Gen
I’ve been randomly staring atthe number since what happened at The Plaza, wondering if I’ll ever find the courage to text it again. I haven’t renamed him—his caller ID is still Ladder Guy.
It would be completely insane to go through with my original plan. I want to get better at sex and prove that Edward’s wrong about me, but I’m notthatdesperate to do it. This isn’t me, which means I’ll probably end up deleting Mr. Clarke’s number without ever contacting him again.
I don’t know why I didn’t do that as soon as I exited The Plaza. Maybe because that kiss has been haunting me ever since. I’m not used to men being so domineeringly in charge, so his boldness frightened me. But the sensations it unleashed are even more worrying than that. How can a kiss be the most sexually loaded experience of my life? How is it possible that I felt more aroused by his expert lips devouring mine than I ever was during intercourse?
After all, maybe Hana was right, and saving intimacy for long-term partners is nothing like doing it with perfect strangers. That’s probably why I reacted so strongly to the ruggedly handsome Mr. Clarke. The forbidden aspect of our encounter had my body in a frenzy.
For the third time this Tuesday morning, I look away from my work and grab my phone. Rather than face the vast space of my corner office, I spin my desk chair toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a stunning view over Manhattan’s skyscrapers. Once my screen is unlocked, I open my messages with Edward.
Still nothing, even though today marks the tenth day of our separation. I’ll give it two weeks, and then I’ll reach out to ask if he’s settled at Frank’s and doing alright. I’m not sure yet if I want to salvage things with Eddie or move on. And if I decide on the latter course of action, is this the way? Sex with a stranger?
Before I know it, my thumb takes me to my exchanges with Ladder Guy. At this point, I know the few texts by heart.
Three knocks on my door shake me out of my thoughts. “Yes?” I call, turning my chair back in place. The door opens and Daisy, my assistant, enters my office holding a tall pile of carefully arranged folders.
“I’m done with it,” she says, setting the papers on the corner of my desk. Before I can straighten them myself, she does it, used to my orderly ways. “They said to contact them if you want to implement more changes.”
“Thank you, Daisy.”
“Oh, and your lunch meeting just called to see if you’d be alright with moving it back by an hour.”
I check my watch, do some calculations, and nod. “Call the restaurant to let them know.”
“Alright.” She then exits my office, her heels clicking on the polished floor.
My hand reaches out to the first folder on the pile, but I reconsider. I slept too little for this, and even though Daisy used sticky tabs to mark the edited paragraphs, it’ll take me hours to review it all. I need coffee.
As I make my way to the breakroom, it feels like everyone’s eyes are on me, but I blame it on fatigue-induced paranoia. Ever since the breakup, I’ve been perceiving every whisper as gossip about me, which is ridiculous. Nothing has changed regarding my professional life, so it’s all in my head. I’m still hard-working, still in designer clothes, and still running my department with a hand of steel.
It’s hard to keep believing it’s all a fabrication when I enter the spacious breakroom, and silence falls at once. Some people skedaddle back to the open floor as if I caught them slacking off, and the few that remain look away.
Eager to escape this oppressive space, I quickly pour myself a tall cup of coffee, grab stevia and creamer, and head back toward the door. Upon seeing Isabel though, I’m reminded of a matter I’ve meant to talk to her about.
“Isabel, are you done laying out the protocol for the new instruction manual’s format?”
Her eyes go round, betraying the fact that she forgot despite my reminding her several times. “I’m still working on that, sorry.”
“It’s a one-week task, Isabel. Which I gave to you three weeks ago. A lot of peoples’ work depends on it. Please, have it on my desk by tomorrow evening.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
Glad to have sorted this out, I resume my journey back to my office. I’m only a few steps from the breakroom when I decide on a chocolate muffin. My lunch is delayed, and I skipped breakfast.
“One week for her, maybe,” Isabel is muttering when I reach the door. “Frigid bitch.”
“Can you believe Eddie stayed with her forfiveyears?”
The room suddenly spins around me as if the world decided to invert its rotational axis and flip everything, including my guts.
“I don’t know how he did it,” a feminine voice continues.
“For real. Even her parents’ money isn’t enough to make up for it.”
What must be bile gathers in the back of my throat, its acrid taste coating my tongue. So, it wasn’t paranoia after all. Theyaretalking about me behind my back, insulting me, covering me in shame.
