I stare at the picture, letting it brand my brain, reminding me that I will never let this happen to me again.
Ever.
Once I feel satisfied with the reminder, I close Facebook and turn back to the group text between my two best friends, Emory and Lindsay.
Emory: You’re always working.
Lindsay: Why did you even ask? I think we both know what she’s doing.
Leaning back in my white office chair, I glance out the window of my high-rise office, taking in the morning skyline before typing back to them.
Dottie: It’s nine in the morning on a Thursday. I think we all should be working.
Lindsay: The kids are taking a spelling test.
Emory: Cora is handling story time while I pretend to check in books.
Lindsay and Emory both work at Cedar Pine Elementary. Lindsay is a third grade teacher with a penchant to slip up with a swear word here and there—how she hasn’t been fired yet, I have no idea—and Emory is the librarian who seems to wear inappropriate-length dresses since she’s been called into the principal’s office a few times for dress code. Despite that, they’re the best educators I know, and I would be honored to have either one of them teach my imaginary children.
I say imaginary, because that’s as close to children as I’ll ever get.
I’m all set on the baby coming out of my vagina thing. Not really interested in that form of torture. Now, if you’d like to tie me to my bedposts and run your tongue over my body for an hour, making me cry out from carnal need, then yes, I’m interested in that form of erotic torture.
Dottie: Your work ethic is impeccable.
Emory: Not all of us can run the world like you.
Dottie: More like running the infrastructure of Chicago, but we don’t have to get technical. What do you two want?
Lindsay: I came across something last night and thought you’d like to take a look at it.
Dottie: Do not send me naked pictures of giant penises anymore. I’m sick of them.
Mainly because it’s been a dry spell for me for months upon months now. It’s scary how long it’s been since I’ve seen a real-life penis in person, and the last thing I want is to get turned on at work because Lindsay has the need to send me dick pics. Women have it bad enough on dating sites; we don’t need dick pics from our friends as well.
Lindsay: It’s not a dick pic, but that reminds me. You’re due for one soon.
Great.
Emory: I can vouch for her that it’s not a dick pic. It’s even better.
Dottie: Better than a dick pic? *taps chin* Are you sending me a close up of a man’s pierced nipple?
Lindsay: No, but do you have one of those?
Dottie: What do you think?
Lindsay: Sarcasm is really hard to read through text messages . . .
Dottie: I don’t.
Lindsay: Damn.
Emory: Can we get back to the reason we’re ignoring the youth of America and tell Dottie why we’re texting her?
Dottie: That would be appreciated since I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.
Lindsay: Right. So I came across this little fundraiser and thought I’d send it to you.
Confused, since my friends never pry me for money even though I have shitloads of it, I type back.
Dottie: What kind of fundraiser?
My computer lights up with a new email from Lindsay. The subject line says: Be a Rebel with Me.
What the hell is this?
Lindsay: Just sent you the link. *giggles*
Oh God, whenever Lindsay types “giggles” I know it can’t be good.
Dottie: Get to the point.
Emory: Do you remember the giant crush you had in college?
Yes, I do. It was borderline infatuation.
Dottie: I can’t recall any crushes.
Lindsay: Puh-lease. I bet you still have a folder in your phone of pictures of him.
Emory: You can’t deny this, we both know your weakness for a bubble-butt catcher who stole your attention at baseball parties.
Dottie: Please get to the point.
Emory: Jason Orson, the man you’ve lusted after for so long, is back in town, and he’s having a fundraiser where you can donate money to his charity to enter to win a date with him. We know how much you love donating money . . . and since you refuse to let me set you up with anyone, why don’t you put it to chance?
Dottie: Are you daring me?
Lindsay: YES! We dare you to donate to Jason’s charity and possibly win a date with him.
Dottie: You both are demented. I fear for the children at Cedar Pine. And if I really wanted a date with the man, I would have asked you to set me up, but I’m not into dating, you know that, especially a guy known to love love. He’s hot, yes, and I would love to smack his bare ass, but he’s everything I try to avoid. He’s a relationship kind of guy.
Emory: It might be nice to settle down. Take a breather from your demanding job.
Lindsay: Or just get your ovaries tickled every once in a while.
And these are my friends. I love them very much, especially since they care about me so much, but this constant badgering to go on a date is starting to get old. They were obviously there for me when Nick picked up and left. They carried me because I was fragile, barely held together by my own body. I gave that man everything in me, and he ripped it apart. Since then, I’ve focused on work and only work.
Apparently, they have a problem with that.
Dottie: I pray you don’t talk to your third graders like that.
Lindsay: They don’t even know what ovaries are. If I told them I was about to tickle them, they’d probably cover their armpits.
Emory: Please don’t threaten to tickle your students’ ovaries. Seriously, Lindsay. What is wrong with you?
Lindsay: I didn’t eat a proper breakfast.
Dottie: As much fun as this has been, I’m going to pass. I have to get ready for this meeting. I’ll talk to you two later.
I stuff my phone in the drawer of my desk to avoid any more distractions and then pull up the Briar Hurst account folder that’s been on my desk all morning—along with a fresh latte and a cut-up apple. I flip open the folder and review the bullet points I need to remember for this morning’s meeting.
After I graduated from college, my dad pulled me into the family business, buying and selling buildings throughout the city. First started in California, my dad has grown Domico Industries and expanded it to Chicago, where he’s been able to triple the profit margin within a matter of years.
I wasn’t handed my position; I earned it, working my way up through the company, but now that I have it, I’ve helped the business grow even more. My dad credits my tough negotiating skills and ruthless business sense that I learned from him. My mom, on the other hand, wishes I’d soften up more. Wear my hair down occasionally, try on a colorful blouse, as she puts it. And just like Emory and Lindsay, she wishes I’d put myself out there again.
I prefer to stay hardened and closed off, only focusing on business, because even though I miss the touch of a man, I’ve been burned enough times by men who either can’t handle my success, or those looking for a handout. I’ve found it easier to focus on work, and that’s what I plan on doing.
I reach for an apple slice, missing the plate completely. I look up to find the apple in front of my computer and when I do, I spot the email from Lindsay, and even though I try to stay focused, I can’t keep my curiosity from spiking.