These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (2 page)

With both boots on, I checked out my image in the full-length mirror. And if I do say so myself, I did look pretty hot. Okay, I was well aware of the fact that I'd put on a few extra pounds this past year, and maybe the jacket didn't button quite as smoothly as it used to, but it looked perfectly fine open. In all fairness, the weight gain was really Eric's fault. If he'd only get serious about commitment instead of playing stupid mind games… But I didn't want to go back there just yet. I needed to keep my focus positive. I had to get my head into my new role as the successful career woman, that hardworking girl who'd paid her dues, put in her time, and was now ready and willing to step up a few more rungs on the corporate ladder. I'd seen others doing it recently. Claire Hoffman had recently been made a VP. Why shouldn't it be my turn to move up? I'd done a fantastic job on my latest project—a project that was
due today. A project that I would proudly turn in while wearing these boots! I couldn't wait to see George's face!

I don't know why I didn't sense something in the air when I walked into the office that morning. Looking back, I do recall an uneasy expression on the receptionists face, as if she knew something was going down, and in retrospect, I'm certain she did. I'm sure that she and many others had been briefed. But I suppose I was too focused on those daring boots and on making a spectacular impression as I carried my project direcdy to George's office. I could've sent it by Claudia, my faithful assistant (actually she was the faithful assistant to several of us), but I wanted George to see me up close and personal. I wanted him to be impressed by both my work and those amazing boots.

It made so much sense at the time. But it all seems so silly now.

“George is busy,” said his executive assistant, Ginnie, when I made my grand appearance. I did observe that she didn't make eye contact with me. It should've been my first clue.

“Can you call me when he's available?” I asked, holding my precious folder tightly because I wanted to present it to him personally.

“Sure.” She flipped through her Day-Timer, keeping the conversation short, guarded, limited.

“Thanks,” I said, starting to walk away.

“Nice boots,” she called after me.

I turned to smile, but she was glued to her Day-Timer again. “Thank you,” I said in a cheerful and confident tone.
Yes
, I thought as I strutted away,
these boots are already working for me.

But by noon it was all over. George called an emergency meeting for my entire division. He made this lame little speech about how the company had been losing money these past six months and how our division in particular had really gone downhill during the last fiscal year.

“As hard as it is to do this,” he said with an expression that was probably supposed to appear sad, “we have to let a few folks go.” And just like that he announced that my division had been eliminated. That was about the size of it. We were no longer needed. We were expendable, dispensable, disposable, unnecessary. Call it what you like, we were toast.

We were then instructed—make that
commanded
—to quietly pack our things, pick up our checks, “which will include a generous severance package,” in Personnel, and then leave. They even had extra security guards on hand to escort us from the building via the back door to the parking garage so as not to make a scene and “upset other employees.” Like we weren't upset? The whole thing reminded me of the Monopoly card that says something like “Go to jail, direcdy to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect squat.”

Eventually a dozen of us stood out on the street, displaced and confused and slighdy shell-shocked. A couple of the guys were angry and not too concerned about who heard them discussing our situation. That's when the security guards began to strongly urge us to “clear out before we need to call for backup.” Since they were armed with what appeared to be actual handguns, as well as aerosol cans of what I'm guessing was Mace, we decided not to argue.
Instead we paraded across the street and planted ourselves in the neighborhood Starbucks to lick our wounds.

I tried not to feel like a truant schoolkid, playing hooky and glancing over my shoulder to keep an eye out for police. Actually I was hoping my boss would show up, single me out, and say that it was a mistake, that he meant to fire everyone but me.

We monopolized the coffee shop, consuming far too much caffeine as we had what I now consider a very pathetic therapy session. A few hours later this scene was relocated to Clancys, a bar that some of my co-workers, now former co-workers, often, frequented after work. But already I was getting weary of the venting, complaining, and rehashing. So I decided to forgo the bar experience. I just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and hope that things would get better tomorrow.

Maybe it was that excessive caffeine or my generally deteriorated emotional state, but I temporarily forgot about my beautiful (and did I mention expensive?) boots. I decided to skip the bus that I often rode home from work on days when I was too lazy to walk or the weather was uncooperative. After a few blocks, the things were foremost in my mind. Those high-heeled boots were definitely
not made
, for walking. By the time I limped up to my apartment, my heels were aching and burning, and I had blisters the size of quarters on the balls of my feet. I was barely through the door when I sat down right on the floor and peeled off those painful Valentinos.

Then I actually threw the despicable boots across the room,
scaring my cat, Felix, half to death when a stiletto heel narrowly missed his ear. After that I simultaneously soaked my aching feet in cold water and put away a full quart of mocha almond fudge ice cream—talk about your multitasking. Between bites I called Eric, who never answered. I hit the speed dial every five minutes on the dot and left desperate messages, begging him to call. Between calls, I searched out something else to eat. And life got kind of blurry after that.

s usual, Eric's timing was perfect. Three days after I lost what I had suddenly decided was the perfect job in marketing, with or without the stupid promotion, my missing-inaction boyfriend finally returned my calls. I'm sure I'd left him about fifty-seven messages, ranging from “Help me; I think I'm going to jump” to “Hey, it's no big deal; I can find another job” to “I must have a baby before I turn thirty-two” to “I've had it with you, Eric; we're finished.”

“We need to talk,” he said after I finished dumping my whole sad story on him over the phone. I'd really hoped to do it in person. I'd imagined him gathering me in his arms, smoothing my hair, and telling me it was going to be okay. But when I heard his voice ori the other end, I couldn't contain myself. I was in need of some serious catharsis.

“Yeah,” I said, as in “obviously.” Frustrated, I peeled open another Snickers bar and took a big bite.

“Can I come over?”

“Uh, sure.” I swallowed the unchewed clump of sweet chocolate and nuts, then nervously glanced around my recently ravaged
apartment. It looked like someone had set loose a dozen ill-mannered chimpanzees in it. “Uh, when were you thinking of coming?”

“Now.”

“Now? As in thirty minutes?” That's what it usually took Eric to get here from his apartment—which was always impeccably neat, just as he was and just the way he liked everything to be.

“Now,” he said with a slight edge to his voice, “as in Tm downstairs.’ Right now, as in Tm standing on the street and ready to come up,’ Cassie.” He sounded seriously irritated, and I wondered just who was the one going through a difficult time right now. Who was the one in need of some handholding and compassion today?

“Oh, well, come on up then.” I slammed down the phone and dashed directly to the bathroom, tripping over a yellow ducky slipper and painfully stubbing my toe on the doorframe as I went. There I stood before the mirror, staring at myself in horror as I took my pathetic inventory. No makeup; blotchy skin from too much crying; dark circles under bloodshot eyes—a combination of old mascara and sleepless nights; stringy, mousy brown hair that hadn't been washed in days. I still wore the same pink fleece bathrobe I'd put on…well, I wasn't sure how long ago. Two days maybe?

I spotted some gray sweats on the bathroom floor, right where I'd dropped them before opting for the more comfy bathrobe. The sweats weren't exactly clean, but they probably smelled better than
the skanky robe, so I jerked them on. It was about then that I heard Eric knocking loudly on my door and calling my narrie as if he'd been there for a long time. I grabbed my lip gloss and smeared some on, hoping that it was landing somewhere near my mouth as I scrambled for the door, kicking shoes and debris out of the way as I went. Amazing how a small apartment can get so totaled with just a few days of reckless living. Kind of like my life.

“Eric,” I said, trying to appear calm and controlled as I opened the door for my impeccable boyfriend. As usual, every neatly cut blond hair was in its place, and his boyish face was more smoothly shaved than my legs. Somehow this picture-perfect image gave me a sense of comfort. Perhaps the universe hadn't recently spun out of control after all. Then again, there was something in his clear blue eyes that I couldn't quite read. Hopefully it was simply pity. I could've used a truckload about then.

“Cassie?” His pale brows lifted in alarm as his eyes darted around, obviously taking in the chaos behind me.

“As you can see, I really wasn't expecting you just now.” He frowned. “Sorry to catch you at a bad time.” I stepped back and opened the door wider, kicking a
People
magazine out of the way. It always bugged him that I “willingly wasted” my mind and money “on that kind of trash.” But he spared me the lecture. I grabbed a splayed newspaper off my futon, which doubles as a couch, only to reveal a dirty bra underneath. I quickly stuffed that into my sweatshirt pocket and pitched the rumpled newspaper under the coffee table as I nodded toward the
now-cleared futon. Clear except for the cat hair, which Eric wouldn't appreciate either. “Want to sit down?”

“No. Let's just keep this brief, okay?”

“Okay.” I tried again to read his face, although it was rather expressionless. Still, I could tell by the tone of his voice and something else—like a buzzing inside of me, an alarm—that all was not well. Somehow I knew this wasn't going to be good.

“I thought about telling you this on the phone, but I've heard that's the loser way to handle it. So I decided to come and see you in person.” He cleared his throat. “The reason you haven't heard from me for the last few days is because, well, there's no easy way to put this. Cassie, I've decided we need to break up.”

“We need to break up?” I echoed meekly. “You've decided?”

“Yeah. I know this must seem pretty poor timing, I mean, especially after losing your job and everything, but the truth is, it's been coming for a while.”

“For a while?” I sounded like a dimwitted parrot, but it was the best I could do. I was surprised that I was still standing since I was pretty sure the floor was swaying slightly.

He nodded with a sad expression. “Didn't you feel it was ending too?”

I just shrugged. I wasn't sure what I felt—well, other than that I'd just been hit by another truck, this one even bigger than the last.

“I really do like you, Cassie. But it's just not there, you know?”

Now I really studied him.
“What's
just not there?” I demanded
as the past few years flashed before my eyes: all I'd done, all I'd tried to be just to make this selfish man happy. “What are you talking about?”

“You and me,” he said quietly. “It's just not there.”

Anger began to bubble in me as I recalled some recent tension between us. I remembered how Eric had begun pressuring me a couple of months ago, saying that he needed more out of our relationship. Of course, he only mentioned this when we were kissing, when things were getting pretty hot and passionate. And, of course, that's when I would remind him in my most tempting and seductive voice, “Sure, Eric. You can have more, but not until our wedding night.”

Well, that usually shut things down pretty quickly, which worked for me. Yes, I'm one of those old-fashioned girls, and while I don't go around saying this out loud, I happen to believe the guy's not going to buy the cow when he can get the milk for free—not that I'm particularly fond of that unflattering metaphor. But the truth was, for the most part (at least when Eric wasn't all worked up and eager), he agreed with me on this basic concept. Or so it seemed. Suddenly I was starting to wonder.