Rebecca
VICKY IS WAITING for me when I arrive at the station at three. I’m usually in by nine, but I was vomiting in my toilet at nine.
“I spent the whole night thinking about this,” she says, following me as I walk.
I’m in the newsroom with my sunglasses still on. I’ve managed my headache with several ibuprofen, but the harsh fluorescent lighting isn’t doing my puffy eyes any favors—another mark against me in Marv’s book.
I nod.
“Marv is a spineless bastard. He should have fought for you,” she continues. “But . . . if you’re weekend executive producer, just think of the power we could have . . . over story selection, guest interviews—”
“I’m not interested in production. My contract as a reporter isn’t up until December thirty-first.”
“It’s late September.” She’s looking at me with those clear blue eyes. “Just think about it,” she says, before striding down the hall.
She has a point. If we want to make a change in the priorities of this city, one of the best ways to do it is take over the highest rated news station in town. Still, I thought I’d be doing it from behind the anchor desk.
Glancing down at my tight skirt, I think about how I should have gotten up and gone for a jog this morning. The mild nausea is back at the very thought. Exhaling a sigh, I start up the hall when Cade emerges from his office, and our eyes meet. Lightning strikes my already clenched stomach, and I take a step back. His perfect lips tighten into a thin line, and his eyes dart away as he heads into Marv’s office.
Oh, God . . . I force myself to start breathing again. Going to my desk, I shake my mouse to wake my computer. The screen pops up, and I look over my schedule for the day. Continued coverage of Planetary Princess . . . No, I shake my head. I just can’t.
Snatching up my phone, I punch Vicky’s number. She answers on the first ring.
“You’ve come to your senses?” I can tell by her tone she’s annoyed with me.
“I think I’ve got a stomach bug.” It’s true. I’m a coward. “I’ve got to go home. Savannah can take day two of Planetary Princess.”
“Savannah’s covering the wastewater treatment plant.”
“She’ll owe me one.”
I hang up, thinking about the perky twelve-year-old reporter Marv hired over the summer. Okay, she’s twenty-three. Still, Vicky’s been giving her shit stories (literally) in the name of “paying her dues.” The truth is I’m the one getting shat on. With her size zero waist and perky little breasts, Savannah will be in the weekly anchor’s chair, the very top spot next to Cade, by year’s end. Another jolt of nausea wrecks my beleaguered stomach, and I make a straight line to the door.
Chas is home when I arrive, curled up on the couch eating popcorn and watching Wendy Williams. Wendy Williams has a show.
“What are you doing home?” Her legs pop out and she trots over to me.
I drop my purse on the floor where I stand. My roommate’s eyes flicker from my sunglass-covered face to my purse on the floor and back.
“Come sit on the couch with me. Wendy’s debuting her Janet Jackson poncho.”
“Uhhh . . .” I moan, following my bestie to the couch.
“Did you wear my black Kim K satin robe?”
I drop on the couch and flop over on my side, burying my face in the faux-mink throw pillow.
“I don’t mind,” Chas continues. “I just need to know if you spunked it up. That is dry clean only.”
“Nooo . . .” My face still in the pillow.
“What’s wrong, sugarplum?” I feel Chas’s long hand stroking my side. “Chris the astronaut couldn’t get it up? Girl, y’all were throwing them back last night. I’m surprised you’re moving.”
Another wince and a moan into the pillow.
“If you’re not going to start speaking English, I’m taking Wendy off mute.”
I turn my face so my mouth is uncovered. “He got it up,” I say in a mournful tone. “Several times.”
“Yes, he did!” She’s shouting and clapping like she just won Drag Race. “That’s my girl! You go!”
I pull the faux-cashmere throw off the back of the couch and over my head. “Please stop screaming. I’m about to die.”
“You know when my aunt LouVerne worked at the Libby glass plant in Little Rock, she got totally wasted one night and slept with both her bosses at the same time—”
“Cade is not my boss. He’s the asshole sports-director.”
“He didn’t seem like an asshole to me!” Chas is too excited about this. “Anyway, Aunt LouVerne ended up pregnant and had no idea which one was the father.”
I confess, I’m piqued. “What happened?”
“She took my advice and went with the one who wasn’t in her ass, of course!” she laughs. “And they were married twenty years.”
My face crinkles. “I can’t believe she told you that. How old were you?”
“Oh, honey, don’t do that with your face. Marv won’t even want you in production with that puss.”
Slapping the pillow, I sit up. “I don’t want to work in production! I want my own show!”
“Toddlers and Tiaras!” Chas calls, one hand cupped beside her mouth. “Someone’s missing from the set!”
“I’m sorry,” I sigh and collapse on the comforting pillow. “It’s hard to accept when your dreams are over.”
The room falls quiet. Wendy is on our enormous television twirling in her poncho. I want to make an Urban Sombrero joke, but I’m not really in the mood to laugh. What I really need is a good long cry.
When Chas speaks again, her voice is softly serious. “Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”
“What?” My voice is sad as I trace my finger along the lines of the faux mink.
“If your dream is to have a show, you need to pursue it. You need to take the steps to make it happen.”
“It’s too late.” I’m not pouting. I’m simply stating the facts. “Marv thinks I’m too old, too fat, and I don’t want to move to another station.”
My phone starts to buzz, and I lift it. It’s the station. I don’t want to talk to Vicky or Marv, so I send it to voicemail.
“I’m going to lie down. I’m not feeling so well.”
“I’ve got a show tonight at the Tick Tock, so I’ll be late again. Will you be all right recovering alone?”
“I guess,” I say, pushing off the couch. I skulk to my bedroom thinking of perky Savannah and hoping those little princess brats make her look at least twenty-five.
Chassy frowns. “Cheer up, Bee. If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else? Right?”
I force a watery-eyed smile. “Right.”
It’s quiet when I open my eyes again. My headache is significantly diminished thanks to the wonders of ibuprofen, but I feel like I swallowed a gallon of sand. Tossing back my blanket, I scoop Chas’s Kim K robe off the chair where I left it this morning. I don’t even care that the white feathers lining the collar tickle my nose. The black satin is soft around my aching body. Speaking of ache, with every step my cheeks heat at the ache deep in my core.
“Oh, God!” I whine softly under my breath as shame flashes down my spine.
My arms go over my head. I slept with Cade right here in my house . . . so many times . . . and it was sooo good. Shivering, I grab my phone and hit the Door Dash app. Alone in this apartment, I can’t face what I’ve done without tacos.
“The New Rebecca Revolution starts tomorrow. Tonight it’s Doritos Locos Tacos. Ooo! Cool ranch!”
I tap the menu items to add them to my cart. My eyes linger on the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, but before my worst nature can kick in, I hit “complete order” and toss my phone on the couch. It helps that I know gordita means chubby girl in Spanish.
The New Rebecca Revolution might start tomorrow, but I can’t enjoy a “chubby girl” thinking of Marv scowling at me the whole time while he’s giving my dream job to Savannah. Doritos, on the other hand, are allowed in this final wallowing session.
My comfort food arrives in less than fifteen minutes—I love modern times! I don’t even care that the pimple-faced, chicken-chested guy delivering my salvation looks at me like I’m a demented Norma Desmond in Chas’s satin and feathered robe. I take the food and go straight to the couch, bouncing in place as I crunch through my little pile of heaven.
“Tomorrow,” I reassure myself. “I’m setting my alarm for seven, and I’m going for a jog around the neighborhood before I get ready for work.”
Hangover food consumed, belly nice and round, I take a quick shower before heading to bed at a reasonable time. I don’t linger in the shower, thinking of how I smoothed my lavender-covered cloth down those chiseled ridges of his abs . . .
Much.
And I definitely do not pull the pillow Cade slept on to my face and sniff it repeatedly, searching for any leftover traces of his cologne . . .
More than once.
I responsibly set my alarm, click out the light and close my eyes. I do not slip my hand between my thighs and rub one out while fantasizing about him gripping my ass or the feel of that massive member stretching me in the most erotic way or the low vibration of his voice as his soft, full lips traced a burning trail up the side of my neck followed by the scuff of that beard . . .
I do not have a mini O dreaming of the bigger, more enormous O I had last night with my sexy coworker.
I go straight to sleep.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every wakeup alarm created for the iPhone sounds like the screaming bells of hell.
“Why? Whyyy?” I cry, slapping the face repeatedly to make it stop.
My eyes are still closed as I drag New Rebecca out of bed and across the room to the drawer containing my sorely neglected workout gear. If God had wanted us to run this early in the morning, he wouldn’t have invented pancakes.
Jog-bra on. Ultra-tight spandex running pants that support ass and supposedly improve stamina in place. Too-tight tank top that makes me look like a sausage also in place. Running motivation . . . still asleep in bed, most likely burying face in pillow searching for final traces of delicious Cade-scent.
I force myself to think of those motivational posters Nancy always quoted and not If you see me running, call 911.
“Sweat is fat crying,” I say, not even pausing to look in the mirror on the way out the door.
My old two-mile route with Nancy used to take us from our loft on Texas Avenue east to Minute Maid Park. We’d do a couple laps around the stadium then head back home. For whatever reason, today I don’t want to do the old route. Maybe it’s just too depressing being alone.
Instead I head south then east to Discovery Green and around the jogging trail there. It’s in the more posh part of downtown, and I’m on the sidewalks more than I should be on my way back. The morning traffic is heavier on this route.
“Should’ve gone the other way,” I mutter to myself.
I’m heading up McKinney when I spot a woman walking what looks like a herd of dogs in all shapes and sizes. They’re taking up the entire sidewalk, and I look around frantically to see if I can cross in the middle of the busy intersection.
“Shit!” I swear through a labored breath.
Cars are everywhere, and I’m directly in front of One Park Place, one of the most expensive apartment complexes in the city. I’m wavering on whether to go left or right. The mob of dogs is getting closer, and it’s clear they’re pulling the woman holding the leashes rather than the other way around.
My eyes strain for a break in the traffic when I see a man coming out of the revolving doors at the front of the historic building. The brass doors turn, and all six-foot-awesome emerges, complete with dark waves, beard, and steel blue eyes. It’s Cade Hill, and I want to die. I’m covered in sweat in my sausage shirt, and I just know little hairs are flying out of my ponytail.
As I’m panicking, I see a perky blonde is right behind him. She runs up to him, catching his arm. He stops, and she turns into his chest, sliding her fingers into his dark beard and pressing her lips flush against his.
It all happens so fast, I forget to hide. My eyes bug, my jaw drops, and I’m frozen in place across the street watching the man I’d ridden like a pony two nights ago kissing a young, blonde stick insect.
“What the hell?” My voice is louder than I intend, and I’m surrounded by dogs. The herd is on me, and it’s all leashes wrapping around my waist, around my legs, combined with frantic yapping.
“I’m so sorry!” The sweaty dog walker raises her arm in an attempt to untangle them.
“Ow!” I duck as she clocks me in the forehead. “Oh no!”
A shaggy gold dog jumps up, putting his paws on my shoulders. He’s licking me right in the mouth, and I’m spitting and shaking my head, trying to get him off.
“Down, Buster! Heel!” The woman shouts.
YIP! A loud noise from the smaller dog I just stepped on makes me jump out of my skin. “I’m sorry!” I cry.
I’m stepping and struggling, and my mind is screaming Run! Hide! Get the hell out of here!!! I glance back across the street, and I see Cade. His brow is clutched, and he looks pissed.
A traffic signal must have just changed, because a barrage of cars pours down the street between us. I’m finally free of the leashes and all five million dogs, and I’m reeling from the fact that it took less than forty-eight hours for him to replace me with a new blonde bimbo in his bed.
I hiccup a breath and do the only thing I know to do. I take off running full-speed, around the corner, and back the way I came. All the way to my place.