Alicia
I sat at my usual spot at the coffee shop with my laptop open in front of me and a latte on the table. Both remained untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to even check my email. I knew I must look awful. I’d barely slept the last several nights, and I only dragged myself out of the house today because I knew I needed to get out and at least see another human being, though I had no desire to interact with anyone, even strangers. I was still wearing my pajamas—grey sweatpants and a black tank top—but I’d thrown a sweater on over the tank top because it was pouring rain outside. The dreary weather matched my depressed mood perfectly. A hat covered my hair, unwashed and in a ponytail.
I’d fallen completely apart.
I missed Ryan more than I could have possibly imagined. Usually I was okay after a break-up. I’d be sad, of course, especially if I really liked the guy, but I’d never been one to mope around. I had always refused to let anyone else dictate how I feel, and I always tried to move on as fast as possible. So many women’s magazines and talk shows offered formulas for estimating how long break-up depression should last: twice as much time as you went out, half as much time as you went out. Whatever. I mourned, cut my losses, and moved on.
But Ryan…with him I knew that wasn’t going to work. Two weeks had passed since I’d spoken to him. Every time I thought about what had happened in the club with Justin, all of the stuff with Tammy, everything I wrote, those ridiculous and insulting nicknames I’d given them…I felt a weight on my chest that made it hard to breathe. I closed my eyes and felt tears poking behind my lids. This was all my fault. I took a relationship that had a future—some real, actual potential—and I completely fucked it up.
All along, I’d kept focusing on how selfish and shallow the members of the Diamond Club were, but was I really any better? I’d exposed Ryan and the club to the public and I’d put Ryan’s friendships at risk, just to, what, get some short-lived fame online? I felt the weight of my choices and slid down further in my seat. I hadn’t cared about any of them—I’d known what I was doing while I wrote up the Diamond Club Diaries, but I hadn’t cared. Nothing, at the time, had been more important than furthering my career as a writer. I was the most selfish out of any of them.
They used their money, but I had used them.
I sighed and forced myself to sit up straight so I could log onto my computer. My blog popped up, loud and mocking, the nicknames I’d given the key players in the Diamond Club jumping out at me from the box I’d labeled characters off to the right. I’d written them by couple. Tammy was Rich Bitch, the stuck up princess hell bent on destroying me, and Justin was Dudebro. Roger was College Dropout and Lori was Trophy. My stomach sank. Reena was Flaky Beauty and Dylan was Yes, Dear.
Their nicknames didn’t seem entertaining anymore; they were offensive. I didn’t know how I’d gotten so carried away, so lost in forgetting that these weren’t characters in some stupid reality TV show—they were real people with real feelings.
Well, I still wasn’t sure Tammy had real feelings other than anger and bitchiness, but Ryan certainly did.
I opened my email and had over two thousand messages, all comment notifications. I winced. All of these people now knew that the Diamond Club existed. And now there was no way to shut down that information. Like a train running off its track, there was no way to stop it. And the more I tried to backtrack or retract, the more attention I would bring to the original story. The Internet had a life of its own, and it could be vicious.
I closed my laptop, unable to look. Each comment, each share, was another stab to Ryan’s heart and his belief in me that I was a good person. Never mind him, it was a stab to my own belief that I was a good person.
What had I been thinking?
My latte was cold, but I took a sip anyway. I deserved worse than a cold latte. I looked around the coffee shop at the other customers. About half were alone, working or reading, and the rest were with at least one other person, talking and laughing. I looked for anyone else who could possibly feel as miserable as I did, but no one even came close. I felt like I was in a bubble, invisible to the rest of the world as I suffered.
I packed up my things and rode my bike home, barely aware of the traffic passing me as I pedaled. I lived just a few blocks from the coffee shop, but the ride home seemed to take forever. I wasn’t surprised. My life and the world in general had moved in slow motion ever since the morning I’d left Ryan’s house.
When I shuffled into my apartment, I saw my phone sitting on the counter by my car keys. I’d been so distracted I had forgotten to take my phone with me to the coffee shop. I really was losing my mind. I picked it up, hoping maybe Ryan had texted, but of course he hadn’t. There was, though, a voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize. I was nervous; it could be Tammy or someone else from Diamond Club calling to ream me out. I didn’t know if I would be able to take it.
But it wasn’t a Diamond Club member. It was a message from Entertain U, a print magazine that also ran a very popular website. They regularly reviewed trending and popular web sites. The managing editor, Susan, introduced herself and explained that my Diamond Club blog and its cast of characters had come across her desk that morning and she was very impressed with the writing. She asked if I would be interested in writing a weekly column for the publication, and possibly do occasional guest articles on the website.
Before I could finish listening to the message, an incoming call came through with another number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Is this Alicia of the Diamond Club blog?”
I sighed. “Yes, this is Alicia.”
“Hi, I’m glad I caught you. My name is Rebecca Sanchez, editor of StreetBeat Magazine. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”
“Actually,” I said, my stomach both sinking and flipping at the same time, “I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“I bet you are,” Rebecca said. “I bet you’re getting tons of calls. I wanted to offer you a job writing for StreetBeat; some guest spots at first, but my hope is to do some rearranging with our current content and get you a regular feature in the magazine. Would you be interested? I’m willing to offer top dollar for your writing and—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m on the other line,” I lied. “Can I please call you back?”
“Of course, here’s my number.”
I found a pen and paper and wrote it down. Then I went and collapsed on my couch. This was all too much to process. Before I could decide how I felt, my phone rang again. It was my agent.
“Alicia, it’s Brandi,” she said, as soon as I picked up.
“Hi,” I said, somewhat cautiously. She couldn’t know about the calls I was getting. I wondered if this was it, if she was finally going to suggest that we part ways because I was a deadweight writer, not producing anything, just wasting her time and resources.
“I’ve received some calls,” she said. “Two editors from two competing houses are interested in taking a look at whatever projects you have in the works. One of them looked at one of your older projects, and now that she’s seen what you’re doing online, she thinks you have the talent to revise it with her and take it to the next level. But Alicia, are you interested?”
“What? I—yes. Yes, I’m interested.”
“Good. I’ll get things moving, send some correspondence your way. Don’t drop off the planet this time, okay?”
While we were saying goodbye, a call came in from another number I didn’t recognize. Needing time to clear my head, I turned the phone off and let the message go to voice mail.
The call with my agent, the interest from magazines and websites, it was everything I’d wanted. It was more than I’d dreamed of. So why did it feel so hollow?
Because Ryan wasn’t here to share it with me. Alone and successful still meant alone.
I opened my laptop and went to my blog’s comments. After filtering out the comments that were blog related, I was shocked to see fifteen requests from online magazines wanting to offer me jobs and bloggers wanting to interview me because they were all enthusiastic about my writing style, and because they were fascinated by the Diamond Club and its members.
I slammed the laptop shut and pushed it away. “Dammit!” I yelled to my empty apartment.
On one hand, why was I upset? Wasn’t this exactly what I had dreamed of?
Like the old saying went, more tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.