Authors: Shannon McKelden
Obviously I’d been walking around with blinders on, like the horses who pulled the carriages in Central Park. It wasn’t the first time a relationship had gone sour on me. However, it was the first time I’d been caught unaware. This time, I was as prepared as I’d have been to step off a curb and get hit by a bus.
When Mo and I broke up, it had mostly been because I wasn’t willing to don the robes of Tibetan monks and move halfway around the world. But, I hadn’t been unprepared for that break-up. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know that a guy who spends more time conversing with a Paint by Number Elvis than other humans has had a few brain cells “leave the building” and isn’t exactly long-term relationship material.
And even though Lance’s proclamation of love had been a surprise, I’d suspected something was going on for a while. He started watching me with dreamy eyes. He spoke more softly to me and gazed longingly at children in Central Park when we ran. At least a dozen times, he opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again without saying anything. He should have just kept it shut.
Terrance had been obvious, too. I wasn’t all that surprised he was having a fling on the side. In fact, I probably (purposely) overlooked the signs because everything else was moving along smoothly. Once April started drying her pantyhose on my shower curtain rod, though, all bets were off. The only thing I’d been confused about in that relationship was why Terry felt the need for other women. It wasn’t like we lacked anything in our sex life. He said it was because it was nice to have someone need him. At the time, I didn’t get it. I still didn’t get it now, but the words echoed in my head, a reflection of what Kevin had told me a week ago. “It would be really nice to be needed once in a while.”
What the hell did that mean?
All in all, though, I hadn’t been surprised or overly concerned with the demise of any of my previous relationships. That was normal, right? Relationships were temporary. Finite. I even made it easier on myself by not getting too attached in the first place.
I switched off the mike, allowing Garth Brooks to take over with “The Dance.” It fit my mood, but I muted it when Cleo’s sobs came over my earphones.
“Come on, Clee,” I pleaded, entering the room formerly known as Cleo’s Domain. “Don’t do this. We’ll find jobs.”
“Separate jobs,” she croaked. “It won’t be the same.”
She was right, it wouldn’t be the same. I had to focus on the hope that I’d get a better job out of this. Maybe I’d find a position at a bigger station, get better pay, have a bigger audience. Once the award was official, I’d have leverage. The world hadn’t ended, and I would work again, despite the fact that I’d had no luck in the job search this week. I called the New Jersey station, but they weren’t hiring—not a Morning Girl
or
a Late-Night-No-One’s-Going-To-Listen-To-You-Anyway Girl. I realized now, more than ever, I needed that award on my résumé. I still didn’t know where I’d find a job in the near future, but the award would be the clincher when I did.
I patted Cleo’s shoulder. “When I get back from vacation, I’ll call to see if you’ve come up with anything. If not, we’ll implement a plan and find ourselves new jobs. Maybe even together. Think of this as a rest period.”
She blew out a nicotine-scented breath. “I’m going to smoke. It’s the only thing I got left in my life.”
She paused and looked up at me, before putting her arms around me and giving me a tentative hug. Hugging wasn’t something Cleo did. We were alike in that way. I patted her back just as tentatively.
She smiled a watery-eyed smile. “See ya ’round, kid.”
I watched Cleo stride down the hall and swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe I wouldn’t be back here next Monday. Or ever.
The office was somber as I left. I turned down Joe’s invitation to one last lunch. I told him I’d rather he took me out when I got back from vacation, to give me something to look forward to, and he agreed.
Katya and Adair walked me to the elevator when it came time to vacate the premises.
“You going to be okay going home by yourself?” Adair rested his arm on my shoulder and searched my eyes for signs of depression. “I could fake PMS and blow this joint and keep you company.”
I laughed. Adair frequently threatened to fake PMS to get his way around the office. He’d probably get away with it. He was a natural-born drama queen, wasting away in the sales department of a radio station.
“No thanks.” I slipped out from under his arm to punch the down button on the elevator bank. “I’m going to go home, make a good dinner and see if I can get Kevin to speak to me again.”
“He’s still not talking to you?” Katya asked, handing me the day pack containing all my worldly goods, or at least the ones that had been part of WKUP since I started working here six years ago. “That’s not fair! Just because you don’t want to get married—”
“Don’t forget that I’m also childish and immature,” I interrupted, not bothering to keep the bite out of my voice. “Oh, and I need a keeper.”
“Sounds like someone else is PMSing,” Adair declared. “You want me to come over there and take him down a notch? I could, you know.”
I laughed. “What? Outrun him?”
“Hey! I boxed in high school.”
Katya and I both turned to stare at Adair, our mouths hanging open.
“You allowed people to hit your
face?
” Katya asked.
Adair pulled himself up to his full five foot five. “It was before I came out. I didn’t know the importance of protecting my assets.” He framed his face with his hands, as if cradling a priceless piece of art. “And I had a lot of rage. Boxing was my outlet. Really. My
out
-let. That’s when I discovered sweating did nothing for my complexion or my wardrobe.”
Katya and I cracked up, breaking the tension.
The elevator showed up just then.
“I’ll be fine, you guys. I’ll call you later. Maybe we can run tomorrow.”
Without waiting for an answer, I swapped places with the lone guy who’d ridden the elevator up—a Korean guy in a suit, surprise, surprise—and gave them a quick wave as the doors closed.
I felt like I was leaving home.
Kevin was alone, though, head bent over his desk, piles of paperwork around him, boxes of take-out stacked on the piles.
“Knock, knock,” I said, raising my hand to the door and tapping.
Kevin glanced up, looking startled to see me at the door and not one of his coworkers. He stood. “Margo. What are you doing here?”
“Came to check on you.” I moved to the back of the black leather visitor’s chair. “You never come home anymore.”
He shrugged and sat down again. “Why should I?
He’s
still there.”
“He, who?”
He made a stabbing motion at my chest, where “Elvis” was spelled out in multicolored rhinestones. I stared at the sparkling letters for a minute before looking back at Kevin and blinking.
“You’re jealous of a dead man?”
“Oh, you mean you actually realize he’s dead?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “I wasn’t sure.”
“Of course, I know he’s dead! What’s your problem?”
He slammed his pen down onto the desk and stood again, glaring at me. “My problem is your childishness, Margo. Do you know that the day after the party I threw for your stupid award—because I was trying to be a nice, supportive boyfriend and trying to make my friends and coworkers
like
you—Kramer called me into his office to ask when I was going to get a
real
girlfriend? A girlfriend I’d be proud to take to company functions? A girlfriend I wouldn’t have to worry might show up in sweaty rags when I decided to throw a surprise party for her?”
“For God’s sake, Kevin! It was a
surprise
party! How was I supposed to know to dress for the occasion? I usually leave my Versace at home when I run. Sweat stains tend to make the sequins lose their glitter.”
“See? Your sarcasm is beneath you. Beneath me. I was mortified to be reprimanded for your sophomoric behavior.”
My grip on the back of the chair became lethal. If I actually had fingernails, I’d have punched holes in the thick leather. I’d never taken part in a more asinine argument and, believe me, I’d been in some doozies.
“Have you considered growing some balls?” I asked. “Or telling Kramer I’m a grown woman and can do whatever the hell I want?”
“No. Because I agree with him. Your juvenile behavior needs to be stemmed. Right now. Make a decision.” Kevin squared his shoulders and settled his hands on his hips. “Elvis or me.”
“I’m not getting rid of my Elvis collection,” I said.
Kevin’s lightly stubbled jaw dropped in shock. Clearly, he thought I was most women. “You mean you’d choose a dead man over me?”
“It has nothing to do with that,” I protested. “It has to do with the fact that you’re being totally irrational. Talk about juvenile. ‘You like Elvis better than you like me,’” I taunted in a sing-song voice I last heard—and used—in kindergarten.
“See! That’s what I mean,” Kevin yelled. “I never said that.”
“Not in so many words. But it meant the same thing. Besides, what’s the difference between my Elvis collection and your…your tie collection?”
“Canali and Fendi ties can’t even be compared to your Elvis crap. I wear them.”
“I wear my white fringed jumpsuit,” I pointed out, then pointed to my chest, just like Kevin had done a few minutes ago. “I wear my Elvis T-shirts.”
“Halloween costumes are not the same as business attire.”
“What have you been doing, bottling all this up for the last two years, just waiting to explode?” I said.
“I guess so!” Kevin rounded the desk and I flinched as he advanced on me, blue eyes blazing almost black. He made no motion toward me, though, and I forced myself to relax. Forced my heart to slow again. Only now I was even angrier because I’d let him intimidate me, even for a second.
Then I realized he was searching my eyes like people do in the movies, just before they kiss each other.
He didn’t try to kiss me, thank God, because I was in a pissy enough mood to do some damage, but he did raise his hands to touch me. I backed up. He let me.
Finally he spoke. “Look, maybe we can put the Elvis problem aside. If we buy a house, you can have a room, just for your collection. Out of my sight, out of my mind. You can spend all the time you want in your Elvis room, and I won’t have to be embarrassed.”
I shook my head and fought to unclench my jaw before I broke a tooth. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Kevin. This isn’t about Elvis. This is about us not wanting the same things. We’re not buying a house. I’m not marrying you.”
“This is important,” he said firmly. “All the junior and senior partners are married.”
“It’s a requirement?”
“Well, no, but if they all are…”
“They can’t make you get married to get a promotion.”
Kevin ignored me. “Are you unwilling to compromise on this at all, Margo?”
I watched him for a minute, and as I did, all the things he’d said to me—twice now—went through my head.
You’re such a child.
I’ve
let
you play music and call it a career.
That stupid award
.
I knew in that moment, that even if Kevin dropped the whole marriage idea—and guaranteed he would never, ever bring it up again—things would never be the same. When I got a new DJ job, I’d know Kevin thought my career was unimportant. When I trained for the New York City Marathon and improved my time from last year, I’d know Kevin thought it was a waste. And, when I found that elusive Elvis piece on eBay and secured it for my collection, I’d know I was verifying yet again for Kevin that I was beneath him.
I didn’t feel beneath Kevin. I had enough self-esteem to realize Kevin wasn’t better than me, no matter our difference in careers or interests or opinions on marriage.
Even if I didn’t believe it, Kevin did, and I couldn’t stand knowing that.
I felt like I was seeing him for the first time. For all his polished good looks, I really didn’t know him. He’d “kept” me under false pretences. If he didn’t care about me for who I was, then he didn’t really care. No matter what trite little words he threw at me when the mood struck.
“No, Kevin, I won’t compromise.” I squared my shoulders to show it didn’t bother me. I knew what was coming. “I don’t want to get married. To you or anyone else.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You don’t want to marry me anyway, Kevin. Why would you want to marry someone ‘childish and juvenile,’ and—what was it?—‘sophomoric’?”
“You could change if you really wanted to.”
“So could you. But, I’d never ask you to.”
I turned to leave his office. There’d be no compromise. The hurtful words had been said.
“Margo.”
I turned at the door.
“I’d like you out of the apartment by Friday. Maybe you can get the renters to give you your apartment back. That is why you kept it after all, isn’t it?”
I didn’t dignify his pout with an answer. It didn’t matter that he was right.