Page 30 of Role Play
Me:
Save your pity party *kissy face emoji*. The chicken was the best I’ve ever had. And all you have to do to keep your job is feed me.
Daphne:
I’ll pop by tomorrow to take you to breakfast.
We’ll go to our favorite brunch place.
And we’re not leaving until we plot out your next bestseller.
Prologue to epilogue.
Get some good rest.
We’ll need your brain firing on all cylinders in the morning.
It used to drive me crazy how Daphne would text. Every line of thought is a new message, like her thumbs are too eagerto let her mind finish a full sentence. Now, it’s one of my favorite things about her. The rapidping, ping, ping, pingis her signature ringtone, as distinctive as a fingerprint.
Me:
Sounds great. Can’t wait!
Fuck. My response is so phony it makes me cringe, the words dripping with artificial enthusiasm like syrup on a stale pancake. I debate whether or not to tell Daphne what I did. The problem is she’s going to want to know why I would choose to punish myself by reading every hateful, mean thing written about me and my work on the internet. Truth is, I don’t have an answer. For some sick reason, when I’m feeling low, I seek to get lower. Maybe in a way I think that if I can survive all the abuse, then I can make it. I can endure anything.
Except I couldn’t take it.
I melted into a puddle of heaving tears in the middle of Manhattan’s most sophisticated wedding. I’ve never felt more like a loser, especially here, surrounded by all these rich people who found their success, their laughter and clinks of champagne glasses a constant reminder of what I haven’t achieved. And maybe never will.
What if…
What if I just let the haters win? I’m so tired of trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. What if I take Mom up on that entry-level bank job?
Life would be simpler.
More than anything, I just want a break from feeling this hopeless.
I sink onto the bathroom floor in my ruined dress, not caring that I’m one sneeze away from my nipples popping free. I rip open the top of my gummy bear package, trying to focus on thegood parts of today. I pop a gummy treat for every blessing I have in my life.A red bear.I have an incredible best friend who is always on my side.A green bear.My parents love me.An orange and a blue bear.I have my health and a roof over my head. I pop a handful more of the colorful assortment, convinced there are more things to be grateful for that simply don’t come to mind at the moment.
Running my tongue over the roof of my mouth, I feel an odd film, slick and slightly bitter. These bears have a weird twang to them. Daphne is knee-deep in her homeopathic-organic-grass-fed phase. I bet these bears are made of dead sea algae or something harvested by moon-dancing shamans. I should’ve swiped the sweet-and-sour Scandinavian gummy skulls from my birthday basket, but the gummy bear package was small and nestled perfectly in my clutch, like it was meant to tag along tonight.
Knock, knock.
There’s a firm thud on the bathroom door, the sound reverberating through the tiled space. I flick my eyes along the stalls, one by one, as if the person on the other side of the door can see my bewilderment. “Uh, it’s open.”Who knocks on a public bathroom door?
“Cookie girl? Are you in there?” he bellows through the heavy wooden door, his voice deep and unmistakable.
Huh?I clamber to my feet, then clickety-clack in my black kitten heels over to the door, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through my arches. I pull open the door to see his stupid, handsome face. He’s cleanly shaven, showing off his masculine, cut jaw, the kind that could slice through bread and break through hearts with equal efficiency. “Cookie girl? Are you looking for a stripper?” I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
He smiles when he sees me, a grin that unfurls slowly across his face. Then, his eyes slip for a fraction of a second to my chest,the torn fabric leaving little to the imagination. He recovers quickly, finding my gaze and flashing me that million-dollar smile. Actually, considering who he’s dating, maybe it’s a billion-dollar grin. “I’m looking for you. I’m sorry, I don’t know your name,” he confesses, his voice softer now.
“And I don’t know yours… So why are you looking for me?” I hold out my arms, letting him assess the wreckage he made of my dress. “Are you back to finish the job?”
“No, of course not. I’m Forrest.” He holds up a small, clear container that’s encapsulating a needle and a colorful array of threads. “I thought maybe I could help.”
I blink at him, slow and deliberate. “Do you think just because I’m a woman, I know how to sew?”
His eyes pop into startled circles, widening like a cartoon character who’s just stepped on a rake. “I wasn’t implying?—”
