“So, what’s going on with you?” I quickly changed the subject, steering it far away from butt plugs.
“Well, my boss is a dick but this job pays well, so fuck it. He’s got me running all over town for some traveling-dinner thing he wants to sponsor as part of New York Restaurant Week. He’s practically salivating to be the sponsor hotel. I’m going to blow up like the Goodyear blimp with all the places he has me eating.”
“Aw, poor baby. Did you have to shove down brunch at Balthazar and burgers at Minetta?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. And I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Must be all the extra pounds.”
“La-la-la, I’m not listening. You’re a beanpole, and I have to work the spinner bike like it’s a stripper pole. Although I lost some weight last week when I was home.”
Janie brought her thumb to my cheek and caressed my skin, her demeanor immediately changing. That was the thing about her—she was bitchy and bossy and self-centered, and dramatic. Maybe some would say narcissistic, but she was good to the core.
“How are you with all of that? I should be checking in more, but last week when you first got home, you seemed cool. Should I be bringing soup or whatever? Matzah ball? Mishmash? I’ll call mybubbeand ask where to get the best.”
Her soft, shiny, poker-straight black hair (thanks to the salon and those foul-smelling chemicals) whisked around my face as she came in to hug me tight, squeezing the ever-loving life out of me. I shoved her off after allowing her to hold on to me for an extra second.
“Gram was ninety-two,” I said, “and I’m fine. She lived a big, long, full life. And no, don’t bother yourbubbe. She’s probably involved in a week-long Mahj tournament, and doesn’t need to worry about soup.”
“By the way, if I start to play Mah-jongg, call the loony bin.” Janie constantly worried she would turn into the stereotypical Upper-East New Yorker like her mom.
“Of course. But seriously, last week it was my mom making me nuts, and she’s still at it. Can you believe she’s still trying to fix me up with Garrett, my half-Asian distant cousin? She’s so obsessed with me making a life, settling down. I think she forgets what it was like when she did it. She’s like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to marrying me off. Sometimes I’m afraid to go home for fear he’s hanging around on my stoop, waiting for me.”
Janie lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe you should move?”
I burst out laughing. Hiccups ensued and happy tears rolled from my eyes.
“Move? No way! I would never leave my rent-controlled place. Ever. But this is just so strange with my mom. She lived a nomad’s life before my dad, and now she’s so determined to see me settled ... with your type of guy. Are you two talking? Working together?”
The thought of moving was laughable enough, let alone doing it for a guy like Garrett, and Janie knew it. I’d fought like a bride in Filene’s Basement to get that condo. I would die there.
Alone—probably.
And that was pretty much how the rest of the evening went. Laughs, Janie rubbing up against multiple men, and more laughs.
Later, I crawled into bed, fluffed my pillows, and turned on Lucy.
I scanned my in-box for work stuff. Warm weather was quickly approaching, so the next few months would be a flurry of articles and features on flat stomachs, staying hydrated during outdoor summer exercise routines, and staying bikini-ready.
My team was champing at the bit to get a feature story. Poor Maggie, my newest intern, had sent me twelve pitches, not one of them original. The subject lines ranged fromLegs and Lunges in Central ParktoStaying Swimsuit Fab on the High Line. We’d done those articles every summer. They were filler, stuffed onto the pages ofBubblePOPwhen we didn’t have anything better—which was less and less often with me. I was upping my game.
I wrote back to Maggie, encouraging her to think outside the box, check out new trends, and come up with something fresher, hinting at a few untapped topics. Something that would get eyeballs on our site, lots of them.
I ignored the e-mail from my mom with nothing in the subject line. I knew it was a Garrett-fueled message.
The next e-mail was from my boss, Larissa. There was a staff meeting later this week, and I was expected to have a full report.
I clicked into my spam folder; I checked it once a day. I’d learned my lesson the hard way when Brooke Burke was trying to get a hold of me and her message went to spam. For some unknown reason, I decided to check the folder and there it was, luckily only a day after she sent it. That feature went wild; every woman over thirty who wanted to look like Burke clicked on it.
Of course, there wasn’t much tonight. I tossed a bunch of sale e-mails from J. Crew, Athleta, and Amazon into the trash folder until only one was left.
FROM:[emailprotected]
TO:[emailprotected]
SUBJECT: Apology
Dear Charleston –
Before you wonder, yes, I stalked you and found you, but only to say I’m sorry. I swear! Although there aren’t too many fitness editors named Charleston around, so you’re a pretty easy target.
