“I felt guilty all week. Nothing happened with her, but I realized you were right about the situation I put myself in. I'd be pretty pissed if you were meeting up with Nick every day for work."
“Nick?" I almost forgot his name after trying to erase the memory of that night.
“You know, your ex-lover, the one you were going to make chocolate bananas with before I came to your rescue?"
“That's not even funny," I tell him, laughing because it's a sick joke.
“Well, do you have feelings for her?" I ask as every muscle in my chest tightens with preparation for his response. I wonder if she's a model too, or an actress; someone in the show business industry. I always thought models and celebrities belong together because of their shared passion and lifestyle, both of which trump me and my breast milk job.
“No, none. I broke up with her because she was obsessive and smothering, controlling, and every other word that describes a psycho girlfriend."
“I'm sorry you've had to deal with that. How long ago did you break up?" Please don't say two weeks ago or something. Did we discuss exes? I thought we did, but I can't remember now.
“It was a little over two years ago. I took a break from dating altogether after I got rid of her. It was that bad. She's put a crimp in my mood this week, and it has me thinking about my life. The frustration has been eating away at me because I know I'm capable of more than delivering milk or being a sex icon for these lonely women. People kill to find their way into a modeling or acting career, but all I want is a regular corporate job and a normal life, but I feel like I'm moving farther and farther away from that idea each day.
I knew he wasn't happy with the modeling gigs, but I didn't realize he was this miserable. I wonder how long he has let these feelings muster? “I'm sure it will all come together for you. Everything takes time," I tell him.
“I don't have a degree. I need to start from scratch, and it seems impossible."
“Nothing is impossible." Just believe in yourself. Look in the mirror each morning and say:screw you, bitch. Today will suck more than yesterday. I think I forgot what I am supposed to be telling myself each morning.
“Do you know why I'm in the place I'm in?" he asks.
“I don't, but I was hoping to learn." I've wanted to know all about him for weeks but he's been one big mystery, it seems.
“My mother is a feminist, like a major feminist, one who finds every reason to picket and shout her beliefs and rights to the world."
“Oh … well, I don't think there's anything wrong with that. We all need people to speak about what we're thinking. Many people don't have the courage to speak up, right?" I think I'm trying to make myself feel better for having a big mouth. I should focus on what he's saying and stop interrupting for a change.
“It's not like that. My mother doesn't believe in equality between men and women. Instead, she believes women are better than men."
“Your mother believes an entire gender is better than another?" I ask.
“Yes, she sabotaged my life so I would never amount to what she did. I have decent looks, so I should use it as an advantage. Why take the job from a capable female in the business world when I have looks that can earn me the same kind of money? That's what she would say."
“That's terrible. How could anyone think like that?"
Wesley shrugs. “It's the same as some men believing certain woman are only good for their looks. It's a terrible feeling."
I wouldn't have thought Wesley has a story that brought him to this point.
“My parents went through a divorce, and they brought me into their issues and drama, so I put a separation between us. I can't complain when comparing to your situation, but they are the reason I have secluded myself in the city. Parents aren't always the best role models."
“Same here. My mom lives in New Jersey, my dad died before I was born and I'm an only child too."
“Well, aren't we sad sacks of nothing?" I say.
“So, there you have it. The story behind Wesley Moon, the low-level model who most of America hasn't heard of until slandered with anti-feminism two weeks ago."
“Your mother must not have taken that too well," I say, without thinking or realizing that his mother may be a contributing factor to his mood.
“I'm not even getting into that. I had to block her number last week so that should sum up that subject."
“I'm sorry," I offer, taking his hand. I don't know how he feels about me still, but he seems like he needs comfort.
“Me too," he says.
“Well, this is depressing."
