitz.
“Eh. It’s okay,” she says. Still bubbly, but something’s off.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly alert. “Are you okay?”
I’m already mentally packing a suitcase. That’s just how we are; if one of us is in crisis, the other shows up. Lila is closer to me than most sisters. I should know, I have a sister who hardly manages a yearly email.
“I’m okay,” she says. “But I will have to send you a plane ticket soon because my show just got picked up for a full season!” She screams.
“Oh my God! That’s so amazing!” I squeal.
“Thank you!” she laughs.
A sudden pang hits my chest.
“Wait,” I say, a little too fast. “Does this mean… you have to move there?”
Lila still lives in one of the unit cottages down the block from mine and I’ve been watering her plants like a loyal plant godmother. Yes, plants. Dozens of them. Each with names.
There’s a brief silence on the line. I can hear her breathing shift.
“Yes,” she says softly. Just one word. So short. So final.
“Oh.” My voice dips. “I mean… that’s amazing. And exciting,” I rapidly add.
“I know. But…” She trails off, then shifts gears. “But you can visit me all the time.”
“Of course I will,” I admit. Because that’s what good friends do, they celebrate your big moments, even when their own hearts are sinking like a deflated party balloon.
Lila has always been there for me and I’ll be there for her, no matter what.
“I have to stay another week or so to wrap things up,” she says. “Then I’ll come home to pack up my place. Maybe you can come back with me for a week? See my new apartment, visit set, hang with the cast…”
“That sounds perfect,” I say and mean it. I’ll need a vacation after this disaster of a week. “Especially after the retreat I have to attend this weekend.”
“What retreat?” she asks.
“Victoria’s dragging us to Cedar Lakes for some kind of corporate bonding situation,” I say, using air quotes for emphasis, though no one in my living room is here to appreciate the gesture.
“Cedar Lakes? That actually sounds… kind of nice,” she says.
“Oh, it’s very nice.” I pause.
Or at least, it could have been, if my ex, my work nemesis and I weren’t about to be trapped together in my own flaming circus of feelings.
I want to tell her everything. About Marcus. About Jonathan. About this whole life spiral I’m currently free-falling through. But I stop myself. This is her moment and my emotional disaster will still be here when she gets back.
“All right, girly. They’re calling me back to set,” Lila says.
“This late?” I ask, surprised.
“Girrrlll. We shoot fourteen, fifteen-hour days sometimes,” she groans. “But I freaking love it!”
I know she does. It’s always been her dream to become a star. And mine? To be her best friend who gets the swag bags and accidentally bump into celebrities.
“Okay. Have fun. Text me later,” I say.
“Love you! Bye!” she calls, blowing a kiss through the phone.
“Bye,” I reply, even though she’s already hung up.
I set my phone on the counter and grab a wine-glass from the cabinet. Then I settle onto one of my steal-of-a-deal Pottery Barn bar stools, pour myself a generous glass of Pinot Grigio and lean back against the cushion.
My gaze drifts around my type-A organized, color-splashed home. It’s so bright, so cheerful, just like my life used to be.
Lila’s out there living her dream, all fast-paced and fabulous while I’m living a lie.
Who could’ve thunk it?