Emily's Reasons Why Not (7 page)

Phrases like “
This is the hardest decision I ever had to make and you’ll always have a special place in my heart”
play on a looped tape in my brain.

BULLSHIT …

I open the
Hollywood Reporter
, take the lid off my Starbucks and begin reading. There on page one is a picture of my ex-power prince, David, shaking hands with the CEO of our competitor … the headline reads:

DAVID JENKINS THROWS IN WARNER TOWEL TO JOIN THE MICKEY MOUSE CLUB

This has to be a mistake!

At the moment I think I am going to throw up, JJ comes in my office. “Avery wants to see you.” She puts her head down and walks out.

I immediately call Josh. He’ll know how to deal with Avery.

“You never really realize how much someone is shielding you until they’re gone,” Josh echoes out of my speakerphone. “The mere fact that you were dating—associated with—someone of power meant you were … well … protected.”

“So what happens now?”

“You’re fucked. No longer an endangered species and it’s hunting season in the PR department. But don’t worry, Kitten, you’ve got a job here.”

“I have to go. Anything I should or shouldn’t say?”

“My advice would be to throw yourself on her mercy. Good luck.”

As I walk through the hallway toward Avery’s office, assistants
look up at me as I pass their desks. One woman actually peers out her doorway.

I walk past David’s office, which is dark and locked up. He is nowhere to be found, Josh was right. I am totally fucked.

“Fired?”

Reason #10:
You get fired
.

Did Avery just say fired?

“You can’t fire me for this! That’s reverse sexual harassment. I’ll sue,” I respond. My boss produces a five hundredpage corporate handbook on policy and procedure and sets it on her desk with a THUMP.

I took Josh’s advice and begged and pleaded. My boss, a woman, an angry executive … my mentor, Avery, gave me a second chance. Maybe it is just a woman thing to grant second chances. I went back to my office with my tail between my legs because it was the only option I had for my future.

Dr. D. hands me a Kleenex. Hmm, I don’t remember when it was that I started crying. I blow my nose.

“Why didn’t you just quit and take the job with Josh?”

“I had to face the people who stereotyped me and change their point of view that I was the corporate hooker or I’d have no chance. I would be forever whispered about as the woman who slept with David Jenkins. The town’s too small. It could be at a party, convention, or in a boardroom, but that is how all of my peers would have remembered me.”

“Smart. You didn’t run away. See, there’s hope for you yet.”

Los Angeles is known for many things, but one of its more famous qualities is the ability to change your image. Whether it is a face-lift, new boobs, or your reputation, if you want it bad enough, you will get it in L.A. I needed major corporate image surgery.

“I spent the next year wearing flat shoes and pantsuits to the office, but kept working. No Gucci stilettos, no sexy
Melrose Place
suits, no late lunches. When David got brought up, I admitted my mistake versus screaming at the top of my lungs that I had been duped by the biggest asshole alive. Self-deprecation, humor, and hard work got me through.

“Avery is the one who told me to invest in pantsuits and flats. Thank God for female mentors. Who knows, maybe Avery, like me, had made this mistake and she knew how to survive it. I wasn’t alone. I can’t be the only one who ever slept with the boss and had the ugly office affair.”

“I assure you, you’re not. But time’s up. I want you to do this again for the next man who didn’t work out. Okay?”

I nod.

Blowing my nose in the bathroom of Dr. D.’s office, I study my face in the mirror. Closer, closer. Pat some powder on my red nose, take a deep breath. David hadn’t killed me. David hadn’t kept me down. I am still here. I smile to myself. Still the same Em, hoping for love, knowing it’s coming. I turn and wad up my tissue and shoot it from the three-point range of the sink, and it lands in the garbage. I hold my hands in the air …“ahhhhhh!”

Reason #10:
You get fired
.

Reason #9:
Crying at work is unacceptable
.

Reason #8:
People will talk about how well you perform in bed versus how well you perform your job
.

Reason #7:
If your friends, mentors, and co-workers think your boyfriend has ulterior motives, he probably does
.

Reason #6:
If what you’re doing for your boyfriend can get you fired, stop doing him
.

Reason #5:
If you have to hide your relationship, it isn’t worth hiding
.

Reason #4:
If helping your boyfriend makes you lie to your friends, boss, and mentor, don’t help him
.

Reason #3:
That which is considered scandal in a relationship is bad, really, really, bad
.

Reason #2:
If there are kitschy little sayings about the guy you’re dating, there is probably a universal reason why it is a bad idea
.

Reason #1:
If your boss is bigger than life in your company, that doesn’t necessarily mean he is bigger than life in real life
.

Chapter three

Leave It in St. Croix

T
he Mustang pulls into a spot on Barrington and I run into the Starbucks on the corner of San Vicente for a quick, triple-venti, nonfat, no-foam, three-Sweet’n-Low-latte, stopping for a moment to listen to a boyish troubadour with a guitar praising the notion of sleeping the day away. How decadent, what a wonderful idea. I think for a split second about how opposite that is from my life right now as I shotgun and brace for the boost of energy. The latte goes down hot and fast, like I wish my new boyfriend would, and in moments I am …

In Dr. D.’s waiting room.

The door opens and he’s right there with that soothing voice, wrapping me up in his Xanax tone. His voice should be a prescription drug. I’m eager to know, “Do you think it’s
weird that Stan, after three dates, doesn’t want to get naked? Doesn’t even try?”

“
Weird
is not a behavior adjective I like to use.”

“Well, we need to talk about it,” I say

“Where’s his list? Have you even thought or tried to write one for Stan?”

I interrupt, “He wore trunks to the beach, which was cool, but when he took them off he was wearing a little tiny Speedo. Granted, he did swim in the ocean for a while, but he was wearing a … banana hammock. I think that will bother me after a while. But I am not sure if it qualifies as a reason, it’s kinda like the waxed brows.”

I change the subject. “Here’s my list for St. Croix guy.”

I hand it over and slump back on the couch. It feels nice to relax, if even for a moment. My life has been a little hectic lately. My work has become my reason for being.

I can remember a time when work was the furthest thing from my mind.

The time machine races back in my brain, past late nights alone and days spent working off the repercussions of almost a year without David. The white fur fades out of Sam’s face back to a time when he was still spry. The stress lines magically dissolve from mine as if Botox had already been approved by the FDA. It had been one year and nine months since I’d had a vacation. I was twenty-seven years young and over the train wreck that was David Jenkins. Prick. Almost a full year spent working late, working early, working overtime. Never complaining. Sucking ass. Being a corporate team
player. Believing and creating propaganda was my mission statement. Generous listening was my motto. Only to be promoted to a higher volume of exploded egos and greater stakes.

Grace finished her doctorate in psychology with me as her subject for dating people you work with. I feel very proud to be the topic of her thesis. On our limited incomes, she needed the practice and I needed the therapy. Fortunately her thesis passed. But I am still single. Reilly is dating Bob. She’s got a new job, working with Clinique, so she’s keeping me rolling in free lip liner and facial skin care products.

Flying to St. Croix, my eyes gaze over miles of blue-green water and white sand beaches dotted with red umbrellas that change to navy followed by green ones. From the air they represent the flags of each resort. I watch a couple riding horses along the surf, sigh, and feel myself slipping into the land of make-believe until I remember that my mom is sitting next to me. Her bright red lipstick reminds me that it’s VD, Valentine’s Day, as she reapplies after the eight-hour flight from Los Angeles. I shake the ice in my plastic cup and down the last of my Bloody Mary.

This is the perfect escape, just mom-and-daughter time. Beach time, drinking time, playing time. No beefy forearm distractions, tight buns, or tan abs with water dripping off that curve above the hip, that yummy male muscle. God! A year is too long to go without affection or at least heavy petting.

Jesus, enough already! Needless to say, there will be none of that. Just yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum … with Bitsy.

I pull my Ping ball cap down low over my bangs, slip on my dark shades, and tighten my seat belt for landing. A yellow 1970s VW van from the resort picks us up on the tarmac. Mom and I pile in behind the driver’s seat with our luggage. The driver, a tan American kid, listens to Bob Mar-ley on the stereo as he drives and looks me over in the rearview mirror. He glances at my mom and smiles back at me. I smile at him, as I don’t think he is old enough to be dangerous.

“Welcome to St. Croix. First time?” Driver Boy questions.

“Yes,” Mom says. “Do you live here?”

“Yeah, I moved down after college. My parents thought I was going to Georgetown Law, but instead I ended up in St. Croix and never went home. They think I’m in my third year of business law,” he chuckles.

Correction, law school age is definitely old enough to be dangerous. Trickery on his own parents can 100 percent lead to trickery on women.

The oceanfront goes by with surfers, locals, and couples lying on the beach. My eyes hidden behind my glasses eventually land back on Driver Boy.

“Are you babes single?”

Just shoot me now. Why does my dating status have any relevance to the boy driver of our van? Why is that any of his business?

“Yes, and we’re looking to get grrroooovy,” Mom says, nudging me in the side.

Oh my God. What is going on here? Did my mom just say
“looking to get groovy” to a horny schoolboy? I am not looking to get groovy. I am looking to hide. I am looking for peace and quiet, nurturing from my mother. I am looking for a calm inside, not to get groovy with some trickery-filled slacker on an island who drives a VW.

“You shouldn’t have any problems, the scene is full of guys like me willing to show you a good time.” The VW comes to a stop. I look at my mom.

“Groovy?” I ask, eyeballing her.

Driver Boy, whom I notice is six foot one, lanky, and hot in his Hawaiian shirt, slides the van door open for me. I grab my bag and jump out as he hands my mom his card.

“Call me if you need,” he raises his eyebrows and glances at me, “… a ride.”

I slam the van door as Mom looks him over. “Thanks, we will.”

We walk up the wooden steps to the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, Mom wraps her arm around my shoulder and gives me a good squeeze. “I know you wish you were here with a boyfriend, but let’s make the best of it,” she says as a pretty, tan island girl puts flowers around both of our necks and welcomes us to paradise.

Is it too early to drink?

As if reading my mind, she points to the small bar nestled in the middle of the pool. “Neat.”

A tropical paradise, with cool breezes and the sound of the ocean waves crashing on the shore. I am in heaven. I float around the pool on my blue raft with a frozen strawberry
daiquiri in hand. Mom plays bunko with a few older women around a bar table.

This is what I needed. Rest. No men, no drama, no problems. Just alcohol, more rest, and more alcohol. I close my eyes and drift off to la-la land.

Second day in paradise. I awake to the sound of a
BEEP-BEEPING
alarm clock, roll over, and look at the time, 7:00 A.M.

I smack it off the nightstand, pull the covers up, and roll over. Scrunching my eyes closed, I pretend that my mother is not scurrying around the room with her long khaki shorts, large straw hat, 35mm camera, video camera, knapsack, and purse in hand.

I scratch my eyes and roll over as she rips the sheets off my body only to realize that I am naked. “Jesus!”

“Up, up, up,” she says, on too much coffee.

Did I mention we were sharing a room? My eyes are dry and burning. My head is pounding. Wow, rum should not be put in the same fat frozen glass with fruit juices.

“We are going on a hiking tour of the island. I signed us up yeterday,” she adds eagerly.

“No way. I am on vacation, Mom. Leave me alone.” I grasp for the sheets.

Thump!
My body hits the floor from Mom shoving me off my twin bed with her feet on my bare bottom.

Why, why didn’t I spend the two hundred dollars to have my own room?

“It’s a hundred dollars a person for the tour and hike.

We’re prepaid and I can’t get my money back … now get your butt out of bed.”

She stands with her hands on her hips at the end of my bed. “Your naked butt,” she cocks her head at me. “Where are your pajamas?”

I bury my head in the pillow on the floor. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars to leave me alone,” I moan.

She sits on the end of my bed looking down at me. UGH! I know what’s coming. A change in her tactics. Anger and rules never worked with me as a child. Guilt did, and continues to be the way to get me to do any thing I don’t want to do.

“Em, I don’t ask for much. Please, won’t you go with me? Spend some time with your ole mom. I want to share it with you. You’re my girl.” I stand up and my mother looks at me from head to toe.