“Nope.” I quickly cross the street and walk up the stairs leading to the Met. Must be spring fever, I think, pushing through the revolving door. But then, after I’ve made my way through the lobby and just as I’m about to press the button for the elevator, another guy approaches, this one dressed in dark jeans and a crisp button down shirt, holding a tray of Starbucks. My mouth salivates at the sight of it. What I wouldn’t give for an Americano right now. I’d probably sell my sister into white slavery. Except as boring as her life is, she’d probably go willingly.
“You’re Lizzie, right?” he asks in a friendly tone, but I’m immediately guarded and suspicious. Has he seen the video? Who am I kidding? I mean, at this point, who hasn’t seen it? I brace myself for whatever’s coming next.
“Yes,” I say, jabbing the down button again. Why are elevators so slow these days?
“I’m Brandon,” he says with a nervous smile. “I work over in Asian Arts?”
“Oh yeah,” I exhale in relief, pretending to remember him. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” he says with enthusiasm as the elevator arrives and we step inside.
“I thought Asian Arts was upstairs?” I ask, confused as to why he’s descending to the basement with me.
“Umm.” He shifts uncomfortably, rearranging the tray he’s holding. “It is, but I just saw you and well. I was wondering if you wanted to go out sometime?”
I blink. Twice in one morning? I mean, I know I’m not exactly hideous, but I’m definitely no Gisele either. Plus, I’m on strike for god’s sake! Don’t these guys know that asking me out is just futile? That they’re not going to get laid any time soon?
“That’s very sweet,” I say as I walk out into the basement. “But I don’t think so. It’s my policy not to mix business and pleasure, you know?”
Right. Except if it involves drunkenly kissing Jake Weston up against the wall. Then I’m totally fine with it.
“Oh, right,” he mutters, his cheeks reddening. “I just thought . . .” His voice trails off, and I will the doors to close because this is sheer agony, and finally they do.
“Wait!” he says, putting one hand out to block them.
Dammit. I was so close to getting out of there unscathed.
“Have a coffee,” he says, handing me a venti. “Americano, right?”
“Umm, yeah,” I say, reaching out and grabbing it. “Thanks.”
“Brandon,” he says firmly. “In Asian Arts. You know where to find me if you change your mind,” he grins as the door finally closes.
Huh. Weird. I gulp the coffee and head to my office, but when I walk in the door, there’s the biggest bouquet of roses I’ve ever seen sitting on my desk—there must be at least three dozen flowers in there, stuffed into a crystal vase that’s bursting at the seams. Who died and sent the funeral arrangement to the wrong place?
My pulse quickens despite myself. Could they be from Jake? But what would it matter anyway, even if they were, I tell myself. It would just be some empty romantic gesture designed to get me to break the strike so he could have his way with me.
But would that really be so bad?
I shake off the hormones and pluck out the card from the bouquet.
Hey Lizzie,
Hope these flowers brighten your day. I’d love to catch a drink sometime if you’re down!
Barry (Renaissance Arts)
Who the hell is Barry and why is he randomly sending me enough flowers to hold a small wedding in my office? This makes no sense—I start a sex strike and all of a sudden I’m every guy’s dream date?
Either way, they’re shit out of luck. But I get to spend the day smelling like I’m in the middle of the country. Win-win!
After work, I head over to Della’s for our group stitch-and-bitch meeting. It’s tradition: the three of us with three bottles of wine and enough yarn to last all night.
“So how are you holding up?” Melissa says from the couch as she wrestles with a ball of yellow wool. “Have you gone out of your mind with horniness yet?”
Della laughs. “Yeah,” she says, nudging me in the ribs. “Did your vibrator give out yet?”
“Very funny,” I say, wishing we could talk about something, anything else. “I mean, it’s hard, but I wasn’t exactly having great sex to begin with, so it isn’t like I’m really missing anything,”
Except hot make-out sessions with my co-worker. Yeah, those.
God, why can’t I stop thinking about kissing him? About his gorgeous hands on my thighs, the way they slid down to my panties? It’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. But if that’s so, a little voice inside me pipes up, then why are you so attracted to him?
“You’ve got your wool in my Syrah!” Della cackles like a needle-wielding Wicked Witch of the East, pulling a strand of soggy blue yarn out of her wine glass and tossing it at me.
“Sorry!” I say, balling it up in my hand before unwinding another long piece from the ragged blue ball beside me. I’m supposedly knitting a pair of socks for my niece, but they look more like lopsided rectangles at this point. “I think it has a life of its own.”
I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve tried something easier—like maybe a scarf? I mean, how hard it is to make a scarf, really? It’s probably a lot less difficult than these fucking socks, I’ll tell you that much—but who cares? It’s not like we’re really here for the knitting. That’s not the point of a stitch-and-bitch, after all.
I start on the next row, winding the wool over my needles, the brightly colored Moroccan rug underneath me scratching against my legs. All of Della and Zach’s furniture is beautiful but wildly uncomfortable. Their chairs are lumpy and old and every rug is made out of some kind of scratchy wool that gives me a rash. But I love it here. And Zach always stocks the kitchen with the best wine he gets free from reps trying to sell into the bar.
“That reminds me,” Melissa adds. She opens up her purse and shoves what looks like a handful of magenta paper at me. “I brought you coupons for The Pink Pussycat, that way you can stock up!”
I turn them over in my hands. “I’m fine,” I say emphatically, tossing the vouchers to the floor. “One vibrator is enough for anyone, and mine is doing just fine, thank you very much.”
“Okay,” Melissa giggles, “but you never know! What if this little strike of yours goes on for three more weeks? Or even three months?”
Dammit. I guess she does have a point. Kind of.
“I say you can never be too prepared!” Della laughs. “On second thought, give me some of them.”
“What do you mean?” Melissa asks. “I thought Zach couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
“Not anymore. He’s decided to take up your strike, too.”
“Whaaaaat?” Melissa drops her knitting into her lap.
I look at Della, surprised. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately.” Della scowls. “He says there’s no reason the strike should be just for women, and that men get taken for granted all the time, too. So now he says he won’t fuck me until I shape up.”
“Shape up?” Melissa asks, clearly confused. “I mean, what does he want?”
“Who the fuck knows?” Della drinks the rest of my wine. “I mean, I like to flirt a little when we go out, but it’s not serious. And yes, he does all the housework, and the cooking too, but he’s just better at it. I guess he feels like I take him for granted or something.”