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And my message to Bran in case he ever reads this? Next time you decide to ‘wait’ for someone, I suggest you consider a hobby. Axe throwing? Poison tasting? Cliff diving? It would be far less injurious to the innocents who cross your path.
As for me, I have chosen to bask in the glory of self-love, as you, Dear Reader, should as well. I am savoring my lemon drop martini and raising a toast to every placeholder like me who’s discovered her true worth. Here’s to us, the phoenixes who’ve risen from the ashes of a love never meant to be ours. Here’s to our journey from being an option to becoming a priority. Here’s to our transformation from proxy to powerhouse. We don’t just survive. We thrive.
And here’s to Bran, short for Brandt, my unlikely mentor, who showed me my worth by failing to recognize it himself. Despite the heartache, I am grateful for the lessons learned, the truths unveiled, and the strengths I’ve discovered.
And I don’t miss his tiny dick at all.
Until next month, Dear Reader.
XOXO
Ava
* * *
1
AVA
Five minutes later…
What. Utter. Bullshit.
I clicksend, delivering the final draft of my April column to theGlistenediting team who, unless they are complete idiots, will see right through the false bravado of this month’s column like the sheer dress that hot young actress wore on the red carpet last year.
I swish cold water through my mouth to remove the bad taste of another dumbass article that will have the readers ofGlistenwiping their tears and shoring up their defenses for facing not only the dating world but also the universe as a whole.
My work here is done.
I slither out of the office unnoticed, in desperate need of a moment to myself, not in the mood for the company of a coworker in want of an impromptu coffee break. Sometimes a girl just has to look out for herself, right?
But when I push open the heavy glass doors to the world headquarters of the conglomerate Bonded Crest, publisher of some of the top-selling magazines in the world, I stumble in my red patent-leather stilettos. Damn shoes will be the death of me. But hey, I have a reputation to uphold. Abrand. A certainlook.
As my boss puts it,a package.
If she only knew.
I freeze in place. There, across the lobby, is one of my coworkers. Well, by the look of the banker’s box he’s carrying, complete with half-dead fern hanging out of it, he’s now anex-coworker.
I still don’t move, and busy New Yorkers swirl around me like I’m a rock holding up a rushing stream. Not even a couple shoulder chucks nudge me from my spot.
Holy shit. The guy carrying the clichéd box of shame is none other than Danny Merrick,Glisten’schubby, cheerful, and renowned food writer.
Danny? On his way out? How? Why?
The man has been atGlistenfor as long as the magazine has been open and is credited in large part with helping it achieve its meteoric rise in the competitive world of women’s magazines.
And now he’s leaving?
The banker’s box indicatesyes.
Heads turn as he moves through the lobby, that’s how well-known he is, so I’m clearly not the only person trying to put together what the hell is going on. In fact, I want to run to him and ask what’s going on, but from the grim expression on his face and the two beefy security guards at his sides, I instead step behind a giant potted plant.
The guards hold the door open for him since his arms are full, the least they can do given the humiliation he’s sure to be feeling. He squints in the bright morning light before leaving the Bonded Crest building, probably for the last time ever.
I click back across the lobby’s polished marble floor to the elevator, my coffee break forgotten, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glitzy mirrored walls. My narrow pencil skirt, fitted white blouse, and tight bun give me a ‘naughty librarian’ look, part of my wardrobe rotation. Yesterday, I was in red leather pants.
Hey, a girl’s got to live up to her reputation—bold, professional, fearless, and an expert in all that’s to be known about the pleasures of the flesh.
