I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, at least that’s what Mark had said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when it comes to being with the man they love. No. It had been Mark’s timing that wasn’t right.
But now … now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was right? Maybe now, on the very day that my thirties began and I entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be mauled by a grizzly bear than get married … maybe today really was the start of a new age.
“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box. Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged and gave me that heart-stopping smile once more. “It’s not every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.
“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien appearing in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned his eyes back to me.
“Hi, Damien,” I said.
“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of contempt … Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s on line two.”
Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe. Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The company made outdoorwear from a combination of plastic grocery bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San Diego, where Bags to Riches was based. As part of the package, Charles had asked Muriel to come to Vermont and work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to him keeping tabs on things. And, since Charles was paying us gobs of money, Mark had said yes.
Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”
“So let her wait some more,” Mark answered, tossing me a wink. “This is important. Open the damn box, Callie.” Damien sighed with the heavy drama that only a gay man can pull off and hustled down the hall.
Cheeks burning, I opened the velvet box. It was a bracelet, delicate silver strands that twisted and turned like ivy. “Oh, Mark, I love it,” I whispered, running my finger over the intricate lines. I bit my lip, my eyes already misting with happy tears. “Thank you.”
His expression was soft. “You’re welcome. You mean a lot to me. You know that, Callie.” He bent down and kissed my cheek, and every detail was immediately seared into my brain—his smooth, warm lips, the smell of his Hugo Boss cologne, the heat of his skin.
Hope, which had been lying in ashes for the past ten months, twitched hard.
“Think you’ll make it to my party later on?” I asked, striving for perky and fun, not lustful and ruttish. My parents were throwing me a little bash at Elements, the nicest restaurant around, and I’d invited all my coworkers. No use pretending: I was turning thirty; might as well get some presents.
Mark straightened, then moved a pile of papers from the small couch in my office and sat down. “Um … Listen, I need to tell you something. You met Muriel, right?”
“Well, just that once. She seems … very …” Hmm. She’d worn a killer black suit, had great shoes … kind of intense. “Very focused.”
“Yeah. She is. Callie …” Mark hesitated. “Muriel and I are seeing each other.”
It took a few seconds for that to register. Once again, I was that stupid deer, watching mutely as the pickup truck hurtled down the road. My heart slammed to a halt. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Michelle Obama stood by, shaking her head sadly, her fabulous arms crossed in regret. I realized my mouth was open. Closed it. “Oh,” I heard myself say.
Mark looked at the floor. “I hope that doesn’t cause you any … discomfort. Given our past involvement.”
There was a white, rushing sound, like a river engorged with snowmelt and hidden debris. He was seeing someone? How could that be? If the timing was okay for Muriel … why not … Oh, crap.
“Callie?” he said.
Here’s the thing about being hit by a truck. Sometimes those deer keep running. They just bound into the woods, sort of like they’re saying, Whoo-hoo! That was close! Good thing I’m okay. Um … I am okay, right? Actually, you know what? I’m feeling a little strange. Think I’ll lie down for a bit. And then they wake up dead.
Mark’s voice lowered. “The last thing I want to do is hurt you.”
Say something, the First Lady commanded. “No, no!” I chirruped. “It’s … just … no worries, Mark. Don’t worry.” I seemed to be smiling. Smiling and nodding. Yes. I was nodding. “So how long have you been … together?”
“A couple of months,” Mark answered. “It’s … it’s fairly serious.” He reached out and took the bracelet out of the box, then put it on my wrist, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there, making me want to jerk away.
In the many years I’d known Mark, he’d never dated anyone for a couple of months. A couple of weeks, sure. I thought five was a record, quite honestly.
Ah. My body was catching on to the fact that I’d just been slammed. My throat tightened, my joints buzzed with the flight response to danger, and a sharp pain lanced through my chest. “Right. Well. You know what? I have to get my license renewed! I almost forgot! You know … birthday. License. Renewal.” Breathe, Callie. “Okay if I zip out for lunch a little early?” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat again, studiously avoiding Mark’s dark and now sorrowful eyes.
“Sure, Callie. Take all the time you need.”
The kindness in his voice made me feel abruptly murderous. “I won’t be long,” I chirped. “Thanks for the bracelet! See you in a bit!”
With that, I grabbed my oversize pink hobo bag and stood up, excruciatingly careful not to brush against Mark, who still sat on my couch, staring straight in front of him. “Callie, I’m sorry,” he said.
“No! Nothing to apologize for!” I sang. “Gotta run. They close at noon today. See ya later!”
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I stood in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles, and the effects of being emotionally run down by the man I loved—and now hated—but still loved—were catching up with me. Michelle Obama had abandoned me, regretfully acknowledging that I was beyond help, and Betty Boop was clamping her lips together and blinking back tears. Trying to keep the choo-choo train of despair at bay, I glanced around. Gray, grimy tile floors. Dingy white walls. I stood in the middle of a line of about ten people, all of us listless and lifeless and loveless … or so it seemed.
The whole scene was like something out of some French existentialist play … Hell is not other people. Hell is the DMV. Robotic clerks shuffled behind the counter, clearly hating their lot in life and contemplating the easiest form of hari-kari or embezzlement so they could leave this grim place. The clock on the wall seemed to taunt me. Time’s a’wastin’, kid. Your life is passing you by. Happy fucking birthday.
My breathing started to quicken, my knees felt like a hive of angry bees. Tears burned in my eyes, and on my wrist, my stupid birthday present tickled. I should just rip it off. Melt it down into a bullet and kill Mark. Or myself. Or just swallow the bracelet whole and let it get tangled in my intestines and