The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks Read online

  The phone went quiet. My anger did not.

  “You’re an asshole,” I finished, pulling the device from my ear and winding up to smash the end button so hard Tiago would feel it in “Brazil.”

  Allie, not yet satisfied with the licks she’d gotten in, snagged the phone from my hand before I could make contact and yelled one last insult. “If I ever see you in the streets, I will rip your fucking balls off!”

  And, with her finger pointed toward the end call button, she added, “This is Allie, by the way!” before hanging up.

  Even now, I feel compelled to tell you, Allie…that was probably one of my favorite things I’ve ever heard you say.

  I can still picture you turning your finger-formed-gun to the side, real gangster style, as you yelled it.

  More than that, though, I’ll never forget the way you pulled me into a tight hug and told me the things I needed to hear.

  You really are the best friend a girl could ever have, and I’m so lucky—Ha!—that I’m the one who has you.

  I’m still not sure how you convinced Vanessa to move that meeting to the next day, but I am sure you did it.

  Because you’re always looking out for me, even when I’m not looking out for myself.

  Which is clearly pretty often.

  [laughs]

  If Allie hadn’t forced me to go out that night, I probably would have wallowed in my apartment, clinging to the pathetically apologetic text messages Tiago insisted on sending.

  Really, they were winners.

  I’m so sorry, Lucky.

  I didn’t want to hurt you.

  Please don’t hate me.

  I want to explain.

  [sighs]

  Luckily, the mix of alcohol and Allie’s colorfully creative suggestions for where Tiago should take his penis and shove it took the night in a different direction.

  No more Tiago. No more bullshit.

  And while he isn’t the main focus of this story, he was an important catalyst.

  I needed to make some serious changes when it came to men. My name might be Lucky, but when it comes to love, I am anything but.

  And jerks? Well, they were the first thing that needed to get the fuck out of Dodge.

  [laughs]

  Oh, guys…

  Too bad I was just days away from meeting the biggest jerk of all.

  * * *

  Episode 2: “But I can’t even swim…”

  Stick a fork in me, I was done.

  Well, mostly just hungover, but considering I was only an hour into my day and already daydreaming about my bed, I was pretty sure the impromptu girls’ night with Allie had only been a good idea up until the point where I had to come into work the next morning.

  I stared mindlessly at my laptop, and the sounds of coworkers chatting and starting their workday battered against my skull.

  The resident writers of Scoop have a communal cubicle area on the fourth floor of our building in Manhattan known as the bullpen, and I sit just about dead center of it. I’m hoping, with what I’m assuming will be the great success of this amazing podcast, I’ll get moved out of this spot and into one with more natural light.

  I’m much more knowledgeable about floor-to-ceiling glass windows than I am about bullpens. Hell, I’m not even one hundred percent sure where the term bullpen comes from. A sport, I presume, but hell if I know which one.

  As I scrolled through my go-to websites, checking out the morning’s latest news, my stomach turned over with its leading headline: Lucky Needs to Vomit

  Off-putting, I know, but my stomach is about as lyrically talented as Toby, our resident political guru at Scoop.

  I’m sorry if you’re listening, Toby, but you should know, that morning, and pretty much any other morning when you prattle on and on about some tweet from a senator to pretty much anyone who will listen, I discreetly flip you the middle finger from behind my cubicle wall.

  You’re a really nice guy, but for the love of God, I’d rather stab my ears out with a nail file than listen to one more interesting fact about Senator Anderson.

  [laughs]

  Something tells me I might come out of this podcast with a couple fewer friends than I started with.

  Still, there’s one friend I can’t seem to shake, and you should all know by now, her name is Allie.

  And that Thursday morning, the traitorous wench was way too goddamn chirpy as she smiled at my brilliant display of the bird and asked me how I was.

  “I am currently shouting profanity at you, but I’m too hungover to actually say it out loud,” I muttered and put my head in my hands. “Seriously? Why did you let me drink so much last night?”

  The perfectly charismatic smile on her face zoomed into focus, and suddenly, the level of her treachery came rushing back. “And how in the hell did you get away with drinking freaking soda all night?”

  I’d been too busy imbibing to notice the night before, but for as much as she was pushing the booze like an all-out dealer, Allie hadn’t participated at all herself.

  She just grinned. “You just need some coffee, and you’ll be all set.”

  What I needed was never to listen to her girls’ night ideas again.

  [laughs]

  Spoiler alert: My track record on this little promise to myself isn’t exactly impressive.

  Still, I felt like shit, and clearly, Allie was to blame.

  What kind of friend thinks it’s a good idea for their depressed bestie to drink a shot of tequila for every jerk boyfriend they’ve ever had?

  Certainly not one whose bestie has so many damn exes.

  “I’m never drinking alcohol again.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That’s what everyone says the next day.”

  “Yeah, well, this time, I mean it.”

  “And that’s also what everyone says.”

  “You’re getting on my nerves. And, it should be noted, you are the very reason I’m sitting here wondering how I’m going to get through my monthly article pitch with Vanessa in an hour.”

  “You love me, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Right now, it doesn’t feel very much like love. Your unwarranted optimism is grating on my nerves.”

  “You just need some coffee—and maybe a trip to the bathroom to freshen up your makeup,” she said through a soft laugh.

  “What makeup?” I questioned. I had no makeup. I was lucky I’d managed to get dressed without vomiting on myself that morning. The reality that I’d even pulled it together enough to put on my favorite secondhand Chanel dress and nude pumps was a miracle.

  Which, as a sidenote, is the complete opposite of my usual MO.

  For those of you who don’t follow my Scoop columns, I’m a fashionista through and through. And while I can’t afford designer clothes at retail prices, New York is a fashion mecca and has more secondhand vintage shops than the Midwest has McDonald’s.

  Not to mention, ever since my mom passed away several years ago from breast cancer, it’s been something I do for nostalgia’s sake.

  She loved to shop, and finding vintage bargains was her thing. And about the time I turned thirteen, it became our thing.

  [clears throat]

  Anyway, even though I’d managed to dress the part of a successful New York columnist that day, I’d really dropped the ball when it came to hair and makeup.

  Allie looked me over again with a little, knowing smile. “How about I make a quick Starbucks run for some coffee, and you focus on making yourself look a little more presentable?” she asked, and I put my head in my hands again.

  “‘A little more presentable’? Is that your nice way of saying ‘you look like shit’?”

  “Yes.” She patted my shoulder. “Go wash your face, maybe attempt to brush your hair, and put on some makeup to hide the bags under your eyes. I’ll run across the street and manage a non-boozy hangover cure for you.”

  “I should probably say thank you, but seeing as this is your fault, I’m refusing pleasantries and mann
ers.”

  Allie grinned as she rose to her feet, and with an encouraging squeeze to my shoulder, she headed back down the hall on her heels while I attempted to relocate myself to the bathroom.

  Just before I found the strength to haul my ass out of my chair, my phone pinged with a text message.

  I figured it was Allie offering some stupid inspirational quote about having a great day or something, but sadly, I was completely wrong. It was a text from an unknown number from hell.

  Lucky, it’s Tiago. I know you’ve probably blocked my other number, but please, let me talk to you. I want to explain. Call me back at this number. Please.

  Yeah, the bastard wanted to explain. Trust me, I’d also love to know how he planned to explain faking an international move to break up with me.

  But I refused to take the bait. He could go peddle his bullshit to someone else who actually cared.

  With my fingers to my phone, I completed the first important task of the day. I blocked the asshole. Again.

  Then, I forced myself out of my chair and into the bathroom, where I managed to run a brush through my hair and put enough concealer on my face to hide the dark circles.

  That day might’ve been shit, but that didn’t mean I had to look like it.

  An hour later, I sat beside Allie inside the conference room with the rest of Scoop’s columnist staff as we waited for our hard-ass boss to arrive.

  Vanessa is notoriously on time and always prepared. In fact, she’s the best boss ever.

  [pauses]

  Hi, Vanessa! Hope you’re loving the podcast.

  Just like always, you made quite the showing that day. I’ll probably overdramatize the theatrics of your meeting aesthetic for shock value in the name of listenership, so just, you know…don’t pay too much attention.

  [nervous laughter]

  Anyway, back to the story.

  “Okay, people! Hit me with your pitch ideas and make sure they’re good,” Vanessa said as she stepped into the conference room at ten a.m. on the dot. She tossed her infamous little black notebook down in front of her seat at the head of the table. It hit the wood with a soft but ominous thud.

  Instantly, the mood shifted.

  If I compared our monthly pitch meetings with Vanessa to a firing squad, it would be an understatement.

  I shifted in my seat and took a sip from my now half-empty cup of Starbucks Allie had picked up for me. I grimaced when the hot and bitter aftertaste of their Pike’s Place blend rolled down my throat.

  As an aside—and I know this is going to sound blasphemous to most people—I’m not the biggest fan of Starbucks. When it comes to their darker brews, I might as well be drinking gasoline straight from the pump.

  Sorry, Starbucks, but your brew is bitter, dude.

  [laughs softly]

  I guess it’s safe to say they won’t be sending me any promotional baskets if they listen to this podcast, huh?

  Regardless, I am a coffee addict through and through, and there was no way in hell I would’ve been able to get through that hangover and meeting without the caffeine.

  So, I drank the damn gasoline like it was my only lifeline for survival.

  The room turned silent as Vanessa sat down in her chair, crossed her legs, and stared at the twelve of us sitting in front of her.

  The weak would be caught and eaten.

  And, as I glanced down at my notes for this month’s articles, it became startlingly clear I was the weakest link.

  Seriously, guys, they were bad. So much so, I had to close my eyes.

  Against my better judgment, I’ll read through a few, just so you have an idea.

  Number One: Compare dating to cheese. Think mozzarella, gouda, parmesan…

  [audible groan]

  Number Two: A quiz showcasing your dating style based off of your favorite dog breeds.

  Because everyone wants to compare their love life to a corgi, right?

  Number Three: Dating with your political views in mind.

  There’s nothing sexier than politics to find true love. Not to mention, the idea of doing field research with Toby is the equivalent of hell on earth.

  And for one last taste of my rotten ideas, Number Four: Foods to avoid on your first date.

  There’s nothing better than an in-depth, hard-hitting piece about the intestinal effects of Mexican food, am I right?

  [laughs again]

  See what I mean?

  My ideas that day belonged in the trash with the rest of garbage.

  And, sadly, I had another ten just like those ones inside my notebook.

  No doubt about it, they weren’t going to win me a Noble Prize or, more importantly, any brownie points from Vanessa.

  At least I had somewhere to focus my anger other than myself.

  Tiago.

  I mean, when was the last time someone faked an international move just to get away from you?

  Never?

  Well then. Take it from me.

  It’s the kind of scenario that would screw with anyone’s head.

  So, I’m sure you can imagine, by that point in the meeting, with my shitty pitch ideas in front of me and Vanessa’s eagle eyes at the head of the table, I was starting to feel a bit nervous…

  “Landon?” Vanessa called out her first victim, and internally, I sighed in relief.

  I knew it was a short-lived kind of thing, but I guess I thought maybe I’d come up with something noteworthy on the fly, before she locked eyes with me and called my name.

  “Well…” Landon, Scoop’s resident foodie, fidgeted in his seat and adjusted his tie. He was probably in the same boat as me, but he wasn’t me. So, so sorry, Landon, you were on your own.

  “I was thinking…” He paused again, and it only took point five seconds for Vanessa to strike.

  “You were thinking?” Her bright red lips morphed into a scowl. “That’s good news, Landon. How about you go ahead and pitch your ideas to us before we waste away from boredom?” she asked. Her nails matched her lips, and let me tell you, she made it clear they were far more fascinating than Landon’s shitty effort at stalling.

  Red is a staple in Vanessa’s wardrobe, by the way.

  Red lipstick. Red nail polish. Red dress. It’s like she wears her past employees’ proverbial blood on her clothes as a shrine.

  And that day was no different. The only thing not red on her body was her heels. But they were Louboutins, so, yeah, the soles sported crimson.

  “Right. Right.” Landon chuckled nervously in response. “I want to do a showcase piece where I visit popular mom-and-pop restaurants throughout the city and encourage our readers to give small businesses a chance.”

  Vanessa glared. “So, you want to publish a story about Joe Schmoe’s hot pastrami sandwiches and potato salad?”

  “Uh… not exactly…”

  “It’s either a yes or a no, Landon,” she said. “Either you think this is a good idea for a cutting-edge, always on trend website like Scoop or not?”

  “Well, it sounded good, but now I’m not so sure…”

  “So, now, not only are you wasting our time with shitty ideas, you’re also indecisive?” she questioned, but she did not give him even a second to respond. “How about we all learn a little lesson from Landon today? Come to our meetings prepared with ideas that are actually worthy of my time, or else you might end up at risk for a thirty-day demotion to the mail room.”

  Landon’s eyes went wide, and my loins attempted to gird. I’m not sure they knew, or will ever know, how to perform the action, but they sure as hell tried.

  “What are you waiting for?” Vanessa said directly to him and gestured an apathetic hand toward the door. “The mail room is waiting.”

  An uneasy rattle left his lungs as he cleared his throat. “Are you serious?”

  “Obviously, indecision is a staple for you, but I can tell you, I never say anything I’m not certain about,” she retorted with a lift of her index finger. “Now, get out of my conference r
oom, and we’ll see you next month. Hopefully, the mail room will inspire you to get your shit together.”

  Talk about a rampage.

  It was at about that time that I started internally freaking out and trying to search out some kind of pitch that wouldn’t get me demoted, or worse, fired.

  I glanced down at my notebook and frantically scanned the pages for inspiration. I had to come up with something or else I’d be sitting beside Landon, stuffing envelopes and licking fucking stamps.

  Out of the corner of my eye, Allie picked up her pen and started furiously jotting down notes on her yellow pad of paper.

  She only did that when brilliance spiked, and I took a large inhale through my nose in the hope that creativity had the power to permeate through the air, into my nostrils, and inside my brain.

  “Lucky?” Vanessa’s voice might as well have been a buzzer going off in my ears.

  Time was up, and I was fucked.

  I looked up and met Vanessa’s already irritated gaze. Landon’s crappy potato salad idea had really sucked out whatever positive energy was left in the room, and there hadn’t been much to begin with.

  “Your pitch ideas?” she asked, and I knew if I didn’t give her something, anything, she’d bare her fangs and eat me alive.

  [laughs]

  Again, Vanessa, if you’re still listening—for the love of God, I hope not—you’re lovely.

  [hums]

  Where was I?

  Oh, that’s right. The desperate plight of a manic woman trying to figure out how not to screw up her entire career.

  I glanced down at my notebook again and scrolled through my ideas in the hope that something would magically appear on the page. All the while, the Jeopardy theme song played inside my head.