realized I didn’t like making an argument. I loved it. Especially if there was something on the line (millions of dollars, say, or the survival of a company), and I won. Of course, everyone likes to win. Winning is better than losing, after all. But I loved it.
So for the years between twenty-seven and thirty-four, I worked hard to make sure that if I argued, I won. And the work meant there wasn’t time for much else. Something had to give, and it was my friends I gave. I stopped returning calls, and one by one, they stopped making them, until it felt like all that was left were Stephanie, Craig, Sunshine (when she was around), and my mom.
I don’t know if it’s sad or just life that I didn’t think about it much. I didn’t have that many friends. So what?
But now I’m regretting some of the choices I made. I’m feeling it.
Boy, am I ever.
I smooth out the piece of newspaper with Stephanie’s cell-phone number on it and punch it into the dirt-cheap phone I bought at a kiosk in the mall with some of Dominic’s money.
Stephanie’s phone rings, rings, rings, then clicks to voice mail.
“This is Steph. Please leave a message.”
“Steph, whatever you’re doing, sit down. It’s me. Emma. I’m okay. I’m back, and most importantly, I’m alive. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t able to call sooner. Please don’t hate me, okay? Call me as soon as you get this message, whatever the time. My new number is 555-7982. Okay now, breathe. I love you.”
I hang up and hold the phone in my hand for a minute, willing it to ring, though I know I might not hear from her for days. God, maybe even weeks. Why, why, why did she have to go looking for me?
“Ohmygod.”
I look up into the stunned face of Jenny Macintosh, my twenty-two-year-old assistant. She’s fond of tanning and is wearing a black shift dress whose skirt is way too short, but that’s the thing about Jenny. She looks and talks like she should have a camera crew following her around while she parties till 3 A.M. , but she’s smart as a whip and, in the year we worked together, saved my ass more than once.
“Hi, Jenny.”
She hugs me tightly. “You’re alive.”
“Yeah.”
“But they told us that you were dead, and we had this service and everything.”
Jesus. They had a service . I’d been memorialized, summed up, dispatched into the past tense. I wonder if anyone cried.
She flops into the chair across from me. Her latte sloshes over the side of her cup. “This is just too freakin’ weird.”
You’re telling me.
“Careful, you’re going to spill your drink.”
She blinks slowly. Her eyes start to fill with tears. “Where were you all this time?”
I fill her in, touched by her concern. She listens quietly, her baby-blue eyes round saucers of bewilderment.
“That’s like something out of a movie.”
Yeah, one of those depressing ones where the main character’s life starts out badly and just gets worse and worse. Those movies all have a turning point in them, though, when something happens to tip the balance back toward goodness.
I’m going to get one of those soon, right?
“I guess.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“At the office? No, not yet. I’ll be heading up there in a minute.”
“Oh,” she says, sipping her drink. “I work for Mr. Wilson now.”
“That’s great, Jenny.”
“And Sophie took your office.”
That figures. If there’s such a thing as a nemesis in real life, then Sophie Vaughn is it. I’m not exactly sure why she has it in for me, but it seems like she has ever since I started working at TPC. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I’m pretty sure hooking up with her ex at my first office Christmas party had something to do with it. (Not my proudest moment, but I didn’t even know they’d been dating till afterward.) But still, tangling with her always reminds me of the fights I had with the popular girls in high school. I guess you can take the popular girl out of high school, but that
So for the years between twenty-seven and thirty-four, I worked hard to make sure that if I argued, I won. And the work meant there wasn’t time for much else. Something had to give, and it was my friends I gave. I stopped returning calls, and one by one, they stopped making them, until it felt like all that was left were Stephanie, Craig, Sunshine (when she was around), and my mom.
I don’t know if it’s sad or just life that I didn’t think about it much. I didn’t have that many friends. So what?
But now I’m regretting some of the choices I made. I’m feeling it.
Boy, am I ever.
I smooth out the piece of newspaper with Stephanie’s cell-phone number on it and punch it into the dirt-cheap phone I bought at a kiosk in the mall with some of Dominic’s money.
Stephanie’s phone rings, rings, rings, then clicks to voice mail.
“This is Steph. Please leave a message.”
“Steph, whatever you’re doing, sit down. It’s me. Emma. I’m okay. I’m back, and most importantly, I’m alive. I’m so, so sorry I wasn’t able to call sooner. Please don’t hate me, okay? Call me as soon as you get this message, whatever the time. My new number is 555-7982. Okay now, breathe. I love you.”
I hang up and hold the phone in my hand for a minute, willing it to ring, though I know I might not hear from her for days. God, maybe even weeks. Why, why, why did she have to go looking for me?
“Ohmygod.”
I look up into the stunned face of Jenny Macintosh, my twenty-two-year-old assistant. She’s fond of tanning and is wearing a black shift dress whose skirt is way too short, but that’s the thing about Jenny. She looks and talks like she should have a camera crew following her around while she parties till 3 A.M. , but she’s smart as a whip and, in the year we worked together, saved my ass more than once.
“Hi, Jenny.”
She hugs me tightly. “You’re alive.”
“Yeah.”
“But they told us that you were dead, and we had this service and everything.”
Jesus. They had a service . I’d been memorialized, summed up, dispatched into the past tense. I wonder if anyone cried.
She flops into the chair across from me. Her latte sloshes over the side of her cup. “This is just too freakin’ weird.”
You’re telling me.
“Careful, you’re going to spill your drink.”
She blinks slowly. Her eyes start to fill with tears. “Where were you all this time?”
I fill her in, touched by her concern. She listens quietly, her baby-blue eyes round saucers of bewilderment.
“That’s like something out of a movie.”
Yeah, one of those depressing ones where the main character’s life starts out badly and just gets worse and worse. Those movies all have a turning point in them, though, when something happens to tip the balance back toward goodness.
I’m going to get one of those soon, right?
“I guess.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“At the office? No, not yet. I’ll be heading up there in a minute.”
“Oh,” she says, sipping her drink. “I work for Mr. Wilson now.”
“That’s great, Jenny.”
“And Sophie took your office.”
That figures. If there’s such a thing as a nemesis in real life, then Sophie Vaughn is it. I’m not exactly sure why she has it in for me, but it seems like she has ever since I started working at TPC. Okay, that’s not entirely true. I’m pretty sure hooking up with her ex at my first office Christmas party had something to do with it. (Not my proudest moment, but I didn’t even know they’d been dating till afterward.) But still, tangling with her always reminds me of the fights I had with the popular girls in high school. I guess you can take the popular girl out of high school, but that
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