Page 7 of Fireworks Flame
“Eddie Radner.” Elena points left across the room and turns right, not noticing as her purse bangs into the knee of the man next to her. In her defense, the room is chaotic. Everyone has taken advantage of the free coffee and cookies and is wandering around with fistfuls of caffeine and sugar, talking over each other in an effort to catch up on any gossip they’ve missed over the week and compare plans for the weekend. This is how all our Friday afternoon debrief meetings go, which is the reason we all keep arriving a little earlier each week. It’s a liquor-less happy hour, the roundup behind the release gates that will soon open to freedom.
“Thanks,” I say, sliding into the seat she motions at. It’s behind a man who’s both tall and wide enough to hide me from Eddie’s view. “This is perfect.”
“Can I ask you a question?” For once, Elena’s volume is at a two instead of the ten it’s usually dialed to.
I nod, despite the fact that her uncharacteristic discretion makes me nervous.
“Eddie seems to really like you,” she says. “And I do hear you when you’re regurgitating the tenets ofSuccess in the Workplace, but I also listen when you quote the Husband Huntress. Andshesays you shouldn’t count someone out before you get to know them.”
“That’s not a question.” I know where Elena is going, though. Her argument is that I shouldn’t keep rejecting Eddie’s advances without getting to know him, despite the fact that there are at least three other women in the office who can claim to know him quite intimately. What Elena doesn’t understand is that I’m well acquainted with men like Eddie Radner. They swept in and out of my house throughout the entirely of my childhood, drawn to my mother’s beauty and eagerness to please. What I learned from them is that compliments and charm are the well-documented signs of a bad bet.
“Why won’t you go out with him?”
I do a quick sweep to ensure no one is listening to us. “I’m not interested in him.”
“But you were interested in Boring Roger?”
“I was willing to give Roger a chance.”
Elena squints with confusion. “Then why not give the same to Eddie? If you thought it might not work out either way, wouldn’t you rather hit the sheets with someone who knows what he’s doing in them than someone who likely irons them?”
I shudder. “You do remember that I didn’t sleep with Roger, right?”
“But you would’ve,” she says, “if things had gone well. So, my point stands.”
“Roger checks all of the boxes,” I say. “He’s the kind of man who would make a perfect life partner.”
She laughs, but it fades as she realizes I’m being serious.
“Hmm,” she murmurs. There’s something in her expression I don’t like. It looks a lot like pity. It’s the kind of look that should be directed toward someone like my mother, not me.
“Is there something wrong with that?” I can hear the defensiveness in my voice and am aware it’s a very unappealing quality. “He’s nice,” I say more softly.
Her nose wrinkles. “But does he excite you?”
“Excitement doesn’t factor into the equation,” I explain. “Attraction fades. You’re supposed to choose your dates according to your long-term relationship goals.”
“But sometimes you go wild and have a fling just for the fun of it, right?” Elena grins knowingly. “I mean, you can’t live your entire life doing what you’resupposed to do.”
I blink, unsure how she’s managed to make good strategic decisions sound so silly.
“Oh my gosh, Olivia!” Her eyes widen and she leans forward, fascinated. “You do, don’t you? No wonder you’re so perfect!”
I flinch beneath what feels like an accusation rather than affirmation. If it’s actually working, and this is what perfect looks and feels like, I’m suddenly terrified I’ve bought into a lie.
“I don’t know how you manage it,” Elena says. “I never do what I’m supposed to do. I tell myself I’m going to diet or date the right men or read the right books, and the next thing Iknow there’s an ex-felon with dreamy eyes on the couch next to me with a pizza in front of us and Netflix has paused to ask if we’re still watching. Does that really never happen to you?”
“I don’t even remember what pizza tastes like.” It feels silly to admit it, but I don’t know what else to say. A simpleNo,noneof that has ever happened to memight sound judgmental. Anyway, the truth is the night Elena has just described sounds amazing. Obviously, I would prefer a guy without a record, but I like the sound of his eyes. And why shouldn’t I get a night on the couch?
Be fit, they say. So, every day I spend an hour of my evening under the strict instruction of my personal trainer. My legs might be perfectly toned, but my stomach is in a perpetual state of growling unrest.Be healthy. Be financially responsible. Dress for success. Be your best self. Look your best. Find a partner. Settle down. And don’t forget to go out and have fun!
But none of these goals quite go together.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to do. And look where it’s gotten me. I’m stretched thin, literally.
I’m supposed to be an independent woman. Everything I believe in is pressuring me to buy my condo. I took this stable, boring, increasingly life-sucking job with its good salary for this very reason. But everything else I’ve been told to do—the gym memberships, the skin creams, the organic almond milks and coconut waters, the overallmaintenancerequired to play this role of the advancing career woman—eats up all the money the job brings in.
And even if I’d saved more, or if my job does provide me the credibility necessary to procure a loan, what next? I’m supposed to be able to buy my own place, but I’m also expected tobelieve I can achieve the plan on my inspiration board. And if I do? Well, in that case, I should have a family coming my way any minute. And I can’t raise kids in a one-bedroom apartment with a stove full of books and a stand-up shower. They’ll feel like they’re being waterboarded.
