The second he’s gone I rush back to my computer and pull up the Jezebel site, and without stopping to read the story itself, I follow the link to the YouTube page. My mouth opens in disbelief as I scroll down and start to read, and my throat tightens.
There are 450,000 views and 2,004 comments. Make that 2,005. This isn’t dying down—it’s just getting started. And it’s not some “little” story either—this is right up there with those viral cat videos, except it’s me, my face, my thoughts, my stupid ranting out there for everyone to see—and comment on. I scroll through the comments quickly, without stopping, and every time I think I’ve reached the bottom of the page, there are more. And more. And more.
Oh god. I shut the computer and swallow hard.
I’m going to need a bigger doughnut.
9
Lizzie
Friday can’t come fast enough. I just put my head down and power through the week, keeping my focus on work, and the endless mountain of stuff I have to get done before the exhibit opens. Even so, as hard as I try, the whole week feels like one of those dreams where I’m wandering around naked, and everyone’s pointing and staring, and it’s been weeks since I got waxed.
In other words, it’s been the WORST.
Which is why Saturday comes as a blessed relief. No morning commute with people pointing and laughing and snapping pics on their cellphone. No laughing it all off with my co-workers and acting like sure, haha, being the butt of the internet’s joke is just fine. And no avoiding Jake, because although I haven’t even seen him at the museum this week at all, I know he’s out there with his smug gorgeous face just waiting to judge me for actually wanting to find love.
Nope, today is all mine.
I sink back into the covers, trying to plan my day. I have plans with Della and the girls, but maybe I’ll sneak in a movie at one of the classic theaters later. I could use a healthy dose of Hepburn right about now. There’s a woman who didn’t take shit from anyone—and looked amazing in a pant-suit while doing so. Or maybe I should put in a few extra hours of work. I’ve been pulling late nights all week working the phones, but I’m still having trouble getting all the pieces I want for the exhibit. And yes, the world won’t stop rotating if I can’t secure the original shooting scripts for The Philadelphia Story but I’ll know I failed.
And Jake will too.
Jake . . .
His face pops into my brain, and damn, if it isn’t a handsome one. Is it a law of the universe that a guy’s hotness is usually in indirect proportion to how decent a person he is? Maybe it’s because they get to slide through life having everyone fall at their feet.
Or on their couch.
I blush, remembering New Year’s Eve in all its disappointing glory. As much as it’s been fun teasing Jake about his early nap time, I’m definitely compensating for my own embarrassment, too. I mean, if someone falls asleep at a, uh, crucial moment, it kind of implies you weren’t exciting enough to keep their attention, right?
Or maybe it was all about the whiskey, and nothing to do with me. Either way, I’m hoping the next few weeks won’t get awkward. We’ll have to work pretty closely to get this exhibit ready to open, and I don’t have time to deal with his cocky attitude.
And his smoldering blue eyes.
Down girl.
I push his face out of my mind. I’m on a strike, remember? No men of any kind until I find the one to sweep me off my feet. And Jake’s made it plenty clear what he thinks about romance. He wouldn’t know true love if he tripped and fell on her—dick first.
My cell phone rings, and I reach over to grab it with a yawn. The number lit up on the screen is unfamiliar, and I cringe. It’s probably about my student loans again. God knows when I’ll ever be able to make a payment on time.
“Is this Lizzie Ryan?” A female voice asks.
“Yeesssss,” I say tentatively, wondering how much I owe this time. Those late fees really add up.
“I’m a reporter from the New York Daily News, and I was hoping to get a quote from you for a story I’m writing.”
“Sorry, but all press requests go through the main office.” I relax. “I can get you their number, if you give me a minute . . .”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think you understand. This is a story about you. Your sex strike.”
My what now?
I freeze.
“I . . . don’t know if I can help you.” I gulp.
“I’m sure you’re aware that your video has recently gone viral. I was hoping for a few words.”
A story. About me. In the New York fucking Daily News. For everyone in the city of New York to read, probably with some horrible photo they’ll pull off the web from my ill-advised Audrey Hepburn turtleneck phase.
“You’re really hitting a chord. My readers want to know where all this came from. Who is Lizzie Ryan? What does she want?”
Right now, I want to go back to last week and never record the damn video. Hell, I’d prefer a night with Colin and his extra anchovies if it meant I didn’t wind up sharing my epic rant with the world.
Suddenly, I feel dizzy. I swallow hard, sitting all the way up in bed and swinging my legs over so my feet are on the floor. Maybe if I stay grounded I won’t faint.
“I’m sorry,” I manage to spit out, “I have to go.”
“Wait! I was just hoping to—”
Before she can say anything else, I hit the End button, and then turn my phone off entirely. Then I bury it under the blankets, just to be safe.
So much for blessed escape. I thought this would blow over in a few days, but it’s showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.
Fuck.
Later that morning, I meet Della at a new climbing gym in Williamsburg, appropriately named High Anxiety. Every Saturday we try some terrible workout before our ritual Saturday brunch of eggs Benedict and mimosas. Last week was stripper yoga, but as I look around the room, taking in the rock walls and heavy grunting coming from the male members in attendance, I realize this just may be worse.
Della rushes in, bringing the cool spring air in with her, which is a welcome change from the sweaty gym-sock stench of this place. “Sorry I’m late,” Della says. Our friend Melissa is in tow. “We got waylaid by that hottie selling water bottles on the corner.”
“The homeless dude?” I ask.
Melissa grins. “The hot homeless dude.”
We all sink down to the mats in our leggings and hoodies to stretch out. “How are you holding up?” Della extends both legs in front of her and grabs for her calves. I curse her silently. She’s so limber that her forehead practically touches her shins.
“Ask me after we get mimosas.”
She gives me a sympathetic look. “Shit, is the video still playing?”
“Anywhere with a wifi connection!”
“At least you look hot in it,” Melissa chimes in. “That red dress does amazing things for your boobs. Seriously, if I was going to accidentally upload a video to the world, I’d want my cleavage to look like yours.”
“Thanks. I think?”
Della yawns.
“Late night?” Melissa asks.
She nods. “Zach woke up with wood and wanted to get busy. He takes forever to come, by the way.” She adds with another yawn.