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“There’s still time to arrange for someone to attend with you.” Jared had to remind me I was going alone, though it’s something I seldom did.
Without few exceptions, I brought beautiful women to stand by my side as a distraction from the monotony at these types of events, and…well, my life in general. After years of attending them, I couldn’t think of one who stood out from the other.
“I’m going alone.” There were rules he needed to follow. Like keeping his nose out of my personal business. “If you want to stay employed at IG, enough of the monkey suit on Saturdays. You’re up-staging your boss.”
I had on a pair of Amiri jeans any rocker would be proud of, my favorite Harvard T-shirt, and leather loafers, sans socks. Jared pulled at his tie and straightened his jacket, eyes wide as he stared back at me. He swallowed and cleared his throat.
I steeled my gaze. He needed to tone down his dress-for-success obsession. Never top the person who controlled your future.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw.” Jared paused at my door, turning back around to face me. “Oh, I emailed you a list of my favorite Netflix shows.”
“I’ll look it over later.” I heard the front door shut and pulled up Jared’s email.
When I arrived back to my empty apartment after meeting Peaches, I followed her advice and “stayed in,” even though the couch was hard as fuck, but I added some scotch—a lot of scotch. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my day off than watching junk TV and getting drunk, cue a truckload of sarcasm.
As daylight turned to shadows against my wall, my alcohol-soaked brain began to play tricks on me. I imagined I’d brought Peaches home with me after all. Like a crazy person, I even asked her how in the hell one downloaded Netflix. Silence was my only answer. I woke up the next morning on the same couch wearing the same clothes. My back hurt like hell for three days.
I realized something: I could no longer drink like a college freshman, my back and head made it abundantly clear I was getting old, and I hated being alone.
After more failed attempts, I caved and asked Jared to do whatever needed to be done to make Netflix appear on my screen. I wanted to slap the knowing grin off his face while he set it up. So, I didn’t do TV or movies. Instead, I read books and wrote at night. When he was finished, he handed me the remote, instructing me on the best ways for finding shows to watch.
I took Peaches’ advice over Jared’s and spent the last two weeks watching two full seasons of The Office.
Here was my take: Michael was a buffoon and needed remedial management classes. Jim and Pam were the only ones I’d even consider hiring to work for me. Someone should burn all Dwight’s mustard and brown clothes, then take him straight to a hairstylist.
I hated to admit it, but Peaches was right. The escape did me good. It made me forget about other things, like acquiring another lover since I’d broken it off with Barbie, who had reached the three-month maximum. The service I used specialized in ambitious blondes seeking wealthy sugar daddies. It had worked fine for the past seven years, but I didn’t have the appetite to pick up where I left off.
Maybe in a week or two, the edginess I felt would pass. Though, one thing would help: if I could get a woman with green eyes, raven black hair, and luscious red lips out of my head and restless dreams.
A week after I met Peaches, a petite young woman with black hair stood in line at the same coffee shop in my building. I wasn’t stalking the place or anything. I’d just decided to get my own coffee for a while, mingle with others.
When the woman turned around, brown eyes and olive skin peered back at me. She was pretty but didn’t have the glow about her face or animated spark in her eyes like my Peaches. I wondered if anyone did. And I needed to remember just the memory of her was mine to keep. I’d let her walk away.
After sending Jared to, hopefully, go buy some jeans, I spent a few hours outlining a potential book I wanted to write. I stashed my notebook in my desk drawer and locked it, hiding it away. Old habits died hard.
When I was thirteen, my father caught me writing in a journal. He asked what I was doing, and I stupidly told him I was going to write a book. He was quiet for a minute—way too long for his short fuse—so I’d waited for his wrath. He hadn’t disappointed either. He’d snatched my work and made me follow him to the nearest fireplace. I’d tried not to show how hurt I was as he burned the papers to ash, but tears began to fall down my cheeks. He’d laughed at me for being so weak, told me to forget about writing books and focus on my destiny of taking over the company. He had railed on about my responsibilities to the business my mother’s family had created, dropping the one word that would make me pause: my mother. I would never do anything to harm her.
