Missed Connections (12 page)

My heart sings with schadenfreude, and I delete my reply unsent. Maybe I won’t bring their attention to the situation just yet. To celebrate, I head back to Missed Connections.

This Weekend

I click on it.

I can’t describe what you were wearing, as it was your eyes that caught my attention. Such a fascinating shade between green and hazel.

My eyes are that color.

Gorgeous, but not as gorgeous as your sweet smile. Your initials are S. J.

My heart pounds a little faster, but my nerves rise too. My initials
are
S. J.!

This is the closest one I’ve seen to being about me!

What if it is about me?

I don’t know what to think about that. I’ve read about these interactions, these Missed Connections, for so long, and now that one might be me, I’m left a little…conflicted. The only person I encountered was Blake. Could it be him?

The memory of his hands roaming over my shoulders morphs into thoughts of him taking it further. Those fingers, maybe this time covered with oil, dipping under the fabric of my shirt, sliding down to cup my breasts. I’d tip my head back, and he’d lean over and kiss me while his fingers teased my nipples, sliding warmly over them.

Excitement rises to the surface again, drowning out the nerves. I’d actually really like it to be him. Maybe this is his way of getting to know me better before anything happens. I go back to Blake’s email. What should I write? Something cute and fun, but not presumptuous. I won’t bring up the Missed Connection. Yet. I settle on:

From: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Label maker

Is the label maker trying to pay for my silence?

Then I add a winky face and hit Send.

Chapter 12

I don’t walk so much as strut from the train station to work on Tuesday morning. If I’d known how amazing the makeover would make me feel, I’d have given Pete free rein ages ago.

Fern is standing at my desk when I cross the reception area. “Morning, Fern.”

“Hello, Sarah.” She stares at me for a second, and I wait for her to say something about my hair. “I have a bunch of old files for you to archive today.” She looks at me—my hair, my shoes, and back to my face.

“Sure.” I slide past her and put my purse in the lower drawer of the desk. If Fern noticed, she doesn’t seem to care about the change in my appearance. Oh well, I didn’t do it for her anyway. The tall stack of manila folders is dusty and some of them are stained, stacked in a pile about two feet high. “I’m surprised I never came across these. Where have they been?”

“These were some we kept at home.”

I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. “I’ll get to it then.”

She hesitates, as if wanting to say something, but leaves silently.

An hour later, I’ve made a decent dent in the pile of folders when the craniosacral therapist, Ginny, emerges from a room and comes to the front. “Hey, Sarah.”

“Hi. How are you?”

“Fairly well.” She writes something in her client’s file and puts it in my tray. We’re not that chummy, but her smile is always warm. I think she’s just an aloof person, but her clients float out of the office feeling amazing, so I’ve got nothing but respect for her. And since her clients don’t undress, she just changes the top sheet and pillowcase herself, saving me time and energy. “Love your new haircut.”

“Thanks.” I grin and show her next client into a room before checking the laundry, but it’s not finished. Ginny is just closing the door to her room when I pass by on the way back to reception. Phyllis, Ziggy, and Fern are hanging out there with herbal tea when I get back.

Phyllis catches my eye, then refocuses on Fern. So annoying, but at least I can go to lunch soon. Phyllis continues, “I just find the whole thing incredibly unhealthy. I mean, what kind of energy does that put out into the world?”

I settle behind my desk and begin checking the messages, half listening to their conversation.

Ziggy clears his throat. “And that’s the thing. It’s all about balance, but it shouldn’t all be external.”

“It shouldn’t be about the external at all,” Fern admonishes. “Appearances aren’t important in the least.”

Surely, they’re not talking about me?

Phyllis continues. “I mean, I cut my hair myself at home because I don’t agree with the trappings of the antiwoman fashion industry. It’s so inorganic.”

“Completely. All the chemicals are terrible for a person’s body, but the treadmill of insecurity is terrible for their soul. For their energy. And for what, to attract a mate?” Fern’s voice burns with passion.

Ziggy nods. “Unfortunately, they end up attracting someone who is only interested in their wrappers and not who they are as a person.”

My fingers fumble my pen. They are literally talking about me in front of my face.

Fern sighs. “It’s just sad that people will go to such lengths to capture love. It really says something about them that they will stop at no cost—to their bodies, health, or energy systems. I mean, if they only knew what such dramatic changes do to their root chakras.”

“Never mind their root chakras—think of their hara lines.” Ziggy sets his tea down.

“If only they’d be in my class. I could teach them so much in such a short time!”

“Of course you could, Fern. But some people will resist progress no matter what,” Phyllis says, simpering.

“It’s the way they cling to the things harming them that scares me. But I can’t force someone to evolve beyond the physical and focus more on the spiritual. Nourishing the soul.” Fern sets her cup down as well. “Shall we?”

Ziggy nods and looks over at me as though I’ve appeared from thin air. “Oh, Sarah! You’re back.”

I don’t know what to say. “Yes.”

“Fern, Phyllis, and I are leaving early for a course. We’ve cleared our schedules.”

“Oh. Okay. Will you be back today?”

“No.”

“Too bad you can’t come with us.” Phyllis smiles.

“Well, I’m working. So…”

She purses her lips and makes eye contact with Fern. The “see” look isn’t lost on me. “Maybe another time.”

“Maybe.” My throat burns and I don’t dare say another word. A couple seconds later, they’ve gone, and I take the phone off the hook, needing a moment to gather myself. For people who are all about building others up and helping people connect to the lightness within, they sure know how to tear a heart out.

It’s a makeover. No bunnies were drained of their blood for the red highlights in my hair. It isn’t in an outrageous Mohawk with swear words shaved into the sides of my head. I didn’t take a day off work to get it done and lie about it. It’s not like I’ve come in dressed unprofessionally and then sat here gazing lovingly at my appearance in a tiny mirror. Not liking someone’s decision is one thing, but talking shit about it in front of them is another.

If I didn’t have a few hours left before I could leave, I’d cry. But I won’t.

And yet, a small tear gathers at the corner of my eye.

The law firm wasn’t a great place, but at least there was one paralegal who wasn’t a total ass and we used to have lunch together. Even Brenda, who fired me, was friendly. It’s so lonely in this place without anyone to chat to or do lunch with. Ginny’s nice but obviously uninterested in engaging, and Blake’s never here when I am.

Screw this place. I need an early lunch.

I buy a turkey panino with extra, extra bacon—the better to eat my feelings with—from the bodega next door and take it to eat on a bench in the shade in the dinky park nearby. At least it’s not a dog park—in this heat, the smell wouldn’t be conducive to lunch. I flop down and stretch my legs out, wishing I’d brought something to drink. Fresh air that doesn’t reek of sage oil and judgmental hippies helps a little, but distance doesn’t give me much relief. I need to download some of this embarrassment to someone who will make me feel better about the situation and myself.

A lady walks by with a Yorkie who sniffs at me—probably smelling my sandwich—before its owner pulls it away.

Two guys about my age play Ultimate Frisbee, throwing harder and puffing out their chests when they notice me, but I don’t even care about their abs.

Pete answers on the fourth ring. “Hey.”

“Oh my fucking God, Pete, this has been the worst day ever. They were talking about me right in front of my face. They didn’t care that I could hear. They just went on and on about how bad it is for your energy to only care about appearances. I was feeling so good about your makeover, and now I feel really crappy and alone and I need a hug and a reminder that I’m fabulous.” I stuff a bite of my panino in my mouth to soothe myself with bacon.

“You what? This was your boss and coworkers making you feel bad about yourself? Give me names.”

This isn’t Pete. I swallow my bite of sandwich and close my eyes. “Jack?”

“Yeah. And for the record? You are drop-dead gorgeous.”

Mortification overtakes my purring ego. “Where’s Pete? I called his phone and not yours, right?”

“He sprang a sushi date on me and then abandoned me to flirt with the host. His phone rang, I saw it was you and answered…and fuck those hippies.”

Could this day get any more embarrassing? Gratitude seeps through the murky mortification. “Thank you for getting my dad’s pills to him, Jack. I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t. But I want to hear more about these assholes who were mean to you.”

Screw it, he already knows too much for me to salvage any dignity from this story. “I can’t believe it actually happened. They weren’t even pretending to talk about someone else. They didn’t say my name, but it was obvious and makes me feel like I’m shallow and want meaningless things from life because I got a haircut.”

“No way. Are you supposed to never change the way you look? Never want to try something different? Pete would starve if women believed that. You’re helping keep businesses afloat!”

I laugh.

“You strut back in there and show them how a confident modern woman doesn’t let people keep her down. I mean, shit, are you supposed to walk around with a bag over your head? Pete showed me a picture of your new haircut. You look fucking hot.”

The slight growl in his voice makes me feel a lot better.

“They’re clearly jealous,” he continues. “Go back in there and tell them to fuck their own faces. Flip ’em off.”

Laughter bubbles through me. What would it be like to come home to him every night? He’d make me laugh and then make love to me, making it all better. I could call him anytime through the day when something happened. But no. Being with Jack would be like having a panther ranging around at home. “That might get in the way of my chakra chi or whatever.”

“Your chakra chi is fine. Don’t let those hippies get you down. It’s Sarah.” Jack’s voice is muffled before sounding normal again. “Pete’s back. Want a word?”

I glance at my phone. I’ve already been gone twenty-three minutes. I only get half an hour for lunch. “No, I should be getting back.”

“All right. I’ll talk to you later?”

“Yes. Thanks, Jack.”

“Anytime.”

I let myself roll around in the softness of his voice for a minute before walking back to Inner Space. He really is a nice guy—despite the shitty things I said to him. Also, he’s right. The glass doors reflect my new and improved appearance. Finger-combing the ends of my hair, I remember how great my makeover made me feel when I first saw it, and I let that thought buoy me across reception to my desk after pausing to chug a cup of water.

Screw my judgmental coworkers.

I open the lower drawer to put my purse in and find the label maker, reminding me of Blake’s present. With the business of the morning and then the shit-talking about me in reception earlier, I completely forgot about it. Moving the label maker aside, my fingers brush against the small chocolate truffle bar.

I could kiss Blake right now for this perfectly timed pick-me-up.

I slowly unwrap it, a brand I’m not familiar with, and take a bite while reading the package. It’s glorious. Silky smooth, semi-dark with raspberry cream, and delicious. It’s organic, so even if the hippies saw me eating it, I wouldn’t get a lecture, but it doesn’t taste like cardboard. And there’s no carob in it—the chocolate of hippies.

I sit with a small piece of Blake’s chocolate melting on my tongue, letting it sweeten up my bitter day.

* * *

The next night, I settle in front of the computer with some wine to unwind.

Anniversary of Sorts

Well, that could be anything. I click it open.

Bumping into you again gave me butterflies even after all these years.

I haven’t been estranged from anyone long enough to warrant “all these years.” Oh, and it’s from a woman to a man.

On to the next one.

Girl Pissing in the Men’s Room at the Grilled

What the hell?

Your piercings were hot. Wish I’d gotten your number, but my hands were full and you left the bar right after you left the bathroom. I’d love to watch you piss again. Maybe more.

I feel my eyes become two different sizes. Whatever happened to romance? Taking another slug from my glass of wine, I click open the next post.

Saw you outside work yesterday. You were wearing a light green top and huge sunglasses in your dark hair.

I gasp. I wore my favorite green cami yesterday.

Love the new sassy haircut.

My heart pounds. This has got to be me, right? And he said work, not “your” work. It’s totally Blake. Unless it isn’t. What if it’s a total stranger? Some creeper who wants to romance me, love me, and chop me up to keep in his freezer—or watch me pee like that other ad?

But what if it’s someone sweet who reads these posts like I do? I’m not a freak, so not everyone into these is weird. Odds are that a lot of normal people check Missed Connections as well. I have to know if it’s about me, so I hit Reply and begin typing.