twenty-three, if you’re still single in Brookside and you haven’t had a spiritual calling, lesbian rumors abound.
Jack asks, “Why’d you leave?”
If ever there was a question with a one-word answer, that’s it.
Will.
Will is why I left. He was like my own personal spiritual calling. I met him in college, and I would have followed him anywhere. Luckily for me, he was only going as far as New York City.
But I don’t want to talk about Will with Jack, so I say, “I wanted to be a copywriter. And writing classifieds for the Brookside Observer didn’t sound very exciting, so…here I am. Still not a copywriter, but…”
“Mike says you’re going to interview for a position in Creative when one opens up.”
“He did?”
This makes me happy. Not just because it proves Mikehasn’t forgotten about our deal, but because it proves Jack was asking him about me. Unless Mike just volunteered that…and other, potentially embarrassing, information.
“What else did Mike say about me?” I ask, suddenly filled with trepidation.
“Not much. Dianne was there.”
“Oh, Dianne. She’s so sweet.”
He snorts. “Yeah, sweet like a lime.”
“You don’t like Dianne?”
“She’s a bitch.”
Guess that means he doesn’t like her.
“I’m so surprised. I mean, she’s really nice to me on the phone.”
“That’s fake. She’s evil.”
Suddenly, I remember something.
Mike has a roommate, but he’s a real asshole.
How could I have forgotten all about that? Dianne said it that day on the phone when we were talking about my breakup with Will and how she wished she knew somebody she could fix me up with.
Jack doesn’t seem like a real asshole. But then, I haven’t exactly been the best judge of assholeness in the past.
What if Dianne’s right and he really is an asshole?
What if Jack’s right and she really is evil?
Hard to tell, at this point, whom to believe.
“Why is Mike with Dianne?” I ask. “Because she’s pretty?”
“Pretty? Dianne?” He shudders.
“I think she is. I’ve seen her pictures.” Framed, on every surface in Mike’s office. She’s perky-looking, with a dark pageboy and elfin features.
“Forget it. Let’s not talk about Dianne. It puts me in a bad mood.”
“Sorry.”
He pulls me toward him. “Want to know what puts me in a good mood? One guess.”
“Um, Christmas shopping?” I laugh. A girly giggle-laugh, the kind that tends to spurt out of me without warning when I’m flirting.
Jack kisses me. “Wrong. Not Christmas shopping.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
He nuzzles my neck.
I guess again.
And this time, I’m right.
Along about noon, we wake up again.
“So you really want to go Christmas shopping, Tracey?”
“Definitely!” Down, girl. “I mean, if you do.”
“Sure. Can I take a shower?” Jack asks, sitting up and stretching as I ogle his naked back from my pillow.
“Go ahead. The bathroom’s that way.” I point, like he could possibly get lost in an apartment the size of a ring box.
An engagement ring box that contains a pear-shaped diamond on a platinum band…
Mental Note: You are not, nor will you ever be, engaged to Jack. One does not go directly from Christmas Party Don’t to I Do. Period.
Fantasy curtailed.
As much as I’d love to check out Jack’s bare butt as he walks naked toward the bathroom, I’m just not that brazen in the broad light of day. I roll over and stare at the wall, content to relive every moment of this morning’s encounter.
Jack goes into the bathroom and comes right out again.
“Tracey? Do you want to, uh, take your stuff out of the tub?”
“What stuff?”
“Your panties?”
My panties ?
My panties aren’t in the tub; they’re somewhere in the heap of hastily discarded clothes by the bed.
But he’s waiting, so I wrap myself in my quilt and hoof it barefoot from the drafty parquet floor to the ice-rink-like ceramic tile.
There, I gaze in absolute horror at the zebra-print thong
Jack asks, “Why’d you leave?”
If ever there was a question with a one-word answer, that’s it.
Will.
Will is why I left. He was like my own personal spiritual calling. I met him in college, and I would have followed him anywhere. Luckily for me, he was only going as far as New York City.
But I don’t want to talk about Will with Jack, so I say, “I wanted to be a copywriter. And writing classifieds for the Brookside Observer didn’t sound very exciting, so…here I am. Still not a copywriter, but…”
“Mike says you’re going to interview for a position in Creative when one opens up.”
“He did?”
This makes me happy. Not just because it proves Mikehasn’t forgotten about our deal, but because it proves Jack was asking him about me. Unless Mike just volunteered that…and other, potentially embarrassing, information.
“What else did Mike say about me?” I ask, suddenly filled with trepidation.
“Not much. Dianne was there.”
“Oh, Dianne. She’s so sweet.”
He snorts. “Yeah, sweet like a lime.”
“You don’t like Dianne?”
“She’s a bitch.”
Guess that means he doesn’t like her.
“I’m so surprised. I mean, she’s really nice to me on the phone.”
“That’s fake. She’s evil.”
Suddenly, I remember something.
Mike has a roommate, but he’s a real asshole.
How could I have forgotten all about that? Dianne said it that day on the phone when we were talking about my breakup with Will and how she wished she knew somebody she could fix me up with.
Jack doesn’t seem like a real asshole. But then, I haven’t exactly been the best judge of assholeness in the past.
What if Dianne’s right and he really is an asshole?
What if Jack’s right and she really is evil?
Hard to tell, at this point, whom to believe.
“Why is Mike with Dianne?” I ask. “Because she’s pretty?”
“Pretty? Dianne?” He shudders.
“I think she is. I’ve seen her pictures.” Framed, on every surface in Mike’s office. She’s perky-looking, with a dark pageboy and elfin features.
“Forget it. Let’s not talk about Dianne. It puts me in a bad mood.”
“Sorry.”
He pulls me toward him. “Want to know what puts me in a good mood? One guess.”
“Um, Christmas shopping?” I laugh. A girly giggle-laugh, the kind that tends to spurt out of me without warning when I’m flirting.
Jack kisses me. “Wrong. Not Christmas shopping.”
“Can you give me a hint?”
He nuzzles my neck.
I guess again.
And this time, I’m right.
Along about noon, we wake up again.
“So you really want to go Christmas shopping, Tracey?”
“Definitely!” Down, girl. “I mean, if you do.”
“Sure. Can I take a shower?” Jack asks, sitting up and stretching as I ogle his naked back from my pillow.
“Go ahead. The bathroom’s that way.” I point, like he could possibly get lost in an apartment the size of a ring box.
An engagement ring box that contains a pear-shaped diamond on a platinum band…
Mental Note: You are not, nor will you ever be, engaged to Jack. One does not go directly from Christmas Party Don’t to I Do. Period.
Fantasy curtailed.
As much as I’d love to check out Jack’s bare butt as he walks naked toward the bathroom, I’m just not that brazen in the broad light of day. I roll over and stare at the wall, content to relive every moment of this morning’s encounter.
Jack goes into the bathroom and comes right out again.
“Tracey? Do you want to, uh, take your stuff out of the tub?”
“What stuff?”
“Your panties?”
My panties ?
My panties aren’t in the tub; they’re somewhere in the heap of hastily discarded clothes by the bed.
But he’s waiting, so I wrap myself in my quilt and hoof it barefoot from the drafty parquet floor to the ice-rink-like ceramic tile.
There, I gaze in absolute horror at the zebra-print thong
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