Nate’s face twists and his shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for impact.
“I was so excited when I saw the news that I didn’t notice my name was missing or wonder why I was seeing this on the internet instead of hearing about it from my boyfriend, agent, or literally anybody.” I still get angry at myself for being so naive. There were a million clues and I ignored them all. “I drove to the liquor store and splurged on the best bottle of champagne I could find. I mean, I had a paycheck coming in. I could afford it, right?”
WRONG.
“I got home, lit some candles, put the champagne on ice, maybe had a shot of tequila or two—”
“Collins, no.” Nate groans. “Even I know you don’t handle tequila well.”
“Hey! That was one time and I didn’t know how to handle my liquor yet. Plus, you know those kids were hogging the swings. If they would’ve just gotten off the third time I asked we wouldn’t have had any problems.”
I mean really. Children are assholes; it’s a universal truth. You lose your temper with them one time and people never let you live it down.
“Anyways.” I level him with a pointed stare and continue with the story. “I finally sit down and pull up the deal announcement. And wouldn’t you know it? My name is nowhere to be found. The entire announcement lauded Peter Hanson as this longtime screenwriter who’s written for some of television’s best shows and is finally ready to run a writing room of his own. They credited this thirty-something white man for a coming-of-age story about a Black woman.
“I was still telling myself it was a mistake when he came home. We’d been dating for years. We lived together. We loved each other. No way would my boyfriend do this to me.” I tend to think in terms of worst-case scenarios, but this was outside the realm of even my imagination. “I figured it was all a misunderstanding. So imagine my shock when I brought this up to him when he walked in and he said—and this is a direct quote—‘When I open up applications for the writers’ room, I’m going to look at yours first.’?”
“No, he didn’t.” The absolute horror in Nate’s voice would be enough to make me laugh if this story didn’t make me want to burst into tears all over again.
“Yup.” I nod, confirming that Peter Hanson does, in fact, have more audacity than any other human on the planet. “Then, when I got rightfully furious hearing this news, he told me I was overreacting. That was not the right thing to say.” I tell him something I’m sure any rational human with a brain knows. “And I’m not sure if you remember this about me or not, but I don’t tend to handle these situations all that well.”
“What? You? A temper? Never!” The sarcasm is so heavy, I can practically see it dripping from the corners of his mouth.
“Okay, okay. Settle down, now, Se?or Realtor.” I roll my eyes and bite back the smile I didn’t think would be possible while telling this story. “We wouldn’t want to let people know you have a sense of humor and ruin your reputation.”
“Excuse me!” He rests his hands on his hips and I don’t want to admit it, but he is giving big zaddy energy in those khakis. “I’ll have you know that Mrs. Morris thinks I’m hilarious. She spends the majority of our walks in stitches.”
“That’s not the defense you think it is,” I tell him. “But yeah, if there was a right way to handle this situation, I did the opposite of that. I grabbed the unopened bottle of two-hundred-dollar champagne and left.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” he says.
“Well, after I left, I knocked on all of my neighbors’ doors on the way out screaming, ‘He thinks I’m overreacting! He hasn’t even begun to see overreacting.’ And I may or may not have still been wearing the high heels and silk robe I put on for the later part of our celebration.” I admit it wasn’t one of my finer moments. But rage can make you do some wild things.
Like run for HOA president . . .
“Oh. Okay, yeah.” He nods and I get the feeling he wishes he had another glass of wine right about now. “That’s not good.”
“Nope,” I agree. “And it doesn’t end there.”
This is the part I have nightmares about. If I would’ve stopped here, gathered my thoughts, and gone back to the apartment to cry my eyes out and call Ruby to plan out proper revenge, I think I’d still be in LA. But I was running on pure emotion and I wasn’t thinking straight. Some people (Kim and Anderson) would argue that I wasn’t thinking at all.
“I went into the parking lot and his car was just right there.” The sun was setting and I swear a single ray illuminated his bright red BMW. It called to me. “He always parked right outside of our window. I shouted his name, and when he came to the patio, I shook the bottle of champagne and aimed the cork straight at his windshield. It was the first time my aim was right on. The spiderweb crack exploded in the glass. Then, in my spike heels, I climbed on his hood, dancing around as I drank the champagne and screamed, ‘How’s this for overreacting?’ And then also maybe started belting some TLC songs using the bottle as my microphone.”
What?
If you’re having a meltdown over your scumbag, thieving boyfriend and the legendary Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes doesn’t immediately pop into your mind, what are you even doing?
“The only problem here was—”
“The only problem?” Nate cuts me off.
“Yes. The only problem”—I stress the words, repeating them once more—“was that the neighbor who kept shouting things like ‘Yes, queen! Men are trash! You can do better!’ was shouting this while she was simultaneously recording me. Then she posted my little . . . outburst . . . to the internet before I even got my ass off the car.”
“Oh no.” While the lighting in his living room isn’t the best, it’s still easy to see the exact moment realization dawns and he figures out how bad it really was.
“Oh yes.” I plaster a fake smile on my face. “In my robe, dancing on my now ex’s car, I went viral. So viral in fact, they songified it. I lost my day job when my boss saw it. My agent dumped me and because Peter is now a bigwig in the television world, I’ve essentially been blacklisted from the entire industry. The show I thought would launch my career is what ended it. How’s that for irony?”
And not Alanis Morissette ironic; actually, terribly, unforgivably ironic.
It’s not a bop.
Nate doesn’t say anything. He stares at me, unmoving for what feels like centuries, before he pulls his wallet out of his pocket and hands me a twenty.
“We only bet ten.” I take it anyway, folding it up and tucking it inside my bra.
“Ten wasn’t enough,” he says.
As the person who experienced it firsthand, I must agree.
“So that’s my story.” I shrug and notice that some of the tension in my shoulders doesn’t feel quite as bad. “Now I’m back in freaking Ohio and running for the HOA . . . or at least I’m trying to, if the person I’m running against doesn’t get me thrown out on a boring technicality.”