“You clean when you come in to work?”
“Always,” Robbie said.
“How much do you bench?”
“When my shoulder’s healthy, 360.”
“Think you’d be content with an office job?” Jake asked. “It’s not accounting; it’s administrative work.”
“Would I have to deliver king-size mattresses to eighth-story apartments with broken elevators?”
“Uh, no,” Jake said.
“Then I’d be very content.”
“You okay babysitting a bunch of radio deejays?”
“Only if they’re more interesting than the people I work with here.”
Jake laughed. “All right. I’m game if you are.”
And that’s how Jake left Sheridan Furniture with a desk, three chairs, and one new, hulking radio-station receptionist.
Seventeen
Misery is an excellent sleep aid, Mabel had learned over the years. When her prom date her junior year stood her up because his ex-girlfriend took him back the morning of the dance, Mabel cried for two hours and then slept for fourteen. After an ugly breakup over breakfast in the college cafeteria, she shuffled like a zombie through her classes, then crawled to her dorm at three o’clock and didn’t leave bed until the alarm rang the following morning.
Monday night, in keeping with tradition, Mabel downed a truly enormous glass of wine for dinner and was in bed by six. She cocooned herself in her blankets, Tybalt at her head, and let the exhausting flow of emotions wash over her.
Tuesday… happened. She walked through it like a phantom, not connected to her body or immersed in the world around her. She and Dave announced their show changes, and she said words into the microphone when he stopped speaking and it was clearly her turn, but five minutes after their show ended, she couldn’t have repeated a single statement that she’d voiced on the air. She went straight home afterward and drifted around her house before heading to bed while the sun was still up and soaking her pillow with tears.
Wednesday morning was better. She was back in her body and in touch with her senses. Everything was sharp, heightened. She was devastated by her impending separation from Dave. She was pissed at Jake even though, deep down, she knew he’d been in an unwinnable situation. She was irritated with herself for her overly dramatic reaction, because hello, she and Jake weren’t even an official couple. They hadn’t made any promises. For God’s sake, she’d spent the bulk of their time together trying to resist his charm and good looks. And overlaying all that, of course, was blinding rage at Brandon.Thatemotion was virtuous and true.
She pulled into the station parking lot and sat in her car for a moment. She could do this. She’d keep it professional no matter what happened, starting today. She’d be professional in her demeanor and professional with her coworkers. Wait, what was Jake? Coworker? Supervisor? Corporate spy?
Whatever.Professional.
She arrived before Dave that morning—one of the benefits of an even more outrageously early bedtime than usual—and headed straight to the break room to start the coffee, staring dully at thedrip drip dripof the liquid into the pot. After pouring two cups, she scooped up the mail in their slots and walked down the hall to the studio, stopping short when she entered the greenroom.
The new furniture had been delivered yesterday afternoon.
She sucked in a breath and forced herself to enter the room, gingerly placing the coffee mugs and bundle of mail onto the shiny new desk that she and Jake had flirted over the week before. She thumped the top once, wondering, as she had during their shopping trip, if he’d pictured the two of them testing how sturdy it actually was. The thought had thrilled her at the time, stealing her breath in the middle of the furniture store, but now it wrapped constricting bands around her chest until she had a hard time breathing.
Dave arrived as she was glumly staring at the new couch.
“We picked this out together,” she said in lieu of a greeting. “He liked that it didn’t have a million pillows.”
Dave picked up one of the coffee mugs and took a long, loud slurp before answering. “A couple of things: First, good morning. Second, you’ve known him for less than three months. I’ve seen people deal with the end of a thirty-year marriage better than you are. Third, he isn’t dead. He’s just an accountant.”
She wailed and flopped face-first onto the couch, the leather cushion muffling her voice. “Hello, he’s ahotaccountant. And he’s the first guy I’ve liked in ages. Years, maybe. I’m entitled to a mourning period.”
“Well, get over it. We’ve got a show.” Dave snapped his fingers like a fussy kindergarten teacher, and she complied with a grumble.
They entered the booth and took their usual seats, Dave in front of the control board and her across from him, and started sorting through their mail. In addition to the usual ad copy and record-label promos, they’d both received a stationwide memo from Brandon that made bile creep up the back of her throat.
“We’re supposed to start advertising for Brick Babes today,” she said, reading. “And of course all applications go directly to Brandon.” She screwed up her face and made a full-throated retching sound.
“We still planning to be good soldiers?”
