Page 84 of Mr. Perfect

Jesus Christ. I even wrote a book about those relationships and tried to sell it to a publisher, for fuck’s sake. All these celebrities I pretend to know just because I’ve walked them around campus a few times over the years. All the worldly wisdom I’ve gathered by staying put in the same spot I’ve been standing in for seven years. And all the life-changing advice I’ve handed out.

I bet all those agents and publishers are laughing at me too.

I want to cry. Not because of the things that happened with Brutus, or the video, or Ellen’s stupid last stand with the newsletter. Not even because I found out Mac was a liar, at the very least, and possibly a rapist/murderer at most.

I want to cry because I’m a joke.

I stop walking.

“Ellie?” Jennifer asks, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Are you OK?”

Mac and Stonewall Senior are visible through the glass walls of the executive conference room. They’re both serious. Hands are waving in the air, mouths making odd shapes that tell me the conversation’s heated. They are standing up at the digital whiteboard at the front of the room going over some chart or another. And it’s not that I think they are talking about me. In fact, I’m sure they are not.

Stonewall senior knew my father and gave me a job back when I needed one. I am just this little party favor left over from some by-gone good time. Like a balloon, or piece of candy, or cheap toy that looks pretty inside the brightly-colored bag of treats but has no actual use once the party is over.

“Ellie?” Jennifer asks again.

“Why aren’t you mad at me, Jennifer?” I turn to face her.

“What?” She laughs, and then tsks her tongue. “About the nickname? Shit, Ellie. I did my fair share of slutting around. It’s not like you made it up. You just called it like it is. Once upon a time I was an office slut. So what? I can appreciate the funny in what you wrote.”

“Don’t you care that I didn’t know you well enough to see you differently? You’ve been married for a while now. It’s been years since you did anything remotely slutty. Don’t you care that I still thought of you that way?”

“You found out quick enough, didn’t you? We got to know each other pretty fast once you were moved up here. How would you know what I was up to? You were stuck down in the hangar for years.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

“Look,” Jennifer says, her hand still on my shoulder. “We all know those names were made up years ago. It’s just some harmless fun. Letting off steam. I mean, Mr. Sowards wasn’t too crazy about being called Mr. Sour-puss, but come on!” She’s outright laughing now. “It’s funny in a very stupid way. No one is mad.”

I almost accept that. Almost. If Mac hadn’t stood in his office two weeks ago and talked about cows and rowers on the river then I’d probably be OK with what she just told me.

But he did. He said those things and I heard them and they cannot be unheard.

I am scenery to these people. I am a view.

I am a car on the road, or a boat floating under a bridge, or a light flicking on and off on the side of a building. No one cares about the driver in that car, or the man on that boat, or the couple in that apartment. No one cares because they are nothing but a view.

“Ellie!” Mac calls me from the conference room door.

“He’s not mad either,” Jennifer says, looking over at Mac.

I don’t say anything back, just turn and walk towards the conference room. Mac smiles at me as I approach. “You’ve heard, I take it? Ellie, don’t let Ellen get to you, OK? We are going to press charges. She will pay for this.”

I slip past him and enter the room. Stonewall Senior stands up and holds his hand out. I extend my hand too, but instead of shaking it, he engulfs it into both of his as they cup around and press.

It’s a warm gesture. One that says more than words. And I appreciate it, I really do. But it’s not enough to take away this deep, sinking feeling of hurt bubbling up from within me.

“I’m…” I stop, not sure how much I should say, but then press on anyway. “Sad.”

“We’re going to make her pay,” Senior says. “Don’t worry about that.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not sad about her. I’m sad about me. I thought about your offer all weekend, Mr. Stonewall. And I appreciate it, so much. I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me, so I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m leaving. Today. Right now, in fact. I’m walking out and I’m not coming back.”

“Ellie?” Mac says. “Are you sure?”

“Is it the video?” Senior asks. “I’m so sorry—”

“No,” I say, cutting him off. “No, that’s not it. I just want to be more than a view.” I look Mac in the eyes for that last part. He squints at me, getting it, maybe. Or not getting it. I’m not sure. I don’t care. “That’s all I have to say.”