Thank God it was Friday and I wouldn’t have to see him for two whole days. Not that I had to worry about that—he’d canceled three meetings with me just to avoid me. Which was the behavior of a fifteen-year-old boy.
It wasn’t as if I’d expected a ring, or dinner. But, hell, a “Hello, how are you, thanks for the hot sex” was surely only polite.
I grabbed my clothes, piled them into a huge Ikea bag, and dumped it by the door, ready to head down to the laundry room. I just had to find the bra I’d taken off in front of the TV earlier that week. As I entered the sitting area, the ceiling rattled with the clip of heels. Jesus, it had only been two days since Max’s dick had been in me, and now he was banging some other girl. I pitied any girl dumb enough to fuck Max King. Which, apparently, included me.
I let out a yell of frustration, then covered my mouth. Had he heard that? I didn’t want him to think I cared if he had another girl in the apartment.
I didn’t give a shit.
But the last thing I wanted to do was sit here listening to my boss fuck someone else. Maybe it wasn’t another woman. Maybe Max liked to dress up. Nothing about that man would surprise me anymore. I smiled, happy with that particular constructed reality.
Feeling under the couch cushions, I grasped a bra strap, then pulled it free and threw it over to join the rest of my laundry. I grabbed my keys from the side table, a report from work, and the detergent I’d bought on my way home from the office. I had at least three loads to do and if I stayed down there, I’d avoid the sexcapades of Max King. As I headed for the elevator, dragging the bag of clothes behind me, the clitter-clatter of heels seemed to follow me out of the door.
The elevator didn’t take as long as usual, and I realized it had come straight from the penthouse. When the doors pinged open I came face to face with the knowledge it hadn’t been Max wearing the high heels after all. There was only one apartment above me, so the woman Max King had just fucked would be standing before me.
I wanted the kind of superpower where I could stop time and rearrange things. Then I could hide and ensure that when the elevator stopped on my floor, the beauty in front of me would wonder why it had stopped at all. Instead, I had to step into the elevator in my sweats, forced to look up to smile when the gorgeous woman said, “Good evening.”
“Hi,” I replied as I discreetly studied her. I’d always wanted to be blonde. I’d tried to dye my hair once, but it just turned out a little like orange cotton candy. At least three inches taller than me, she made me feel like a hobbit standing next to her Arwen. Any moment now she’d ruffle my hair and say, “You’re a dear little thing.”
Max King might be an asshole, but he had great taste in women, even if I did say so myself.
It wasn’t as if I’d expected anything from Max, but it stung a little to run into his latest conquest when he hadn’t even given me the time of day. Asshole.
“Another glamourous Friday night in New York City?” she asked, smiling as she gestured toward my bag of laundry.
What a bitch. She didn’t know I wasn’t going out later with a hot guy or a hotter girl. “Something like that,” I replied. “But better that than waste my time on men who don’t deserve me.”
She laughed. “Yes, doing laundry is preferable to spending time with most of the men I’ve dated.”
Okay, maybe she was being funny rather than bitchy. Did she realize what an asshole Max was? Should I warn her?
“Let’s hope my date tonight raises the bar,” she said. “He seems nice so far, and every now and then you have to take a chance on someone, right?”
I couldn’t reply but smiled manically. She thought Max was nice? Oh yeah, a nice kind of asshole.
The elevator doors opened and she stepped out.
“Enjoy your evening,” she said with a little wave.
Max King was notoriously guarded about his private life. He never mentioned anyone in the articles I’d read about him. It had led to some speculation he was gay. If he was, he certainly did a great impression of a straight man. And he didn’t owe me anything, but just because we’d gone to Vegas, didn’t mean I wanted him making the trip with someone else quite so soon.
When the elevator got to the basement I got out, dragging my laundry behind me. Maybe I should think about trying to sublet my place and move to Brooklyn after all.
I’d dumped my Ikea bag on the floor, muttering to myself, when I realized I wasn’t the only one in the laundry room. A young teen sitting on the long table opposite the washers and dryers caught my eye. I looked up.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey,” she replied with a smile. Papers on her lap, she looked like she was doing homework.
“Are you hiding?” I asked. I’d loved escaping from real life at her age. There was never any peace in my house growing up, and I’d longed for quiet.
She furrowed her brow as if thinking hard about my question. “Not really. I’m doing laundry and homework at the same time.”
“You do your own laundry?” I flipped open the washer and began to fish out my towels from the bag.
She shrugged. “Only certain times of the month. When I’m at my dad’s place there are some things . . .”
“I get it. Boys have it easy, huh?”
She rolled her eyes and I wanted to chuckle. She was a pretty girl with olive skin and long dark hair that fell around her shoulders.
“So easy. I mean, no periods? How did God decide that was fair?”
I shut the first washer and flipped open a second. “Well, you’ve got to assume God is a man, right?” I pulled out my colored items and loaded up the machine. “And I guess he understood that men are such babies they wouldn’t be able to cope.”
“Babies is right. They squeal when they don’t get their way, just like infants.”
I laughed. “You’re totally right.”
“And they always think they’re right about everything. My dad went ballistic yesterday because I picked out a dress for my eighth grade dance he didn’t like.” She leaned forward, making circles in the air with her hands. “I told him I’m growing up and that wearing a strapless dress doesn’t make me a slut.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I guess dads have a different view. I can’t say because I didn’t have a father growing up.” I’d always wanted an overprotective father. Someone who would tell my boyfriends to treat me well and keep their hands to themselves. My dad hadn’t known when my eighth grade dance was, let alone had an opinion regarding my dress.
“You didn’t? Did he die?” she asked, seemingly unaware of how personal her question was.
I smiled. “No. He just wasn’t interested in me.”
The girl paused and then said, “Well my dad is entirely too interested. I thought my mom was strict.”
“What does your mom say about the dress?”
She shrugged. “Dad has the final say. Before she used to be able to talk him around, but now?” She shook her head. “I keep telling him he needs a girlfriend. He needs an adult to tell him I’m right sometimes.”
“You want your dad to have a girlfriend?” Didn’t kids want divorced parents to get back together rather than move on?