The Opposite of Me (23 page)

“But what about a dating service that does background checks to make sure people aren’t married?” I asked. “What if someone checked out your date before you ever met him or her, and snapped a photo of them, too? What if the dating service was selective, so that not just anyone could get in? Would that make a difference?”

“Maybe,” tin can woman conceded, and a few people murmured agreement.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve all been a huge help.”

I stepped down from the footstool and walked over to May.

“You were unbelievable,” she said. “The way you took control of that crowd!”

“It was fun,” I said, and I realized it really had been.

“I can’t believe you’re doing all this for me,” May said. “It’s too much.”

“There’s only one way you can thank me,” I said. “Let me create your ad. I know exactly what I’m going to do.”

Thirteen
 

 

BY 2:00
A.M.
, MY eyes were burning, my back was aching, and the taste of stale coffee lingered in my mouth. Dozens of cut-up magazines littered my bedroom floor, and two of my fingers kept sticking together because they were coated with glue.

But my ads for May weren’t half-bad.

I looked down at the sheaf of papers spread out over my bed. I’d flipped strategies around midnight, deciding to scrap the idea of a full-page ad. Instead, I’d created four quarter-page ads. I’d snipped photos and words from different magazines to create collages of my layouts. I envisioned the ads running on consecutive pages of a magazine, playing off each other like the old Burma-Shave roadside signs.

My first ad featured a cute young woman looking straight into the camera. She was seated at a restaurant table, and opposite her was a gray-haired man with a cane.

“He said he was
twenty-six
,” read the bold red copy above her head.

The second ad showed a guy staring in shock at his credit card bill. This time the red copy read, “I took her out for dinner.
She
took my credit card.”

My third ad featured a woman holding up a gold wedding ring. “He asked me to go away with him for the weekend. Then his
wife
called.”

My final ad was a simple line of the same bright red copy on a black background: “Blind Dates. Our only surprises are happy ones.”

I fell back onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. How long had it been since I’d sat down and created an ad from start to finish, all by myself, without having to research it to death and collaborate with art directors and prima donna fashion photographers all while massaging the ego of a client who routinely demands changes that undercut my best ideas?

Not since grad school, I realized. That was the last time I’d been my own boss. That was the last time I’d had fun at work.

I sat up and tucked my ads in my briefcase. These ads wouldn’t win any awards, but they should do the trick for May. And because I’d been working so hard, I’d barely thought about Alex and Bradley tonight. I hadn’t thought at all about the new clothes I’d hidden in my closet, still in their bags. I’d just lost myself in the project and pushed my feelings aside, like I always used to do.

This was what my life would be like again if I got the job at Givens & Associates—but minus the creative, satisfying part. Late nights, burning eyes, and ulcers jockeying for space in my stomach. Of course, I quickly reminded myself, there would also be a fat paycheck and stock options and a title high up on the company’s masthead.

For some reason Matt’s face swam into my mind. I could see his brown eyes and big smile as clearly as if he was sitting next to me on my bed. If he were here now, he’d order us an olive-and-mushroom pizza and nag me about working too hard and stuff tennis balls down his shirt and do his impression of Cheryl. Suddenly, a fierce wave of missing him washed over me.

I reached for my cell phone and started to dial his number,
then I slowly put down my phone. He was probably asleep. With Pammy curled up beside him like a faithful little tabby. No, no, bitchiness wasn’t becoming.

I picked up a book, flipped through a few pages, and dropped it back onto my bed. I thought about going into the living room and watching TV, or fixing myself a snack. But I wasn’t hungry. And I didn’t want to watch TV.

I was lonely.

I couldn’t deny it any longer. Without work dominating all my time and thoughts, I realized for the first time just how little else my life held. I’d lost touch with most of my friends from high school and college, other than Bradley. I didn’t even have a hobby. I’d signed up for a knitting class last year, thinking it would help my stress, but it backfired when I realized I’d spent more than a hundred dollars and about the same amount of hours creating an ugly sweater with a hole in the middle big enough to throw a baseball through.

What did I have in life, other than those two suitcases of designer clothes and a handful of commercials I’d created?

“Is this what you want?” Matt had asked me the day I was supposed to get the promotion. I hadn’t answered him; I’d been too frantic.

Now I thought about how easy it was to get swallowed up by Alex, even as an adult. I thought about my parents’ pride in me. I thought about my years of hard work, my carefully mapped out plan for my life. Why, during all those years of planning and scheming, had I never stepped back and thought about what I’d
wanted
? It had just seemed like I was walking down a predetermined path, and there weren’t any forks ahead that veered off in other directions. My choices had been so clear, so obvious, that they hadn’t required any thought. Until the night I was fired—I reflexively winced, thinking of it—I hadn’t missed a single step down that clearly marked path.

But ever since that night, things had gotten so muddled. My flash of fear at Givens & Associates, my shopping frenzy, my unexpected new feelings for Bradley—how had my life gotten so complicated, so fast?

“Is this what you want?” Matt’s voice asked again.

I lay there for a minute, thinking about it.

What happened next surprised even me.

“Do I have a choice?” I asked aloud.

Fourteen
 

 

THE NEXT MORNING I awoke before seven. As always, it took a few seconds to orient myself, to remember I wasn’t in my apartment in New York. The familiar sense of shame draped over me like a heavy comforter: I’d been fired. I’d screwed up my life. And I was lying to everyone. I couldn’t stand another bout of introspection—last night’s session had been tough enough—so I jumped out of bed, hoping forward movement would banish my thoughts. Even with a half night’s sleep, I wasn’t tired. I’d trained my body long ago to get accustomed to four or five hours of rest a night.

I hurried into the shower before Dad could lay claim to the bathroom with his crossword puzzle. Literally the second I turned off the water Mom rapped on the door. “Honey?”

“Just a sec,” I said, twisting up my hair in a towel turban.

“I just wanted to know if you need anything from IKEA,” Mom said.

“No thanks,” I said, pulling on my robe.

“I’m going to get some new cushions for the patio furniture,” Mom said.

Maybe if I didn’t answer her, she’d take the hint; I wasn’t a big talker until I’d had my morning coffee.

“They’re on sale,” Dad shouted through the door.

And maybe not.

“You know you can get breakfast for ninety-nine cents there,” Dad continued.

“Don’t forget to tell them to hold the lingonberries on your pancakes,” Mom reminded Dad. “You know how you hate those.”

“Tart little buggers,” Dad agreed.

Living alone in my apartment had made me forget the absolute lack of privacy in this house. No one else seemed to crave it. Alex even used to walk in on me when I was in the bathtub and proceed to leisurely put on her makeup, until I got hold of Dad’s toolbox and installed a lock on the door.

“What do you think about yellow and white striped cushions?” Mom asked Dad as I smoothed lotion on my legs. They hadn’t bothered moving away from the door.

“What’s wrong with navy blue?” Dad asked.

“We’ve had navy blue for years,” Mom said. “I want a change.”

“You want a change, do you?” Dad growled. “Do you want a change from this, too?”

Holy God! Was that a sexually suggestive tone in his voice?

“Hank!” Mom giggled.

I couldn’t bear to think of what was going on in the hallway, so I blasted the hair dryer, suppressing a shudder. Thankfully, by the time I turned it off they’d left, presumably to harass the Swedes.

I dressed quickly, made a pot of coffee, and organized my thoughts along with Mom’s junk drawer. (For the love of everything holy, why would anyone cram receipts into little balls like used tissues and hoard nonworking pens instead of throwing them away?) First I’d drop my ads off at May’s house, I decided, smoothing out the receipts and sorting them by date before
clipping them together. Then I’d hit a cybercafe and get down to work. Next Monday was coming up fast, and I still needed to research Givens & Associates.

I finished wiping down the kitchen counters, then headed to the hallway and scooped up the keys to my parents’ spare car. But as I started to lock the door behind me, my hand froze.

Last night I’d looked like a completely different person. What would May think when she saw me now? I glanced into the mirror that hung in my parents’ hallway. My hair was twisted up, my earrings were simple pearls, and my clothes were downright somber.

Would May even recognize me?