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Now, it’s a fashionable district, filled with couture, night clubs, and hot restaurants.
And there is my baby. I give a little happy sigh as I run over to the dining table I made. Sixty-six inches long, it features a butcher-block top of reclaimed wood, organized in a pattern to take advantage of the natural colors and grains of each slab of wood.
At the moment, it’s all held together with massive clamps that have been in place while the glue dried.
“Want to do the honors?” Jackson asks.
I’m already unscrewing everything, eager to see the table unbound.
For the past five summers, I’ve been apprenticing with Jack and Hal, learning everything I can about furniture making. It’s helped me become a better designer, and I like that I get to work with my hands instead of simply drawing out sketches of rooms.
We all stand back and check out the table. It’s rough and needs sanding. I don’t want to use a slick varnish but plan to rub on several coats of soft, subtle wax.
“I don’t like that one dark piece,” I say, pointing to a length of wood that catches my eye. “It looks off.”
“You need a bit of imbalance,” Hal argues. “Otherwise the thing becomes bland.”
“Hal’s right.” Jackson walks around the table with a critical eye. “It works.”
We discuss the merits of the table and what I can do to improve it for a while, but eventually, my friends drag my troubles out of me.
Curled up in the corner of one of their massive couches, I palm my second cup of coffee and finish up my tale of professional woe.
“So quit.” Hal waves a hand as if this piece of advice solves everything in one fell swoop.
“And do what? I need to work. And I can’t just run away whenever things get hard.”
“Felix is a talentless hag,” Hal says with a sneer. “And he knows how to manipulate. You want to stay in that toxic environment? For what? So you can lose your soul?”
“Very dramatic,” Jackson deadpans before looking at me. “But he’s right. Felix isn’t going to teach you anything but how to succeed in business by being an ass. There are other ways. Do what you love, love who you do.”
“Don’t you mean ‘love what you do’?” I ask with a laugh.
Jackson leers. “That too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “I’ll have lots to do while he and the-thief-who-shall-not-be-named have fun on the Robertson project.”
“Robertson as in Cecelia?” Hal asks.
“Yep.” Cecelia Robertson and her thirty-million-dollar penthouse.
“She bought a dining set from us last year.” Hal crosses one leg over the other. “That bitch better not be ditching it in her redesign.”
“That bitch,” Jackson drawls, looking at me, “is in fierce competition with Janice Marks. I know because that’s all she could talk about during our consultation. How she had to have bigger and better than Janice. How her table could not look anything like something Janice would purchase.”
A slow, evil grin spreads over my face. “You don’t say.”
“Mmm…Janice is having a cocktail party at her house in two weeks. Want to be my date, sweet thing?”
Hal glances between us and grins as well. “You two…”
At that I stand. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure as always. But I’m suddenly feeling the need to go in search of a cocktail dress.”
I’ve got a revenge to plan.
It is a sad truth that, yes, I do kill time on social media during work hours. A little lookie-loo over a coffee break, a little web surf at lunch. It’s a bad habit. I’m trying to nix it. But I don’t feel too guilty since I’ve caught Felix doing the same many times now. Who are we kidding? Our world is one of online addicts.
At lunch on the next Friday, I sit back with my chai tea and go to one of my favorite gossip sites, a total rag—my shame, my addiction.
My hand pauses over my tracking pad when Dex’s picture pops up in the headline. At first it doesn’t compute. Dex is in profile; his mouth—so nicely framed by his lush beard—is stern. Why the hell is he on a gossip site?
Leaning closer to my laptop, my heart pounding, I peer at the story. And the spiced tea I just sipped nearly chokes me.
“Mother fuck….”
The headline is large and ugly:
Pippa Bloom offers 1 Million Dollars for Proof of taking NFL Offensive Lineman Ethan Dexter’s Virginity
Heat prickles my cheeks and tingles the tips of my fingers. I can’t believe it. I read the article, a brief piece discussing how this private club called Pippa Bloom doesn’t believe a prime bachelor such as Dex is still a virgin. They want to take him down.
Why? There’s no explanation except for the fact that they’ve just gotten tons of free publicity by putting the public eye on my man.
I’m so angry, I can’t move my eyes from the screen. My fingers shake as I hit link after link discussing the offer, discussing Dex as if he’s some sort of sad case.
My first instinct is to call him. But no, I’ll be all screechy, and that won’t help the situation. I could call Ivy, but I’m guessing she’ll be all screechy, and I can’t handle that right now. So I call my friend Violet.
Violet and I were roommates freshman year, and though I quickly moved out to live in my dad’s guesthouse from sophomore year on—because, despite being social, I loved my privacy—we remained close friends.
“What up, Fi-Fi?” she answers in her best bro imitation.