Plus, I’ve been through dating hell with Brad, and I don’t want to go there again. Breaking up with him while we still worked together was a trauma that almost broke me. Friends and coworkers taking sides, whispered gossip spoken just loud enough so you knew they were talking about you, but not loud enough to know what they were saying. Trying to write fun, frothy articles while dealing with the heavy weight of a scarlet letter. No thanks.
So even though Owen’s not Brad (in almost every way) I still don’t need things to end up like that, and the fact is, we’re not even a couple. Not really. It takes more than a few instances of bone-shaking sex and whispered sweet nothings to make a relationship.
“Guess whose lucky day it is?” Owen says as he returns to his desk beside me, hand brushing inconspicuously across the back of my neck as he goes.
I look at him with amusement. “Mine, I’m hoping?”
“Hmm. Let’s see…” he says, pulling his arm from behind his back to reveal a strawberry frosted Sprinkles cupcake that he places on my desk. “You might just be right.”
I smile so hard I have to cover my mouth. Owen winks and turns back to his computer. I pick up the cupcake and take a huge bite of it, nearly groaning at how good it is. Strawberry…my favorite. I guess that’s the benefit of seeing someone who’s been a friend for so long.
“Oh,” Owen adds, spinning his chair around to me. He points at his screen. “It’s trivia night tonight. Are we going?”
I jolt a little and look around to see if anybody heard, then lean forward to whisper, “Owen…don’t say ‘we’ like that.”
“Like what? Like it meant something?” Owen just laughs, but his words leave me feeling unsettled. “God, you’re hot when you’re annoyed with me.”
“Glad you like it.” I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, reminding myself silently that there’s nothing to get pissy about since Owen and I are just fuck buddies. And great ones. Definitely nothing to get upset about there. I realize I’m already smiling back at him. “Yeah. We can go if you want. But only if you’re on my team.”
One Friday out of every month, TrendBlend books out a cool little bar and holds a quiz night. We split up into teams and compete for a silly prize that usually ends up on our work desks. That’s why Jamie has a Barbara Streisand LP next to his computer monitor and Michaela has a knitted Pepsi can on her desk.
The night is supposed to start around six—but everybody’s usually so excited about it that they knock off work early and start heading there around four or five. Owen tells me he’ll catch up with me later, and I leave the offices with a bunch of coworkers to drive there.
I love trivia night, but if I’m being honest with myself, I’m more interested in what Owen and I are going to do afterward. Since we penciled in our first official ‘date’ for Sunday (a.k.a. the ‘in-depth research meeting for the dating vlog’ that we scheduled), we’ve been trying to keep things cool (as cool as they can be with a guy who grabs any opportunity to put his hands on you), but trivia night feels like a good excuse to spend a little more time together. Especially since we’ve barely seen each other outside of working hours. Now that Owen is going full steam ahead on the vlog, he’s been staying late and editing things with Tom, combing through hours of footage for all the best (and worst) date clips, while I’ve been trying to catch up on the many articles I should be writing when I’m actually just chatting (and sneaking glances) with Owen.
Halfway there, I’m sitting in stopped traffic on Wilshire watching people in their cars like I’m in a nineties music video. It’s only four thirty, but there’s still a sense of Friday night excitement in the air. Groups of men walking with the swagger of their best clothes, girls laughing loudly, starting early.
My phone rings. I check the name, freeze for what could be three seconds or three minutes, then spring into action with the intensity and nervousness of a bomb defusal expert as I fumble around and connect the call to the Bluetooth of my car.
“Hello?” I say, suddenly gripping the wheel like I’m about to take off, even though the traffic’s still not moving.
“Hi Margo. It’s Cassandra Beale. How are you?”
The edgy, jarring swing of her New York accent makes me tense up even further. Somehow she makes it sound incredibly cool to introduce yourself on the phone, even though she probably knows I saw her name before answering.
What is it with Cassandra calling me whenever I’m in a car?
“I’m great! How are you?”
I check the clock and realize it must be after seven in New York. On the loudspeakers I can hear the rustle of papers, the keyboards clacking, the background chatter of her office, and I start to wonder if everyone at the New York Month works a twenty-four hour day.
“Good. Listen: we talked it over and we really liked both of the interviews we conducted with you. We loved some of the pieces in your portfolio and your work ethic seems on part with our company culture. We think you’ve got the raw talent to become a wonderful writer, and we’d like to try you out.”
I stare at the dashboard, mouth so dry it feels like I don’t have one anymore. Was that a job offer? It sounded like a job offer. But it’s the New York Month, and the last thing I did of any note was a funny make-up video. I thought I didn’t want it anymore, but it’s New York City, and—
I’m jolted back into the present by a loud horn behind me, followed by Cassandra’s cutting voice.
“Margo? Did you hear me?”
“Um…yeah,” I say, looking up and seeing the street empty ahead of me. “Sorry, I’m just in the car.”
“So?”
“What? Oh! The job…ah…well…yes! Of course! I’d love it! But…well…I just…”
Cassandra laughs on the other end of the line, the nonchalant, breezy cackle of a practiced socialite. “You’re welcome to take some time to think about it, if you wish. Sounds like you still need to mull it over a bit.”
“Um…”
I try to think of something better to say, but the onrush of thoughts is too thick and complicated for me to pick one from.
“Call me in a few days,” Cassandra says decisively, and I can hear a slight smile in her voice. “Let’s talk when you’ve figured it out.”
“Ok, great,” I say, to which Cassandra responds by hanging up.
Stunned, I lose myself in the monotony of driving for a little while, allowing the sweeping scenery to hypnotize me as I slowly regain a foothold on reality.
That was it. That was the moment I’d been waiting for since I was a little girl reading Henry Miller, watching Woody Allen, listening to Lou Reed. That was the call I’d been praying for when I was hammering books at college, pouring my heart and soul into thinkpieces for the school paper or internet sites and fanzines that never paid me. That was what I’d lived my whole life for up til this point, the starting shot to the life I always wanted.
So why do I suddenly feel so bad?