I’ve decided I just need time. A few days to think through things. It’s not like Henry’s in a rush, so I might as well take the time I need to figure this out. What do I really want? I want to be with Henry; I know that. But at this point, it’s only on his terms, and he doesn’t seem to want to stray from that. The other option is to not be with Henry, and I don’t love that idea either.
Right now, I’m watching him on his last date for the feature. I’m outside the restaurant, the air extra balmy after the afternoon shower. Even with the overcast sky, there’s no reprieve from the heat except to escape to the air-conditioned station van or inside the restaurant.
But I wait outside because the date is almost over and also, I’m oddly drawn to date number three. Bonnie is her name. She’s stunning. Black, perfectly straight hair. Dark, flawless skin. And a smile that would light up any room. I spoke with her for only a few minutes, but there’s such a likable quality to her that I find myself wanting to hang out with her and be her friend. I wonder if she’s in the market for a new friend with food and body image issues who likes to settle for things in her life. Including the man Bonnie’s sitting across from right now. The man that’s giving her his full attention and the most genuine of smiles he’s given on all three dates.
Henry could say yes to a second date with Bonnie, and they could go out in public, and people could tell them what a gorgeous couple they are—because they would be. She could tell all her friends and coworkers and put a picture of the two of them on her desk. She could invite him to meet her parents, and they could go to Vegas to see her bestie get married. She could have all those things with him.
But, if he does pick her, he’ll go on the second date, and then he will come back to me, because he wants to be with me. But only in secret. And I’m settling for whatever crumbs he’s willing to throw my way. I understand his reasons, even as over the top as I think they are. I don’t want to be selfish. But isn’t Henry being selfish, here, too? Wanting his cake and eating it too?
Wow. Cake sounds so good right now.
I’m so tired of getting what I want but with some big caveat. I was a “we” with Brady, but he wasn’t who I really wanted to be with. I finally get to be with Henry, but not in the way I want to be. I work in television, doing the news, but am stuck in midday with a viral video haunting me. The stars that I’d been settling for seem so dull right now, and the ones still out of my reach sit above me, mocking me.
I look over at Moriarty, who’s talking to her producer and doing her ultra-cheesy fake laugh, like she does. Even working with her on this whole feature is about me settling. I thought it was more compromising, but really, I just let the station dictate it all; I didn’t even argue. I’d have just let her take the feature if Jerry hadn’t spoken up. Why am I always doing that?
I accidentally make eye contact with her, and Moriarty turns that fake smile on me and then saunters my way, her dark-red peplum jacket swishing back and forth as she walks in her four-inch heels.
“I think this is the one,” she says, a nod toward the restaurant where Bonnie just said something to make Henry laugh out loud. There’s a know-it-all grin on Moriarty’s face that I’d kind of like to punch.
“Do you?” I ask, my tone conveying that I don’t really care either way.
“Oh yes,” she says. “Bonnie is definitely Henry’s type.”
“And you know his type?”
“Of course. Young, skinny, smart. And you can tell by the way he looks at her,” she says, her tone smug.
He does look like he’s into her, and maybe he is. Maybe Bonnie would be someone he’d throw caution to the wind or move mountains for. Maybe she would be enough.
Because that’s really what’s bothering me here. I’m not enough. I’m not enough for Henry to put all that Claire stuff aside and just be with me.
I blink back tears, not wanting to mess up my makeup.
“Your hair looks frizzy,” Moriarty says, and I turn my face to her.
“Thank you?” I say, my voice full of sarcasm. Even so, I reach up and try to smooth it out with my hand.
“I’m only trying to help,” she says. She then wrinkles her nose. “Also, that suit color isn’t doing you any favors either.”
A strange déjà vu sensation rolls through me. It’s not unlike Moriarty to have an opinion, but these particular words, this sentence structure, remind me of something else.
I look down at my blue blazer and matching skirt, and that feeling, mixed with the situation with Henry and the fact that it’s freaking hot and humid right now, makes something inside me snap.
“You know what? I like this suit, and I like my frizzy hair, actually. I don’t really care what you think, Stacey. You’ve never been nice to me, not once since I started here, and you know what I think?”
Moriarty rolls her eyes and folds her arms. “What do you think?” she asks, her voice exasperated.
“I think you’re jealous.”
She leans back her head and laughs, but it comes out a little more maniacal sounding. “Why would I be jealous of you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, you’re the face of the station. What would a little intern who moved up to anchor much faster than you ever did possibly mean to you? Yet, you spend a heck of a lot of time paying attention to the things I do and giving me unsolicited opinions, in the name of trying to ‘help’ me.”
“Oh please. You were put on midday. That’s like basically second to doing location reporting.”
“But who says how long until I move up to evening? To morning?”
She taps her chin with her finger, as if she’s contemplating. “I mean, maybe that would be possible . . . if you hadn’t let that lovely word fly on air,” she says.
Her face is so smug at this moment, I kind of want to let a bunch of “lovely” words fly right now.
“I did do that; you got me,” I say, keeping my cool. “But guess what? I’m still here. Still standing right here, getting ready to go in front of that camera, just like you. I think you’re scared that if I can make it past that, then who knows what I’m capable of. Maybe someday it will be my face on those billboards on I-4.”
She flinches. It’s minuscule, but I see it. I’ve struck something. A nerve. A chord.
Her lips curl up into her devil smile. “Why would they ever want you to be the face of the station?” she says, and then takes a tiny step back from me, her eyes moving up and down my body.
Message received. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt like it probably would have before the retreat. Her words are just that: words. It’s my choice if I let them hurt me. And right now, they’re just a gust of wind. They only float over me and away, into the abyss.
“What’s going on here?” Henry asks as he walks out of the restaurant, seeing the tension that’s clearly visible between Moriarty and me.
I look at Henry, who’s got Bonnie on his arm. Beautiful, put-together Bonnie, and then my eyes move over to Moriarty’s, which are currently shooting darts at me, and I realize that I don’t want to be here. For any of this.
“How about you wrap this up,” I say to Moriarty, making a circle in the air with my pointer finger. “Just like you wanted anyway. I’m done.” And then I turn and walk to the station van, grab my purse, and start walking away.