Can I See You Again? (5 page)

There's not enough concealer on the planet to mask the bags and dark circles under my eyes the following morning. I look like I drank too much Champagne, then spent the night tossing and turning and washing my sheets at four a.m. . . . Oh, that's right, I did.

With eye drops, aspirin, and a coffee the size of a milk jug, I walk toward work only to find myself trapped at an intersection behind a young couple making out.
It's eight forty-five a.m., for Christ's sake!
I step aside only to bump into another guy murmuring into his phone, “I miss you, baby. Can't wait for tonight.”

Ugh.

I cross the street, and though I marveled at the beauty of La Jolla's streets on my way to Antonio's last night, this time I see crooked cracks and seeped stains in the sidewalk. Flies circle trash cans overstuffed with Starbucks cups and McDonald's wrappers. Muddled newspapers, plastic bags, and crumpled leaves are smushed into storm drains. The stench from car exhaust and rotten grease traps heavies the air. I hear
nothing but honking horns, screeching brakes, and a homeless woman yelling obscenities at a man in a black jogging suit.

La Jolla streets have lost their charm.

So has love.

Trudging into my office, I shut out the outside world and shift my focus to what I'm good at. Diligence. Center. Control.

An e-mail from the financial advisor lights up my screen.

We're ready to activate the Thomas/Caxton account. Documents signed?

Great. Now I have to explain to a relative stranger that my life fell apart.

But rather than feel any more sorry for myself, I reply,
Change of plans. I will be the only one investing. You have my account info. Wire the funds as we discussed and move ahead accordingly.
I scan and attach the signed paperwork, then click send with a sense of achievement.

“Dang, girl. Must've been some night,” Andrew says, smoothing lotion onto his slightly orange spray-tanned hands and settling in the chair opposite my desk. “Let me hear all the romantic things Sean did for you last night. Tell me the naughty parts. Twice. Three times if they're really naughty.”

“Let's get to work. We've got a lot to do today.”

Andrew's smile vanishes. “You okay?”

Am I okay?
The words grate my nerves like knuckles drawn across sandpaper. How many times did Mom's banking colleagues or Dad's poker buddies ask me that at the funeral? The words evoke a familiar emptiness that makes me a little sick to my stomach. And just like I did then, I reply to Andrew with a bit more snap than necessary, “Where's the coffee cup Sean bought me from Anthropologie?”

“The one with your initial?”

“The very one.”

He returns from the break room and hands me the mug.

I clasp my fingers around the cool handle of the oversized cup, examining the ceramic's smooth glazed ivory-colored finish. With my thumb, I trace the swooping letter
B
inked in black.

The night Sean bought this for me, we'd grabbed a quick dinner at Bella's before walking hand-in-hand through the Mercado, an outdoor mall canopied with globe lights strung from shop to shop above the cobblestone walkway. Through the window of Anthropologie, I spotted the new red-and-cream Aari duvet on display. “Ooh, let's pop in for a sec.”

Sean followed me inside and stood close while I contemplated. “I love the pattern, but worry the red is
too
red. I don't want it to clash with the sunset picture over my bed.”

He reached for the price tag and choked on his words. “Five hundred and ninety-eight dollars?”

“It's embroidered.”

“It's a blanket.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, stepped behind me in a wrinkled-in-all-the-right-places American Apparel T-shirt, and whispered in my ear. His breath tickled my neck as he said, “Will you sleep naked underneath that five-hundred-and-ninety-eight-dollar blanket?”

Now, months later, I sit at my desk and tap the mug's base against the palm of my other hand. It's a quality cup. Well constructed. Sturdy.

Geronimo!
I pitch it into the trash can. The mug echoes like a firework as it smacks the bottom. The ceramic splinters into delightful black-and-white shards.

My version of retail therapy.

Andrew gasps. “What are you doing? You love that mug.”

“Hand me the vase.”

He glances at Sean's bouquet, resting defenseless on the sideboard. “What? Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

He hurries between me and the vase, shielding the glass with his spread-eagle arms. “Sit down and tell me what happened. Don't take it out on the Waterford.”

“Okay.” I exhale a long breath. “That's sound advice. Thank you.”

“Yes, good. That's better. Let's take a second and relax.” He settles into his chair. “Now, very calmly, tell me—”

I sneak past him and snatch the vase, smashing it into the bottom of the trash can with a satisfying
thud
. Water splashes onto the floor, showering Andrew's feet.

“Bree, what the hell's gotten into you?”

I scour the room, tapping my foot like a jackhammer. What else did Sean give me that I can destroy? Ah, yes, the picture frame. I line up with the trash can, poising for two points, but notice Andrew blotting water droplets off his suede loafers. The same loafers he bought last Friday after saving for three months. With the frame in my lap, I slump into my chair. “Sean broke up with me.”

“Cocksucker.”

I almost laugh at such a foul word coming from the mouth of a man who fixed a piglet eraser on his favorite pencil.

“Says he doesn't want a joint account and thought last night, at Antonio's, was the perfect place to end our relationship, some circle-of-life nonsense.” I stare at the Cabo picture and Sean's yellow swim trunks that we'd bought at the hotel gift shop after discovering he'd packed none.

“Bree, I'm so sorry.”

I grab the frame and slip the photo free from the glass. “Who
says ‘I want to share my financial future with you,' then dumps you a week later in a corner booth? In
our
corner booth.” I tear the picture into pieces, then sprinkle them into the trash can.

Andrew crouches beside me and wraps his arms around me. “I'm sorry, hon.”

My tears trickle again.

Andrew cries, too, and I love him a little bit more for it.

“How did I miss this?” I say. “How did my life fall apart in a matter of seconds?” I shake my head. “Obviously, I'm not quite the expert in love like I thought.”

“Stop.” Andrew points his finger an inch away from my nose. His face is fierce like an alley dog defending a bone. “You're amazing at your job. No one does it better. Don't for a second think your personal life has any impact on your professional life. Don't give Sean the credit.” He pulls a petal from my hair. “As a matter of fact, Sara left a message this morning about Nixon. They talked last night and had an instant connection. You did that, and you've done all of this.” He gestures above me at my wall of happy couples.

“I knew he'd like her,” I say between sniffles.

“And, by the sound of her voice, she likes him, too. They have a date this weekend.”

“Yeah? That's good.”

“It
is
good.” He wipes mascara away from under my eyes. “Don't ever question your abilities, understand? Sean's the bad guy. Not you. You know what would make you feel better?”

“Nachos.”

“If you stand tall, don't let Sean be the victor.”

I'm empowered by his confidence and the conviction in his eyes until I get a glimpse of his water-spattered loafers. “Oh, Andrew, I'm sorry. Are your shoes ruined?”

“Nah, I like polka dots anyway.” He picks up a few petals
and picture shreds decorating the carpet. “I'm gonna get a broom and sweep this up.”

Andrew's advice brings me comfort, and several minutes pass without any thoughts of Sean until I hear the Fratellis song playing on my cell phone.

I let it ring—the third call since last night.

Sure it's childish to avoid him. And a bit immature to ignore his pleading outside my front door before work this morning. He could've let himself in with his key and I appreciate the fact that he didn't because I'm not ready to hear Sean's voice or look at the lips that less than twenty-four hours ago were mouthing the words, “I feel claustrophobic.”

It occurs to me as the song plays over and over that the ringtone no longer soothes me. The lead singer's Scottish voice no longer sounds smooth and easy, seductive and familiar. Now, his voice screeches in my ears like a dentist's drill coring out a cavity.

I click on the settings tab and search through the choices for a new sound. I want something unique, something true to Sean's character. Unfortunately they don't have a selection labeled
ass-wipe
—what would it sound like anyway?—but they do have one called
donkey
. Close enough.

Sean leaves a voice mail and a
hee-haw . . . hee-haw
sound resonates from my phone.

Excited over my small victory—
Go, Bree!
—I absentmindedly press the play button.

“I know you're mad. You have every right to be. But please, can we get together and talk? That's all I'm asking. I love you so much and I always will. Baby, please, just talk to me.”

I press play again.

Baby, please, just talk to me.

“Oh, Bree.” Andrew returns. “It'll be okay. I promise it'll be . . . oh, no.”

“What?”

“Randi's here.”

“What? Where?” Through the office window I see my publicist walking toward my front door.

“Go pull yourself together. I'll delay her.”

I swallow the last four years of my life wedged deep inside my throat and hurry into the bathroom with hopes that my face doesn't look red and blotchy.

No such luck.

Not only do I feel like crap, but as a bonus, I look like crap, too.

Lucky me.

But as I splash water on my face and stare at my reflection, I see behind my spotted skin and puffy eyelids; I see
me
.

Andrew's right. I'm a successful businesswoman on the verge of launching a nationwide interview and a debut book. How many people can say that? And what about all the other positives in my life? Hell, I've traveled through twenty-five states, stuck my head out of the Statue of Liberty's crown, and just last month ran my sixth half marathon in under two hours. An armful of accomplishments, to say the least.

Suffocating you, eh, Sean? Well, fine. Go ahead and spread your wings. Fly away, high in the sky. Hope you choke on all the fresh air.

“Good morning,” Randi calls from across the room. “I received the particulars from the paper. Let's sit, I'll explain.”

Andrew winks at me and offers a nod of encouragement before handing Randi a cup of coffee.

“Ah, you're heaven sent. And with a tight ass I could bounce quarters off of.” Randi sips her coffee, leaving behind a red lipstick imprint. “Well, let's get to it. My contact at the
National Tribune
told me each installment will focus on a different aspect of Bree Caxton and Associates. For example, one might touch on your background, another on the company's mission, and
another will highlight your matchups, that sort of thing. Sounds fun, don't you think?”

“Sounds great.” And it does.
This is good. Concentrate on work.

“Once they get some feedback, they might make changes or venture down another path, but for now, that's the initial plan. I have the specifics for the first week.”

“Fire away.”

She slides on her jeweled reader glasses—something she likely denied needing for as long as possible—and refers to an e-mail on her iPad. “Tomorrow's interview will start with you. They want to highlight the woman behind the business before shifting to your work and your success.”

“Okay.” Easy enough.

“They'll ask why you do what you do, that sort of thing. They'll interview you here, let me find the time.” She scrolls through the rest of the e-mail, then pulls off her glasses. “Good Lord, they'll arrive at eight a.m. What a god-awful time of the morning to be presentable. Don't worry, I'll bring Bloody Marys.” She returns her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “They'll ask about the book, and we want them to. But we don't want to give too much away about the content or offer too many of your tips. We want to tease the readers. Lift the skirt and show a little leg, but not the kitty in the middle. Make sense?”

Oddly enough it does.

“They'll want a photo. So do something with your bangs.”

Andrew nods in agreement.

What's wrong with my bangs?

She removes her glasses again and looks at me. “Come to think of it, your eyes are red. Your face is splotchy and swollen, too. Have you gained weight? Are you preggo?”

“No.”

“Stoned?”

“God, no.”

“All right, then. I guess that covers it for now.” She takes a long sip of coffee, then stands, noticing the broken vase and flowers in the trash can. “What happened?”

“That . . . um . . . ?” I'm searching my mind for a way out, something plausible and convincing, but I draw a blank under her demanding glare. The only thing that comes to mind is Sean. And the fact that he's no longer
my
Sean. But I can't tell her that. I can't walk around proclaiming to be a master at love and relationships, then say, “Want to hear a funny story? Last night my boyfriend dumped me.”

Actually, it's not that funny.

Andrew comes to my rescue. “Damn vase had a crack in it. Water leaked all over Bree's desk. Even dribbled on my shoes.”

“That's right. Ruined a picture, too. I didn't want it spilling all over everything else, so I dropped the vase into the trash can.” Would've shattered it with a baseball bat had I the chance.