“I can’t believe Tyler Kinley thinks he can match me creatively,” I say to Suze, before taking a nice swallow of whiskey. It burns going down, which is exactly what I want. We’re sitting in the Tar Bar, a fancy place across from the La Brea tar pits. Nothing says a relaxed drinking environment like dead prehistoric animals next door. The lighting is soft in here, with mirrored walls, white linen tablecloths, and live piano music that tinkles in the lounge. We’re seated next to a toasty open fire pit, right beside a couple on a really adorable first date. The guy’s even sweating! Or maybe it’s just the fire.
“You created this monster,” Suze reminds me, sipping her margarita. She leaves a red-lipsticked kiss on the rim. “Remember? I told you not to share your ideas with him.”
“I knooow,” I sigh. “But he wasn’t this much of an asshole when we first met. He was ambitious and hot and he loved listening to all my ideas…” I can hear my voice wavering, and I quickly hide my pain in my whiskey glass, taking a healthy swallow to ease the humiliation of my best friend’s well-meaning ‘I told you so.’
I got hired at Reel World right out of college, fresh from my summer internship. Yes, a whole eighteen months ago. Tyler bumped into me in the kitchen during my first official day. Literally. I spilled cappuccino down my new work outfit. “I’m so sorry!” he’d blurted, offering to help me clean up—he hadn’t even made the obvious boob grab. The heartfelt apology paired with his hunky cover-of-GQ looks momentarily dazzled me into complete tongue-tiedness. “Hey, are you Young?” he’d asked with a grin. “Because you look pretty grown-up to me.”
Back then, that joke had been sort of charming. Tyler had been sort of charming. There was no expensive cologne, no popped collar, no frosted hair tips. He’d been working at Reel World for a while—five years, in fact—and his hunger to finally make it to a full-on producer after all that time was kind of endearing. “I just can’t seem to land an idea with a great hook,” he’d told me over drinks on our first date.
Hook. Reel. The bad jokes write themselves.
I’d told him I thought he had potential. Granted his ideas weren’t really great, but with some punching up from yours truly, they got better. Mostly, I’d been responsible for taking all the boobs out of his pitches. Tyler had been floored by my ideas. So much so that he came home with me that first night we had drinks, and nearly every night for the next sixteen months afterward.
It had been fun, talking in bed post coitus, discussing our ideas, sharing our hopes and dreams. It’d felt like a partnership. And did I mention he was hot? Like men’s Mach3 Turbo Razor ad on a billboard on Hollywood Boulevard hot. Like Nordic Track infomercial hot. Sriracha hot. If I’m honest, a lifetime of being the mousy brunette had sort of set me up with a Tyler-shaped hole in my self-esteem, just waiting to be exploited. Live and learn. I guess the next guy I date will have to be in his forties, balding, and with a heart of literal gold. Maybe that will teach me. Then again, maybe not.
“What about the secret, sexy lives of Renaissance festival employees?” he’d said one night. “Like, girls in those low-cut Ren Fair gowns? Wouldn’t that sell?”
“Those aren’t really period appropriate,” I’d replied gently. “Although you could do something like The Bachelor, but have it in period costume. You know? Women have to vie to win the heart of an actual prince, and learn how to survive 16th century court life. So it’s sexy, sure, but also competitive and interesting.”
“Huh,” he’d said. “Wish I’d thought of that.”
Then, one day Tyler went in for a big pitch meeting without telling me. He used my Bachelor at the Court idea, charmed the right executives, and now is riding high with his long-coveted producer job. And me? When I told him how angry I was, he only winked and said, “I’ll make you my personal assistant. How’s that sound?” He’d tried to kiss me, and I’d stomped on the inside of his foot.
Our relationship deteriorated pretty quickly after that. My resentment seemed to grow in direct relation to his mushroom-clouding ego, both of which were now totally unbearable. His shiny new producer status rotted him from the inside out, and I watched it happen before my very eyes. I finally gave him the “it’s not working” speech a few months ago—and his response was a hearty laugh in my face. Apparently he’d never considered our relationship ‘official’ to begin with.
You might say I’m still dealing with the breakup.
You might also say that if I did half the things to Tyler that I fantasized about on a daily basis, I’d be in jail serving a life term, or five. But what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger, right? And as far as I’m concerned, the best revenge is runaway success.