Chapter 32 Ted
Confront the ex you’ve been avoiding.
That is all.
Have fun.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
This teleportation device is trolling me. The universe is fucking trolling me.
Ted, of five-month-long-relationship fame, covers soccer in the sports section of The Minute and is regrettably the very last person I want to interact with right now.
I met him at an office party when I was working for Books Today, and the piece I wrote on our breakup seventeen months ago is what got me the position at Love Today.
The man’s office is one hundred feet away from mine: a quick weave through the no-man’s-land of cubicles in the middle of the floor, right next to the restrooms.
Post breakup we’ve behaved as if our five-month stint as boyfriend and girlfriend never happened.
Occasionally, I’m forced to engage in small talk with him when we make eye contact in the break room, but we’ve never discussed the end.
We haven’t spoken about us since the morning we broke up. I slam the journal shut.
Reed [8:45 a.m.]: that was delightful =P
The corner of my mouth flips up. He read the new chapter.
Reed: to be honest though—I’m on the edge of my seat for the darkness. you still haven’t dropped your dad backstory.
I snort, weaving through commuters to Starbucks.
Me: Why the hell are you up at 5 a.m.?
Reed: I’m on my morning run.
Me: wow you can run and text at the same time?
Reed: it’s an art.
Me: Americas got talent!!
Reed: we’re getting off topic
Me: Backstory is a mood killer
Reed: I enjoy puzzling together how you became your wildly successful kind, delightfully suspicious, insightful self. Backstory is required.
I bite back a smile as I place my coffee order. It’s a triple espresso kind of day.
Reed: Don’t fret, I’m a gentleman—I’ll start
Me: are you about to text me a backstory essay about your father while running?
Reed: Yes please hold.
It’s 8:53 when the barista yells Ribby and presents my drink. I grab it and run. I have three blocks and an elevator to ride to the office, and my meeting is at nine o’clock.
I’ve conjured the loose outline of a plan: Meet with Maya—hopefully it’s just a quick face-to-face in prep for my pending contract renegotiation and imminent pay bump. Then, casually stop by Ted’s office. Tell him how the end of the relationship was shitty and assert a request for an apology.
I can do that. A Ted conversation is overdue.
The journal’s right: I have a bad habit of avoiding dealing with past relationships.
Once they break, we never speak again. I just write about it and share with the general public.
It’ll be healthy to . . . tie things up so we’re on good terms. (Good’s a strong word. Neutral. Neutral terms.)
My phone buzzes as I’m sprinting across the second block.
Reed: My dad passed in a car accident when I was 18. Forced me and my brother to grow up pretty fast.
Me: oh my god Reed, I’m so sorry.
Reed: Thanks.
Reed: our relationship was pretty tumultuous toward the end and he passed before I could apologize for being a dick and make things right.
Me: That’s horrible. I’m so, so sorry. What triggered the turmoil? [Running into a meeting apologies in advance for my delayed response]
I chug my iced triple-espresso latte in the elevator. I feel like an asshole, leaving this conversation right as Reed’s opening up, but I have one minute to get to my meeting.
I put my phone on silent, drop it in my bag, and stride through the door of Maya’s office at 9:00 a.m. sharp, sucking down the dregs of my drink.
Maya looks up from her computer as I pull out the bright-orange chair next to her desk and take a seat. “Good morning, Rikki!”
I smile warmly at my boss, a sharp-witted late-fifty-something Asian woman who dresses to the nines every day. “Morning, Maya. Hope you’re well.”
Maya nods. “I am!” She laughs, shuffling some papers into a pile and putting them off to the side. “Did you . . . run here?”
Yes. “Power walked!” I chuckle awkwardly. “Why do you ask?”
“You look sweatier than usual.”
“Do I usually look sweaty?”
“No, hence the than usual bit of that sentence.”
“I was running a little behind, and I didn’t want to be late for our meeting.”
“You need a second to grab some water? Your cheeks are flushed.”
I wave her off. “No, I’m all good, we can start. I’m excited to hear what’s going on.”
She folds her hands on the desk and smiles. “Okay! Well, for starters I wanted to tell you the column’s doing great—record highs on clicks thanks to the podcast.”
“That’s fantastic!” I beam.
“Your contract renewal is coming up for the podcast,” Maya continues.
Well aware. My smile falters as a cramp pierces my abdomen.
“I can’t tell you how much glowing feedback we’ve been receiving from your show these past six months. You know you’re pulling in over half a million views per episode now.”
I nod. Yes, I do know. I’ve been waiting for y’all to acknowledge it.
“It’s hovering right above the amount of people we have subscribed via print. You should be very proud—you’ve spread The Minute to a whole new demographic.”
My stomach seizes as a bolt of pain spikes through me.
“With the column and the pod’s success, we’ve infiltrated the peak millennial and zillennial age bracket.”
I keep nodding, inhaling and exhaling until the ache recedes. “Thank you, ma’am. Yes, I’m really proud of how it’s all been doing. I’ve been giving it my all.”
“And it shows! Listenership has been growing steadily now for months.”
I try to smile again. “Yes, I know.” I close my eyes as a higher caliber of pain rakes through me. Fuck.
She eyes me with concern. “Are you all right?”
I heave out a slow breath. Hold on for a few more minutes. Let her get to the point. “Yep, I’m fine! Please continue.” A raise. Mention a raise, Maya.
“Well, I’m not the only one who’s noticed the great work you’re doing.” She pauses.
I raise my brow expectantly. Good. Spit it out, please. “Oh?” I prompt.
“Yes, are you ready for this?” She waggles her brows at me.
I press my lips out into an exaggerated duck face to mask the cramping in my gut. “Ready as I’ll ever be!”
“A producer from Netflix has been in contact with us over the past week.”
I suck in a sharp breath, 50 percent excitement, 50 percent agony. “Oh my god!”
“She’s extremely interested in turning the Love Today podcast into a show. She loves your voice. They want you to pitch creative for a series.”
That’s amazing! Too bad I’m about to die. I blink at her as a buzzing rises in my ears.
“That producer is going to be out here mid-September for another project. She’s going to stop into the office during that time to hear your pitch.
If you’re interested, that is. She’s looking for a pilot episode, a season-one outline, and a rough synopsis of where you would take the next two seasons.
I think it’s a fantastic opportunity not only for you, but for The Minute . . .”
I bolt from the chair as a fresh storm of pain thunders through me. “Maya, I am so sorry, can you hold that thought? Excuse me, for just a moment, I’ll be right back!”
“Okay—”
I sprint from her office.
Muscles tensed, I power walk robotically across the no-man’s-land cubicles to the far end of the floor. Netflix wants to work with me? They want me to pitch creative? This is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened! This is cooler than Kelly Clarkson!
I’m ten feet out from the bathrooms. The waves are becoming unbearable.
Coming closer and closer together. Fuck three shots of espresso.
Fuck them straight to hell! Is this thirty?
Not being able to handle pounding espresso?
I smash into the first bathroom door with my palm on the handle, but it doesn’t budge.
My momentum causes the side of my cheek to bounce against the gender-neutral restroom sign.
I glance down at the lock to find it flipped to occupied.
Oh no.
I fumble to the second door. It’s also flipped to occupied.
No. No. No. No! I have to consciously decide not to bang on the doors like the victim in a horror movie because, dear god, that’s the initial instinct. I pull my muscles taut as my body fights itself.
Fuck.
The door next to the bathroom is Ted’s. It’s ajar. It’s empty.
I stumble in, slam the door shut, and flip the lock.