Seth’s name on my screen and the memory of his cryptic message are enough to make my stomach churn again. Thelast thing I need in my current state is any sort of communication from him. I clear the notification and decide to deal with it later. Or never. He can’t actually be expecting me to call him, right?
Before I can even put the car in reverse, my phone rings, right as I’m vowing to never dial Seth Carson’s number for as long as I live. I physically jump in my seat.
It’s not Seth calling, but I’d almost rather it were.
I clickAccept Calland switch the audio to my car’s Bluetooth. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, Lana.” My mother always calls me by my name. Never “sweetie” or “dear” or anything showing even a smidge of affection.
“This isn’t a great time, I’m on my way to work.” At least I have a legitimate excuse to stay on this call for as short as possible.
“Still working on your little relationship column?” Even from thousands of miles away, the judgment seeps through her tone.
“Yes, Mom, I’m still working on my award-winning relationship column.”
My mother’s disdain for the dating articles I write is maybe the one thing we have in common. I was placed on the beat when I first started at my job, mostly because I was the only one on staff who was actually in a stable relationship at the time. And even though I’ve now been with the same publication for eight years and it’s seen me through more than one breakup, I’m still stuck writing about love, when what I really want to be writing about is books andmovies and television series, basically anything pop-culture related. I’ve always found solace in stories, and the only relationships I really care about (aside from my own) are the ones I ship on my screen.
Not that my mom would find that kind of writing any more worthwhile; she’s never hid her contempt for my fandom obsessions.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your very important job that surely benefits millions, I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be traveling for the next month at least and my cell service will be spotty.” I don’t know if she means to come across as condescending, but she sure has no problem putting down both me and my job every time we speak. Which luckily isn’t too often.
“Setting up another girls’ school?” I try to cut the attitude from my tone because, you know, setting up a school for underprivileged children is not actually a bad thing and doesn’t deserve my sarcasm. Even if it means she’s always put other children before her own. Despite the fact that I’m thankful for my good fortune, it still would’ve been nice to have had a mom at home.
“Yes. I don’t suppose you would like to join me?”
“Some of us do have to work, Mom. You know, to pay our bills?” I take every opportunity to subtly remind her of her own immense privilege, mostly because I know it irks her.
My mother comes from money. And not like middle-class, invested-well money. Oil money. Big money. Money that, according to my mother, was earned by destroying the earth, and is therefore bad money. And I mean, she’s notwrong. Once her parents passed and she inherited the trust, she made it her mission to spend as much of that money doing good works as physically possible. Which makes it really hard to be mad at her. Aside from my college fund and the money for my house, which I’m extremely grateful for, she refuses to send anything more my way, channeling it all into charities.
But it was never her money I cared about. The only time I ever dared to ask her to pay for something, it was for someone else. I admire my mother’s mission and I can see all the good she does. But as her daughter, I wish I had gotten just a tiny sliver of the attention she gives to the kids she helps all over the world. I was basically raised by nannies, having never met my father and having no other family alive.
“Lana? Did I lose you?”
As if she ever had me. Or wanted me. I almost laugh. “I’m still here, but I gotta go. Good luck with the school.” I don’t wait for her to respond, knowing there’s noI love youorTake care, honeycoming my way. I let the silence of the car settle me as I head toward work.
Luckily, the office ofAlways Take Fountain—the hipster-chic web magazine I write for, name derived from the famous Bette Davis quote—is only a ten-minute drive from my house. I basically scored the Holy Grail of LA commute times and I’ve never been more thankful for it.
Unfortunately, ten minutes today is ten minutes too long. Ten minutes is just enough time for me to replay the traumatic events from the night before on a loop in my brain. And it’s not enough time to figure out how I’m going to spinthe whole breakup situation to the small, tight-knit group of colleagues I’m about to face. Colleagues who are expecting me to come in with a big-ass rock on my finger, not a big-ass hangover.
And I love my team of writer friends. Seriously, they are some of the best coworkers anyone could ask for. But, aside from Natasha, my editor/boss/CEO/mentor, they’re all single and tend to live vicariously through my relationship milestones.
“Careful what you wish for, bitches,” I mutter as I pull into a parking spot.
I push through the door to the wide-open loft space and find it suspiciously quiet. No one sits at the long white table in the center of the room or at any of the small desks scattered around the perimeter. The only people I see are our tech manager, Ian, and a couple of the behind-the-scenes folks, tucked into their corner on the far side of the room. My Birkenstocks slap loudly across the polished concrete floors, the exposed-brick walls and metal ductwork doing nothing to absorb the sound.
The door to the conference room is closed, which is unusual, and I start to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I drop my purse on an empty desk and take a couple of steadying breaths. Marching slowly across the room like I’m on my way to the gallows, I tentatively push open the emerald-green door.
“Surprise!” a chorus cries out just before I’m wrapped in hugs, multiple pairs of arms encircling me.
“Congratulations, wifey!” James’s booming voice reachesout over all the others, loud enough to act as a gut punch on top of the shit sundae of the last twenty-four hours.
Could this day get any worse?
One of my best work friends, Tessa, grabs my hands, squeezing way harder than necessary. I do my best not to cry. Or throw up. Not sure which would be better (or worse) at this point.
Tessa’s fingers are probing my most-definitely-bare left hand, as if by poking and prodding she might uncover a hidden diamond. When she finally accepts there’s no shining ring to be found, she loosens her grip and meets my eyes. “Oh, honey. What happened?”
I don’t know if it’s her words or my overall appearance or the fact that I’m still standing in the doorway completely frozen, but a hush falls over the room.
