“Well, the pitch isn’t coming together.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “There’s not a single female ad exec at the table, is there?”
“I mean, no, but the guys have all talked to their wives about it,” John says.
I don’t need him to say another word. I know what he’s saying, and it’s shockingly empowering. Because even though he’d never admit it, he’s realizing that I contributed a whole lot more to his success than he ever gave me credit for.
And now he’s stuck.
“I just wondered if you’d think about it,” he says. “We were really good about kicking around ideas together. I don’t know, somehow you always said the right things to jump-start my creativity.”
I refrain from correcting him. I said things and he wrote them down verbatim and then passed them off as his own ideas.
“I can send over the talking points,” he says. “Maybe we can spitball, you know? Brainstorm? Like old times?”
Right. Old times. Back when I thought we were a team.
Back when I thought he was faithful.
I hear his office phone beep in the background, then the voice of his secretary says, “Mr. Wellesley, Misty is on line one.”
“Babe, I gotta go.”
My muscles tense at the “babe,” and John stutters almost immediately.
“I m-mean, uh—shoot. I’ll send that info over and talk to you later? We’ll figure it out—okay, bye—”
He doesn’t wait for me to say goodbye. Just hangs up.
I stare at the phone in my hand as the screen goes black. Everything about that phone call irritated me.
Themostfrustrating part is that I have yet to make John understand what a jerk he really is. He’s simply too entitled. Every attempt I’ve made to explain the pure, unadulterated rage I feel toward him andMistyis always overshadowed by bigger, more present emotions.
Sadness. Frustration. Disappointment.
Shame.
Why can’t I just lay into him and hang up the phone?
Why can’t I, just this once, take a detour off the high road? Indulge in a little verbal vehicular manslaughter?
I’m still gritting my teeth at my phone when I look up and find I’m standing in front of the upscale mall I visited when I first moved here. It’s several floors of designer shops, full of clothes and shoes and bags I can no longer afford and no longer wish to buy.
I never got used to spending money the way the Colorado Wellesley crowd spent money, even when I had it at my disposal. Probably because I grew up clipping coupons and making my own jam.
Which tasteswaybetter than what you get in the store. Just saying.
I didn’t—and don’t—see the point in a five-thousand-dollar pair of shoes.
Not that I’m judging how anyone else spends their money—it was just never my thing.
Window shopping, though? That I can do like it’s my calling. With the exception of baking, nothing is more calming, more interesting, or more daydreamy than walking around looking at mannequins, and doing some people watching...
But as I step inside the building and take the escalator up to the second floor, my mind drifts to my list.
After that phone call and that non-job interview, I need to cross something off.
So instead of getting off on the second floor and heading into one of the overpriced stores, I ride the escalator to the seventh floor and find myself standing in the upscale food court.
