Authors: Meredith Schorr
“Did you send that email to Bartlett?” Rob asked.
Without batting an eyelash, I responded, “Did you ask me to?”
Rob offered a bemused smile. “Touché. I thought you might be too busy working on your blog to attend to such menial tasks like getting your work done.”
“When has my blog ever gotten in the way of attending to your business, Rob?” Rob loved to give me shit about my blog, but I knew he was joking. I had only worked with him at our current firm for four months, but had been his assistant at his previous one for close to two years. He had left our old firm more than six months earlier, leaving me behind with a promise to use his influence to get me hired as well. We worked well together. Although in his mid-fifties,
Rob had the energy of a teenager and was extremely high-strung. I knew how to take him down a notch without threatening his
authority.
“What blog?”
I felt a flush creep across my cheeks as I turned around to face
the source of the question. I wasn’t surprised, since I blushed whenever I talked to Nicholas, even when the phone rang at work and I saw his name on my caller ID.
“You didn’t know about Kim’s blog?” Rob asked, his blue eyes reflecting amusement.
Nicholas shook his head, not removing his eyes from mine.
All I could think about was running my fingers along the dark stubble on his jawline. Never completely clean shaven, he currently looked like he hadn’t touched a razor in several days. I held his gaze willing my voice not to give away my crush, but the heat on my face suggested a crimson complexion that probably already had. “I have a blog where I write book reviews.” I figured Nicholas didn’t know about my blog since our opportunities to socialize outside of work had been few and far between in the four months we’d worked together. It was that unfamiliarity which I blamed for my chronic bashfulness in his presence.
Well, that and his overwhelming sex appeal.
Unable to maintain eye contact a second longer, I glanced back at Rob hoping he’d pick up the dialogue.
“It’s incredibly popular. Publishers actually beg my secretary to read and review their client’s novels on a daily basis.” Rob beamed at me like a proud uncle as if he was somehow responsible for my blog’s immense popularity.
I turned back to Nicholas and smiled shyly. “Every other day basis is probably more accurate but yes, it’s a widely read blog. I have several thousand followers and get requests from authors, publicists and agents pretty often.”
Nicholas looked at me with admiration. “Awesome. What types of books do you review?”
I hated this part of telling people from work about my blog. I
never knew if the attorneys would raise their noses in the air and judge my taste in “literature.”
Here goes nothing.
“Chick lit,” I
admitted.
Nicholas tilted his head to the side. “Like the gum?”
I giggled as if I’d never heard that one before. “Yes, it’s called chick lit, like the gum. But it’s also a book genre. Like
Bridget Jones’s Diary
,
The Devil Wears Prada
. You know?”
Nicholas looked thoughtful as he rubbed his thumb along his chin. “My ex-girlfriend had a bunch of books with pink covers. Were those chick lit?”
Forcing myself to stay focused instead of wondering what his ex-
girlfriend was like, how long ago they broke up and why, I smiled and said, “Probably.” Although chick lit had certainly evolved beyond stereotypical pink covers, it wasn’t the time to go into
defense-mode.
Nicholas smiled wide. “Very cool, Kim!” Glancing at his empty glass, he said, “Time for a refill. Be right back” and walked towards the bar.
I tore my eyes away from the back of Nicholas’ light blue business shirt and back to Rob. But Rob was now talking to Lucy about some guy she had deposed the previous day.
Boring work talk.
I downed the rest of my prosecco and walked over to the bar. After quickly getting the bartender’s attention, I ordered another glass, on Rob’s tab of course, and observed Nicholas finish sending a text. As he smiled into his phone, I felt my Hanky Panky thong practically melting off. At only about 5”7’, his stature might have kept him off of some women’s top five lists but since I was vertically challenged too, he was currently number one on mine. I couldn’t even think of who would follow him in second and third place.
“Penny for your thoughts, Blogger Girl.”
I snapped out of my list making and faced Nicholas, silently praying he was not a mind reader.
He looked at me expectantly.
I swung my free hand in dismissal and lifted my drink towards him. “Nothing important. Cheers!”
Nicholas clinked his glass against mine, said, “Cheers” and took a sip of his drink.
Following his lead, I took a sip of mine.
Nicholas inched closer to me. Speaking in almost a whisper, he said, “Having fun yet?”
Very aware that we’d never stood this close to each other and that these were practically the most words we’d ever exchanged one on one, I replied with faux nonchalance, “Can’t really complain about free drinks. You?” The cuffs of his shirt sleeves had been pushed up to his elbows and I pondered whether the dark hair on his arms was coarse or soft. I wondered what it would feel like to
run my fingers up and down his arm. I also wondered if he could hear my heart beating through my chest.
“Definitely can’t complain about that,” Nicholas agreed. “And a break from work is always welcome, especially these days.” He smiled. “Doing anything good this weekend?”
I had practically forgotten it was Thursday night, which was odd for me since I lived for the weekends when my secretarial duties did not get in the way of my reading. “Not sure yet. Probably drinks with friends. And I need to catch up on some reading. For the blog. What about you?”
Please don’t mention a girlfriend.
“Oh, this and that.” His eyes glowed, almost like he was holding back a secret.
I bit down on my lip and without thinking, blurted out, “Do This and That have last names?”
Nicholas gave me a once over before shaking his head laughing. “I’ll probably spend most of it at work actually. So, tell me more about this blog.”
I tipped my head to the side. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know. Like, what made you start it?”
“The condensed version or the truth?”
Nicholas cocked an eyebrow. “How long of a story is the truth?”
“Why? Do you have a date to rush off to?” I swallowed hard.
Nice, Kim.
Laughing, he said, “It’s just that your answer was rather mysterious, you know?”
I shuffled my feet. “Well, I usually tell people I started the blog because I’ve always loved to read, blah, blah, blah.”
“Blah blah blah. Gotcha.”
After he said that, he winked at me and when my knees wobbled in response, I grabbed the bar with my free hand. “The truth is that one day I was bored at home surfing the internet and I found all of these blogs dedicated to romance books, like Harlequin stuff, and then I found some more devoted to science fiction, thrillers and so on. But I could barely find anything dedicated to chick lit and it pissed me off because I love it. I figured if I love it, there must be other girls who love it too and maybe if I started this blog, I’d find them and we’d bond.” I paused. “Aren’t you glad you asked?”
As his phone rang, Nicholas distractedly responded, “Yeah,
that’s cool,” before bringing it to his ear. He whispered, “Sorry”
before answering it.
I wondered if it was from “This” or “That.”
Nicholas hung up his phone and frowned at me. “I knew it wouldn’t last. I’ve gotta head back to the office.”
“Oh that sucks.” Of course, if he had to work late, there was less time for him to have sex with someone else later, except maybe Lucy the Librarian within the confines of one of their offices. Or maybe he didn’t really have to go back to the office but all of my blog talk had bored him so intensely that he was happy for any polite excuse to be free of me.
Snap out of it, Kim.
Nicholas shrugged. “The glamorous life of an associate. But it was nice talking to you, Kim! Don’t be a stranger.”
“You either. Don’t work too hard.”
“Tell that to him,” he said, gesturing towards Rob. With one last smile and a light tap on my shoulder, Nicholas walked away. As I answered another co-worker’s question about where I had bought my peep-toe bright red patent leather pumps, I saw him make his round of goodbyes and walk out of the bar.
Even though I was pleased that my banter with Nicholas had
finally progressed beyond telling him that Rob was in a meeting or
running late, I hoped I hadn’t gone too far with the blog talk. It
wouldn’t be the first time. Served him right for asking, although he
probably knew I wasn’t prepared to converse with him about
anything work-related. I looked inside my half empty glass. Rather than come out and chug almost two drinks, I should have used the time to read. I was too buzzed to concentrate on a book now and was positive I was incapable of writing a coherent review.
I grabbed my coat and walked over to Rob to say goodbye.
“You’re leaving before my big announcement?” Rob asked, his shoulders dropping.
I pretended not to notice his disappointment. Rob had a “thing” for making announcements. I wasn’t sure if the content of the speech mattered to him as much as the pleasure he seemed to derive from hearing his own voice against a backdrop of silence while he had everyone’s rapt attention. “Are we all getting six figure bonuses? And by ‘we all’, I mean secretaries included?”
Rob smirked at me. “Yeah, right.”
“Am I getting fired?”
“Not if you stay for my announcement.”
I glared at him.
“No, you’re not getting canned.”
“Then what is the announcement about this time?” I bet he hadn’t even written it yet.
Rob took a sip of his beer and looked down at the dirty floor. Looking back at me with a sheepish expression, he said, “I’m not
quite sure yet.”
Aha! I thought so. “Then I am going to excuse myself and you can repeat your brilliant announcement to me tomorrow.”
Insert kiss ass comment here.
“And I’m sure it will be brilliant.”
Rob gestured with his hand towards the entrance of the bar. “You’re excused.”
After I said my goodbyes to the rest of the squad, I walked out onto chilly 3
rd
Avenue. As I zipped up my jacket, it occurred to me that Nicholas had conveniently neglected to answer my question as to whether he had a date later. I walked back inside the first set of doors, removed my phone from my bag and texted Jonathan. I was as horny as a 15-year-old boy at a strip club.
I ROLLED OFF OF JONATHAN
and onto my back. Since I was
almost always on top when I slept with him, I wondered if all of his pot smoking made him incapable of doing the work. When we dated in high school, cheap beer, not weed, was his drug of choice.
“So what’s going on with you?” he asked, reaching over one of his lean arms to grab a cigarette from his midnight blue Ikea dresser.
I quickly got out of his bed. The smell of cigarettes made me sick. “When are you gonna quit smoking?”
“Hey, I don’t complain when you text me for a booty call so no complaining about the smoking.”
“Screwing me is not bad for your health!”
“That’s arguable,” Jonathan laughed as he scratched his unruly head of dark hair.
I swatted him with my pants before putting them back on. “Time for a haircut, Middleton!” Although I vaguely remembered being madly in lust with Jonathan when we were high school sweethearts from the ages of 16-18, we had been just friends for the past ten years. And friends with benefits off and on for the past two. I hadn’t
dated anyone I liked in a while, was uncomfortable taking home
strangers from bars and Jonathan was either too lazy or stoned to
make the effort. We fell into bed occasionally out of convenience and, that night, out of mere sexual frustration on my part.
Still lying on the bed, one arm extended behind his head,
Jonathan took a drag with his free hand. “How’s
Black is the New Purple
going these days?”
“
Pastel is the New Black
is going very well, thank you.” I chuckled. Jonathan never remembered the title of my blog but at
least he always managed to ask about it.
“Did you hear about Hannah Marshak?” He sat up and tapped his cigarette into an ashtray.
“Ugh. What about her?” Hannah was bitch central in my high school class. Well, at least to me and Bridget. She had more personalities than Sally Field in the movie
Sybil
and some of our
class probably thought she was cotton candy sweet.
“She wrote a book.”
I felt my face drain of color as I remembered Hannah suggesting in front of my entire 8th grade Home Economics class that I have an expert look at my Coach bag because the leather strap looked too dark to be authentic and she would feel
so
terrible if my mother had
spent money on a fake. Hannah came off looking like a Good
Samaritan
while I looked like the poor little girl with the knock-off bag. I considered donating the bag to Goodwill but Bridget said that would
be playing right into Hannah’s hands and talked me out of it. “She
what?
”
“She wrote a novel. Some crap about a chick in Paris.” Jonathan took another deep drag of his cigarette. “It’s being published.”
My throat burned as if I’d chain smoked a pack of Jonathan’s Marlboro Reds and I was afraid I was going to regurgitate prosecco all over his dirty wood floor. “I gotta go.”
“You alright?” Even though the effects of weed had seemingly
rendered Jonathan paralyzed in his relaxed position on the bed, I could hear a hint of emotion in his voice.
“I’m fine,” I lied. After squeezing my feet into my shoes, I
walked around to Jonathan’s side of the bed and kissed his stubbly cheek. “As always, thanks for the good time.”
“You can leave the money on the counter.”
“Fuck you.”
***
As soon as I got home, I called Bridget.
“Wow. Two actual phone calls in one day. How did drinks go? Did you and Mr. Strong go at it in the bathroom stall?”
“In my dreams. You’re never going to believe what Jonathan told me.”
After a brief hesitation, Bridget asked, “When did you talk to
Jonathan?”
“At his apartment earlier.”
“I thought you had drinks with work people?”
“I did. I went to Jonathan’s afterward.” I paced my studio apartment, still reeling from the news.
“Oh. Why?”
“Frustrated. Like I knew I would be. Jonathan is easy and available and after years of practice, he knows how to push my
buttons. But this is not why I called!”
Sounding meek, Bridget asked, “Why did you call?”
I was dying to tell her about Hannah but she didn’t sound right. “You okay, Bridge?”
I heard her take a drag of a cigarette. “I’m fine.”
“Ugh, between you and Jonathan, second hand smoke is gonna kill me.”
“Jonathan’s still smoking too?”
“Yes. The smoking is one thing, but he’s kind of gross in general these days. I don’t think he’s gotten a hair cut in six months.”
“Last time I saw Jonathan, his hair was cut close to his head, practically shaved.”
“I guess you haven’t seen him in a while. Now he looks like the straggly kitchen mop I had before I finally discovered the genius that is the Swiffer.”
Bridget let out a belly laugh. “I remember that mop. It looked like Bob Marley!”
“I made sure not to run my hands through it.” Clarifying my statement, I added, “Jonathan’s hair, not the mop. But back to you,
for someone who recycles and eats practically all organic, the smoking is a bit ironic, don’t you think?”
“I’m celibate, Kim. Let me have my nicotine.” I heard her take another drag.
“Whatever. No one is forcing you to allow one bad experience to turn you into a nun. Not all guys have crabs.”
Bridget exhaled loudly. “Have you ever had crabs, Kim?”
She knew the answer to that question. “No.” I’d never even had a yeast infection.
“I didn’t think so. Let me tell you, it’s not pleasant.”
“I can only imagine. Anyway, back to the reason for my call.”
“Which obviously wasn’t to tell me about the size of Nicholas’ penis.”
I pictured Nicholas naked. Although he was short, I had a
feeling he was not short changed where it mattered. “No. It’s about Hannah Marshak.”
Bridget groaned. “Ugh. What about that piece of shit?”
I smiled slightly. Bridget hated Hannah as much as I did and was the only girl who stood by me, defending the authenticity of my Coach bag. “She wrote a book.”
“What? No way!”
“Yes way,” I said sadly.
“I’m sorry, K,” Bridget said softly.
I wrapped my hair into a ponytail holder and kicked off my shoes. “Why are you sorry?”
“I know you wanted to be a writer back in high school.”
“And you wanted to be an astronaut.”
Bridget laughed. “Yeah. But I doubt Neil Armstrong tossed his cookies after riding roller coasters like me.”
I walked over to my bed, pulled down the comforter and sat on the edge. “Writing blogs is about all this girl can handle.” When I
wasn’t working, I was reading. When I wasn’t reading, I was
blogging. And when I wasn’t doing either of those things, I was responding to
emails from authors and publicists, maintaining my Facebook,
Twitter
and blog pages, corresponding with other bloggers about author blog tours and so many other tasks associated with running a
successful site. “Between the day job and the blog, I barely have time to wipe my ass, much less write a book. But I bet Hannah’s book sucks!”
“Definitely,” Bridget eagerly agreed. “But she would never
admit it. Just like when she insisted she was accepted to Brown University but chose to go to a state school out of loyalty to Plum and Marla who didn’t get in. Please. I’d really like to see that acceptance letter.”
I had to laugh. There really was no way Hannah had been accepted to an Ivy League school, but none of her minions dared to
challenge
her. “Maybe she’s lying about writing a book too?” Bridget
suggested.
“Yeah. I bet her rich parents hired a ghost writer,” I said,
although I doubted it.
“A what?”
“Never mind. I’m tired. Gonna pass out.”
“Jonathan wear you out?”
To brush my teeth or not brush my teeth, that was the question. I climbed into bed and cradled the phone in my neck. “It just feels like it’s been an unusually long day. Talk to you tomorrow, Bridge?”
“Of course. And no worries about the book. I’m sure it will crash and burn.”
I hung up and went to bed feeling slightly better.