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I don’t look at Cami. If I do, we’ll both start laughing.
Glenda dives in, kicking things off like she always does, with a weirdness only she can get away with. “Everybody, let’s kick off our shoes and all start with a cleansing breath.”
The room fills with the sound of shoes clumping to the floor, and Glenda sits up straight in her chair, eyes closed, and breathes in deeply through her nose, letting it out through her mouth.
About half the people in the room close their eyes and play along, but the rest of us, like Cami and me, nudge each other and try not to giggle. When Glenda is satisfied we’ve all gotten enough oxygen, she places her hands on the conference table and dives in.
As she goes through assignments for the beauty team, I am half listening, watching the giant clock on the wall tick each second off with an awkward lurch forward. I’ve never understood why the second hand on the clock does not move more gracefully. Every other piece of office furniture here is so carefully curated, it doesn’t make sense that someone opted for an Ikea timepiece.
“Ava! Earth to Ava,” Glenda laughs as Cami slams me in the bicep with her elbow.
I straighten up in my chair and smile brightly. “Oh, sorry, was lost in thought for a moment.” I wave my hand and laugh lightly, all calm and cool.
Glenda puts her hands together, pointing her fingertips my way like she’s piercing my thought bubble. “No worries, dear. I do hope that you’re thinking of something brilliant to top your latest column about that horrible ex-boyfriend Bran. It’s going to be a sure hit when it reaches the newsstands and the socials are going to absolutely blow up. I can see it now.”
She smiles at me with great pride, as if she might have given birth to me, and I return the favor, nodding humbly. “Thank you, Glenda. I… hope it resonates with readers.”
I don’t usually go so personal in my columns, but lately I’ve been feeling kind of… dry.
Murmurs of agreement fill the room, and while the piece I wrote about my ex using me as a placeholder is hardly a work of art, it’s nice to be acknowledged. For all we gripe about Glenda, she really is a pretty nice person.
“Yeah, not sure how I’ll top that last one!” I say with a helpless shrug, wishing she’d move on to someone else.
Not so fast.
She taps the side of her giant eyeglasses. “Actually, Ava, Ihavebeen thinking about the perfect next assignment for you.” She stares so intently I wonder if she’s trying to send me her thoughts telepathically.
Her grin unnerves me. What is this ‘assignment’ she has in mind?
The room echoes with a polite hum as everyone waits for Glenda to drop her brainchild.
She looks around at the excited faces in the room. “As you all know, our tenth anniversary is coming up. All our columnists will be writing something about one of their ‘firsts.’ Lana will write about the first designer handbag she ever got, Cami will write about the first diet she ever went on…”
Oh god no. Please no.
“…and Ava, darling, your next column will cover your first ever orgasm.” She claps her hands together like she discovered a cure for cancer.
To say I want to sink into a hole in the floor is an understatement. My heart thumps in my chest and I know my face is beet red. The only thing worse would be if I fainted. Actually, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
I thrum with fear, the same fear that’s been lurking since I watched Danny’s humiliating fate.
Everyone is going to figure me out. My career will be ruined. I’ll be disgraced, walked out of the building, flanked by two security guards with a banker’s box of my crap.
Instead of passing out, I take a deep breath through my nose like Glenda taught us, and hold my chin up like her assignment will be a breeze. I squash my fear of the time-bomb threatening to blow up my career, if only for a moment.
I plaster a grateful smile on my lips, accepting Glenda’s challenge with the most fake-ass enthusiasm anyone ever mustered.
After the meeting, I wander back to my desk like a zombie, leaving Cami to share her latest husband fiasco with Lana and whoever else will listen to her theories about him and pegging. Among the emails waiting for me is one from Aunt Dede, reminding me about lunch. I can almost hear her impatient tone through the screen. Like Glenda, she’s another Manhattan journalism powerhouse and is not accustomed to waiting for anyone’s response. Not even mine.
Maybe she can provide some guidance in this manner?
Actually, no. Hell no.
While I compose my response to Aunt Dede and read it several times to make sure there are no typos, the mailroom guy arrives with a box I’ve been expecting. I tear it open to find a bunch of new sex toys sent by a manufacturer in hopes of a good review.
But to review them, I’d have to use them.
The irony. A sex columnist who doesn’t use sex toys.
