“And if that doesn’t work?” Jules asks carefully, the look in her eyes saying more than she can.
“Then I’m going to wish Courtney off to a deserted island!” I say confidently, even though I know I won’t—because it won’t solve anything. But I grab Jules’ hand and we laugh together anyway, our laughter masking the worry I know we’re both feeling inside—that I might already be too late.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Orange is NOT the new black #justsaying
“Do you have this in orange?” I ask the salesgirl, trying not to cringe as I finger the delicate fabric of the comforter Max had pointed out as he looked over my shoulder at the Pottery Barn catalog last night, mentioning that he had always thought we needed this color in our neutral bedroom. My mouth gaping open, I asked, “Since when do you care about interior design? Are you the same man who didn’t know what a duvet was when we moved in together?”
“What? You’re the one who always makes me watch HGTV with you—I saw it on an episode of House Hunters,” he’d replied, his face turning crimson. “It looked really cool.”
“Really? HGTV?” I had asked, careful to keep my voice even. When I started urging him to tell me what kind of wedding he really wanted, it was as if I’d opened the floodgates. Suddenly he was asserting his opinion about everything, from the type of cottage cheese we should start buying (large curd!) to his admission that he was tired of watching reality TV and wanted me to start watching more sports with him. While I was happy to finally hear what was on his mind, it had shocked me yet again that his opinions were so different from my own.
I lay awake again last night, sleep proving more and more elusive with each passing day, patiently waiting for Max’s steady breathing to arrive before sitting up and staring at the contours of his face, wondering again how we had arrived here. I thought back to what Jules had said at the store—was winning Max back still a victory if it meant I was losing myself in the process?
The Pottery Barn saleswoman nods before disappearing to the back, returning with the orange duvet cased in plastic. “You’re sure?” she asks when she sees my face. Much to my chagrin, the shade of blood orange did not look better in person than it did in the glossy pages of the magazine. It was a shame; the crushed chiffonlike fabric was light and airy, and I had practically drooled over the ivory one on display, imagining pairing it with bold red and pale gold accent pillows. But waking up each morning wrapped in Max’s arms was what I wanted. So as I hand the cashier my credit card, I remind myself that it’s the people under the duvet, not the duvet itself, that matter.
As I make my way back to work, I feel lighter as I embrace the new dynamics of my relationship with Max. Sure, maybe I’d have to be more open to change, but at least I’d finally know the real Max—his opinions and feelings, everything. Maybe this would end up being the best thing that ever happened to me, and to us.
Holding the comforter under my arm, because I planned to FaceTime with Jules and show her, hoping she’d tell me the color didn’t resemble a prisoner’s jumpsuit, I use my hip to push open the door to our office entrance, nearly colliding with Courtney, who is awkwardly balancing a large box and her even larger striped tote.
“What’s going on?” I ask, catching my breath as I spy her favorite picture, a framed print of the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk, peeking out the top of the box. Was she fired?
“I quit,” she says simply.
“Wait, w-what?” I stammer, a thousand emotions rushing through me—feeling ecstatic, guilty, and evil all at the same moment. Happy she would be gone and most likely distracted by an intensive job search, guilty for the part I played by wishing her onto Magda’s bad side, and evil because my master plan was working.
“When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t planned. Magda pulled me off the PumpedUP energy drink account and I just snapped. Remember how hard I worked to get them to sign on? The things I did?”
I think back to Courtney challenging the CEO to a drinking contest—if she could outlast him, then he would hire us. He happily agreed, thinking that there was no way a 110-pound girl in black jeggings could drink him under the table. But she did as we both looked on in awe.
“Anyway,” she continues. “Something in me just cracked as I stared at her god-awful red lipstick and birdlike face. I told her to fuck off!”
“You what?” I smile despite myself, having imagined doing the same thing several times. When Magda took credit for the work we did, when she bit our heads off about things we couldn’t control, when she refused to acknowledge we had been right about something she didn’t agree with.