Page 11

11

Today is my first day of the stupid temp job. I’m dreading it.

But I have to take it seriously. Because the agency suggested that if I do well, this could turn into a permanent position. And it’s a reputable company, where I might have a chance to claw my way back into a decent job again. I’ve got a chance anyway.

So I set my alarm for seven thirty in the morning, giving myself ample time to make it to the office by nine if I forgo my workout. I stumble into the shower, returning to my old ritual of starting my day off with freezing cold water to wake me up.

When I can’t stand it another second, I switch the water temperature back to hot, but unfortunately, all I can coax out of the showerhead is a lukewarm stream. Krista is still asleep in our bed, so it must have been Whitney who showered early this morning and used up all the hot water. Damn it. Not a great start.

I reach for the bottle of soap, resigning myself to a barely warm shower. But when I attempt to squeeze a dollop into my hand, nothing comes out.

What the hell?

I squeeze more firmly, shaking the bottle this time. No luck. The bottle of soap is completely empty.

Obviously, Whitney used it all up. Granted, I did give her permission to use my soap, but this bottle was half full only a few days ago. Who uses that much soap? Worse, when I try to squeeze out some of my combined shampoo and conditioner to wash my hair, that bottle is empty too.

I have no choice but to use Krista’s girly soap and shampoo. So when I climb out of the lukewarm shower, my hair smells like coconut and apricots, and my body smells like lemon and vanilla instead of just smelling like freaking clean .

All right, it’s fine. I’ll talk to Whitney about the shower products. I was trying to be a nice guy, but clearly, sharing is not going to work out.

I get dressed quietly, trying not to wake Krista. Despite how much I’m dreading this job, it feels good to be going back to work. Even though I was accused of awful things, my career is not over. It’s just a temporary setback.

I knot my tie the way I taught myself to during my first year as a marketing intern. I check it in the full-length mirror in our bedroom, and it looks perfect. I don’t look like a temp. I look like a vice president.

They say you’re supposed to dress for the job you want. It’s just a matter of time.

My mother taught me that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and it’s one of the few pieces of advice from her that stuck with me. No matter how big of a rush I’m in to get to work, I always eat something. There’s definitely no time for a power breakfast, but before I run out to catch the subway going downtown, I head to the kitchen to have a quick bowl of cereal. Frosted Flakes aren’t exactly the breakfast of champions, but the influx of sugar will do me good.

I grab the box of cereal from where I left it and shake it over the ceramic bowl. Nothing comes out, so I shake it again, tilting it to the side until it is upside down, at which point a little pile of sugar and some cornflake dust drops into my bowl.

Seriously?

Apparently, giving Whitney permission to use my products turned into a free-for-all. She used them until they were completely gone. Without even saying anything, like, Hey, we need more cereal, Blake. I mean, who the hell finishes a box of cereal, then puts it right back on the counter?

And now I’ve got to leave in about ten minutes, and there’s nothing for me to eat.

I grind my teeth in frustration. Impulsively, I grab the empty box of cereal off the counter and hurl it at the floor.

That was not the smartest thing I’ve ever done. The box bounces as it hits the kitchen floor, sprinkling bits of sugar and cornflake crumbs everywhere.

Crap.

Now instead of spending these last few minutes eating a semi-nutritious breakfast, I’ll be spending the time vacuuming up the remnants of Frosted Flakes. But I’m not going to leave crumbs all over the floor. That would drive me out of my mind.

Goldy watches me running the vacuum over the floor. She opens her mouth, and a little bubble of air rises to the surface of the bowl.

“How come you didn’t warn me she ate all my cereal?” I ask the fish.

Goldy doesn’t have an answer.

“Blake? What’s going on down there?”

It’s Krista—I woke her up with the vacuum. I feel a stab of guilt. She doesn’t have work today, so it was her chance to sleep in. But now she’s coming down the stairs, wearing my old oversize Green Day T-shirt that she sleeps in.

“Sorry,” I say. “I had a little accident.”

That’s a nicer way to say that I freaked out and threw the cereal box on the floor and then had to clean it up.

Krista yawns, stretching her arms high above her head. “Did you have breakfast yet?”

“Whitney ate all my cereal,” I grumble. “She also used up my soap and shampoo.”

Krista’s eyebrows shoot up. “She just took all your stuff without asking?”

“Well, no,” I admit. “I told her she could use it. But I didn’t say she could use all of it.”

“Okay, so basically, you told her she could use your stuff, and now you’re mad that she did it?”

I make a face at her. “I just wanted a bowl of cereal, Krista.”

“So have some of mine. It’s way healthier than Frosted Flakes.”

“Yours tastes like shredded cardboard.”

“Gee, sorry.” She laughs and pushes past me into the kitchen, grabbing that disgusting health crap cereal she always eats with a cup of low-fat yogurt. “Anyway, if you’re going to have a fit over Whitney using your stuff, you should say something to her instead of getting all pissy.”

She’s right. Whitney’s already gone to work, but the next time I see her, I need to let her know that I’m not okay with sharing my stuff. I’m sure she’ll understand.

I no longer have time for a real breakfast, but there are some apples in the fruit bowl that haven’t turned completely brown yet. I grab one of them, noting a few more fruit flies than usual hovering over the bowl. It might be a good idea to get rid of the rest of the apples before the fruit flies multiply, which they have a tendency to do. I’ve been cleaning the kitchen every day, hoping to keep it insect-free, but fruit is irresistible to those little bugs.

Krista puts down her cereal box to smile at me. “Good luck today,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say as I run a hand through my still slightly damp hair. “Do I look okay?”

“Almost…” She cocks her head, assessing my appearance carefully. She reaches out and straightens my navy-blue tie, cinching the knot a bit tighter. “There. Now you look devastatingly handsome.” She stands on the toes of her bare feet, lifting her pink lips so I can kiss her, and I wrap my arms around her. “Level nine,” she whispers in my ear, and I tighten my embrace. It’s enough to make me sorry I have to leave, but it’s also a relief to be a productive member of society again. When we finally separate, Krista squeezes my arm. “Knock ’em dead, Blake.”

“I will.”

It’s a temp job, but I’ll make the most of it. In another couple of years, I’ll be running the place.

I head out the front door, having already planned a route to work involving the subway station three blocks away. It’ll be a thirty-minute ride to Battery Park City and another five minutes from the train station. So I should be at work in about forty-five minutes as long as there are no delays. Then Mr. Zimmerly, clad in his trademark slippers, comes out of his brownstone as if he’s been waiting for me. Unlike in the suburbs, there’s zero breathing room between our houses; his brownstone and mine are practically kissing.

“Porter!” he calls out as he makes his way down the steps of his house.

Christ, what now? “I’m on my way to work, Mr. Zimmerly.”

Zimmerly looks me up and down in my work clothes, his lips curling as he rubs the whiskers on his chin. “You finally got yourself a job, huh?”

Before I got fired, there wasn’t one day in the last fifteen years when I hadn’t worked, and that includes working two jobs during college. But I don’t feel like getting into it with him. “Yes” is all I say. “So I have to get going and—”

“You need to do something about your steps,” Mr. Zimmerly tells me.

I look down at the gray cement below my polished black dress shoes. “My steps?”

“They’re filthy!”

I don’t know what to say to that. My steps aren’t spotless, but no worse than his. “They’re outdoors.”

“So that’s your excuse?” he spits at me. “This is a disgrace to the whole block! I’m not the only one who feels this way.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll hose them down, okay?”

Mr. Zimmerly mutters something under his breath, then goes back into his own house. He doesn’t seem like he believes I’m going to clean the steps. Which is fair, because there’s no way I’m going to do it. I don’t even have a hose.