I’m in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the winter wind howl against my window. I have no idea what day it is and frankly, I don’t care. I don’t seem to care about anything lately. Since Trey used me like a trash bag, then dumped me, I’ve been in a total funk. It’s not just the fact that he dumped me, but it’s how he did it that really hurt.

We work together at New Style magazine, the number three fashion mag in the US. I’m a copy editor, meaning I fix other people’s typos for a living while I wait for a chance to be a real journalist, and Trey got hired six months ago as a photographer’s assistant. I’m pretty sure the fact that he’s so gorgeous that he could be in the ads didn’t hurt his chances at the interview. 

After all, it takes a lot of confidence to work with supermodels all day, and Trey has confidence in spades. Unlike me, who they keep tucked in the back corner of the bullpen with all the other mortals. That’s what we call ourselves. There are mortals and models, and with these childbearing hips and my round, soft face, I’m definitely a mortal.

I should have known better than to try for Trey. I really, really should have. People like him aren’t meant to be with people like me. He’s one of the beautiful people—tall, handsome, well-built and very confident. But, he seemed to like me anyway, so I decide to take a chance. I thought that if he could like me then maybe, just maybe, I could be one of the special people.

We dated for over six weeks before I finally let my guard down enough to sleep with him. It took four glasses of red wine to feel comfortable enough to let him see me naked. He shut the lights off ‘to make me feel more comfortable.’ The whole thing lasted about four minutes total, then he immediately got up out of his bed, pulled his jeans back on and said, “You should probably go.”

I couldn’t comprehend his words. “What?”

Trey sighed. “Listen. I should never have let things get this far. I’m really sorry, but I don’t think we’re right for each other.”

I can still feel that dizziness—the way the world was spinning out of control as my heart sunk into my belly. I felt completely worthless—a feeling I had been battling with for as long as I can recall. I’ve never been what you’d call a small girl, not even when I was in grade school, a fact that none of the other kids let me forget. I hoped things would be different once I grew up but the truth is, the world will never change.

My biggest mistake was to follow my dream to work for a fashion magazine. I should have known I’d never fit in there. Curvy girls aren't exactly welcome in this industry, even if they're nowhere near the business end of a camera lens. I got used to either being invisible or being the butt of plus-sized jokes, so when Trey suddenly showed an interest, I fell for him, hook, line and sinker.

“Why did you ask me out if you didn’t like me?”

“I don’t know. I read somewhere that fat girls make a better lay, but…” The look of disgust on his face will forever be etched in my brain. “I’m sorry. You’re a nice girl and all, but you didn’t really think someone like me would ever end up with someone like you, did you?”

Those were the words that crushed me. I picked up my clothes, too broken to slap him on his chiseled face or to call him a bastard. Too broken to do anything, but walk out of his apartment in tears.

Now, as I drag my butt out of bed, I try to erase my memory of him so I can face another day at work. The subway is crowded as it is every morning. Filled with suits and high heels and real New Yorkers who belong in Manhattan. I grew up in a suburb of Chicago, somewhere small and safe (well, for the most part), and where high fashion was a buy-one-get-one-half-off sale at the Burlington Coat Factory.

An icy wind greets me as I make my way up the last few steps to the sidewalk from the tunnel. I put my head down and blow hot air into my wool mitts, trying to keep my face warm. When I arrive at the office, I peel off my winter coat and wool hat on my way to the elevator. My heart sinks more every time the elevator dings to indicate we’re almost on the thirty-fourth floor. When I get there, I walk straight to my desk, pretending to text someone so I can avoid eye contact with my coworkers. They all know what happened and even though it was three weeks ago and my best friend, Gina, keeps assuring me that everyone will have forgotten by now, my cheeks still get hot with embarrassment whenever I walk into the building.

I get through the morning without anyone talking to me, which suits me just fine. I eat lunch at my desk, looking for any openings for writers or editors at another magazine. Nothing again today, of course. An ad for a last-minute deal to St. Lucia catches my eye.

Escape today to paradise for only $299.

Without thinking about it, I click on the ad.

I have a week of vacation time that I haven’t taken and I may have just found a place to spend it. I grab my cell out of my purse and text Gina. “What are the chances you can get a week off?”