Beautiful and Broken (4 page)

“I’ll talk to him, Mom.”

“Oh, honey!” She throws her arms around me. “I knew you’d come to your senses. You won’t regret this. I promise. And…if you're feeling forgiving, perhaps you could call Mia. She's really sorry and she's a mess right now."

"Ha! She's a mess?
I'm
a mess!"

"She's family. This ordeal has been hard on the whole family, not just you. It would be nice if you could make amends. Don’t let a boy come between you and your sister.”

I fake a smile and my mother brings me in for a hug, kissing me tenderly on the forehead. "Thank you. I know you'll do the right thing. You always do."

When my mother leaves, she’s beaming. I feel like she cut out my mangled heart, shredded it, shoved it down my throat and back into my chest. I didn’t expect her support. My whole life she has always worried about number one—herself. And now on top of everything, my image of my father is shattered. It’s hard not to see him like I see Jason: selfish and cruel.
 

So I lied. It made her happy. And it got her off my back. For the moment.
 

***

I’m staring at the television, only it isn’t on. Amy comes through the door and plops down beside me on the couch. I tip my head to rest on her shoulder. She’s damp with sweat but all I smell is her baby powder deodorant. One of these days I’m going to go running with her. One day…
 

But sports have never been my thing. I might be thin, but I’m soft, and it’s because of good genes and not any effort on my part.

“How bad was it?”

“The worst. She wants me to make up with Mia."

"I see."

"And she said Jason is devastated; she wants me to go crawling back to him.”

“I’m so sorry, Moll.”

“For once, I just wanted her to take my side and tell me I deserved better.” I snatch a pillow and hug it to my chest.
 

“You do.”

“That’s debatable."

“But you need to do something, Moll. You can’t stay here on this couch for another week. Maybe you should go back to work. Focus on that. Being here's just going to make you overthink things and I’m worried if you stay like this, your mother will get exactly what she wants.”

“You’re right. I know you are. But…I’m so scared to go back to work. Everyone will know what happened and I can’t stand the thought of them talking about me when my back is turned. I feel pathetic enough.”
 

“The secret to a breakup is to march back to work looking amazing and with your head held high. Show them that you’re not broken.”

Not broken. Huh. Great idea in theory, only on the inside I feel just that: broken.
 

Amy snaps her fingers together and points at me. “You know what you need? A makeover.”

I make a face.
 

“I’m serious. Maybe a new haircolor or cut. Something dramatic, like red or blonde.”

I don’t want to dye my hair, but at the same time, I’m up for anything to get me out of this funk, so we head down to the pharmacy and browse the aisles. I settle on Intense Copper Red. When we get back to the condo I head into the bathroom while Amy waits for me in the living room. I stare into the mirror after washing out the color, and I don’t even recognize myself; maybe that’s a good thing. The color is unnatural, a shocking red, but with my green eyes and pale complexion, it almost works. I turn to the tub to watch traces of the color drip down the drain.
 

Out with the old, in with the new.
 

Three

I PULL MYSELF together the next morning and go back to work. I do exactly as Amy says: put on just enough makeup, curl my hair in soft waves, and wear my best two-piece suit. And for the finishing touch? Tall, red stilettos. This might be the first and last time I’ll wear them. They start hurting my feet even before I leave the condo building. I can’t help but drive slowly all the way there, nibbling at my nails on one hand while I drive with the other. Facing my colleagues will be painful, but I have to get it over with. Sooner’s better than later, right? Oh God. It really isn’t! I can’t stomach what they’ll say to me or behind my back.
 

I get to work around ten o'clock, a few minutes shy of being late. The building is exactly the same as when I left, bright blue with a wall full of mirrors. A digital screen in the window showcases some of our best houses—i.e. the most expensive ones. None of the owners are my clients. I don’t have a single one right now.
 

Before I walk through the front doors, I get a text from Amy.
 

I gasp as I look at the image she's sent. Massive hairy balls—no torso, no legs, just balls. What the hell?
 

My phone beeps and vibrates again.
 

Thought this would make you smile.
 

How about cute, fuzzy puppies or bunnies? But a dick? I sigh, and then burst out laughing. Amy is seriously messed up, and as much as I didn’t think it would help, it seems a dick was what I needed to break the tension and walk through the front doors of my office.
 

I pray that my coworkers have forgotten all about my wedding. I know it's a long shot, but maybe something more exciting has happened since then. Maybe.
 

The office is busy. Everyone is in today for a staff meeting. My cubicle neighbor, Sophie, is on the phone, twirling the cord around her perfectly manicured index finger. She frowns at me, but it's exaggerated, like a pity frown. I want to roll my eyes but force a smile instead. I try to make it look sincere.

I hate Sophie. She’s my nemesis. Normally, I wouldn’t admit to such a strong emotion, but Sophie pushes my buttons—constantly. She’s insincere and passive aggressive and every time she opens her mouth, I feel as if she’s verbally bitch-slapping me. And I’ll admit, I’m a tad bit jealous of her. She has the highest figures in the office, both in sales and commission—and she lets everyone know it. She's beautiful in a movie star kind of way, with golden hair and pale blue eyes, and somehow she always manages to land these awesome superstar clients, like actors and athletes. They’re usually male and they usually end up dating her after she closes on their houses—until she gets bored and needs to make another sale. She’s everything I’m not, but would like to be (minus the bitchy personality and the sleeping around). Although after the other night, I can’t really throw stones, can I?

She hangs up the phone as I sit in my chair. I unbutton my blazer and boot up my computer. I can feel her eyes on me and it makes my cheeks burn, but two other co-workers quickly distract me as they approach my desk: Ryan and Carol. Carol sits on the edge of my desk.
 

They're both staring at me; they want details. None of them were invited to the wedding, and I justified this by telling them that Jason and I wanted to keep the wedding small and intimate. Only seventy-eight people were invited and most of those people were Jason's cousins and their families. He comes from a big family.

Jason. Even thinking his name in my head makes my heart splinter. I take a deep breath.
 

"Yes?" I say with a smile. They know what happened. Of course they do. Somehow it went viral on the Internet when I bitch-slapped Jason. The video was posted courtesy of my cousin Derek, who should have been consoling me instead of playing director. I especially liked Derek's commentary as it all went down. He must have said, "this is fucking awesome!" at least five times, in between meowing.

Carol stares at my hair. Carol is a voluptuous lady with big brown eyes and long curly hair that she always pulls back into a bun. She's a little older than me and has a van full of kids, but all I think about when I see her is her husband, who happened to strip—quite unexpectedly—at last year's Christmas party. The people in the office haven't stopped teasing her about it since. Maybe she's safe now. Maybe that's old news now that my life is a complete disaster.
 

 
“This is a nice change. I like it.”

 
“I love it,” Ryan says, picking up a strand and running it through his fingers. Ryan is my age and has a killer smile. He's thin, way too thin for my taste, and has a boyfriend he refers to as his bitch. They fight more than they don't, but apparently the sex is awesome? I give my head a shake; I really don't need that mental picture.
 

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“So how are you doing?” Carol asks, her half smile sincere.
 

"I'm fine," I say with a forced smile. Being put on the spot like this makes me sweat, but there’s no chance they’ll leave me alone until I give them something, so I either tell them now or have them corner me every day for the next few weeks until they wear me down. “Honestly. I really am. I’d been with him for so long, I’m almost looking forward to be on my own for a bit.”

They all glance back and forth between each other with raised eyebrows. They don’t believe me, but whatever—I don’t care. It’s hard to be convincing when all I want to do is crawl under my desk and curl up into the fetal position.
 

"If you need a friend, I'm here for you," Carol says.

"Yes, we're all here for you," Ryan says, placing his hand on my shoulder.
 

"Of course," says Sophie. "If you need a shoulder to cry on, Carol’s great for that."

I almost laugh. For a second there, I thought she might volunteer herself. Man, I hate her. Why couldn't
she
be the one to have cheated with my ex? I could have hit her in the face and today her eye would be black and blue, just like Mia’s was.
 

"Molly! My office. Now," Henry says from behind me.
 

I swivel around to meet my boss’ gaze. He wears the same exact color and make of suit he’s worn since I started here, when he made of point of telling me he buys the same suit and shirt and tie for every day of the week. (He likes to be consistent but he doesn't want to be accused of not washing).
 

"Right away, sir." I mock salute him. Saved by the bell.
 

My coworkers disperse. I sashay into Henry’s office with my head held high, still trying to play the part of newly single-and-loving-it Molly. Even if no one's buying it—including me.
 

"What’s with the hair?” He waves his hand through the air.

“Just thought it was time for a change.”

“Change, huh? Well just don’t go getting tattoos and facial piercings. We have an image to uphold here.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Hersey.”

“Good. Now, Molly, we know you're going through a difficult time and well, we’ve all been there.”
 

Why do people keep saying this?
We’ve all been there
. Has Mr. Hersey been cheated on with his brother on his wedding day? I really don’t think so. And it’s not as if I think my situation is beyond comparison or anything; I know worse things can happen to people. It’s just…it doesn’t feel that way right now, and I can’t shake that off, no matter how hard I try.

“Thank you for your support. That means a lot.”
 

“Let me finish.” He holds up one of his sausage fingers. “Your ex-fiancé made a fool out of you and as much as that sucks, you need to keep your personal problems out of the office. I don’t want to see you crying at your desk, breaking down with clients, or any of that nonsense.”

I swallow a hard lump in my throat, resisting the urge to pick up the bowling trophy on the end of his desk and bash him over the head repeatedly.

“I run a business here and I need to know your mind is in the game."

"My mind is very much in the game, Mr. Hersey.”

"Your sales are phenomenally low. Like, worse than any other employee I've ever had. Ev
er
." He stresses the last past as if being the worst wasn't bad enough. Like I've reached a new low or they’ve adopted some new scale adjusted just for me.

"Wow. Don't tiptoe around my feelings, Mr. Hersey."

"There are no feelings in business. I'm not sure Real Estate is your calling."

"Am I getting fired?"

"Oh, no no no," he says with a smile. "Not yet."

"Not yet?" My knotted muscles tense harder until my whole body feels rigid. If he fires me, I'll end up back at home. I can’t keep staying with Amy when I can’t contribute. And I’d never ask my parents for money. They’d use it against me. "Please, Mr. Hersey. I can't lose this job."

"You've been through a lot—so I'm giving you one last chance. I want to see your commissions improve this month. Find a client with more money or sell more houses, but if your sales haven't quadrupled by the end of the month, I'm going to have to let you go."

"Mr. Hersey, quadrupled? That's crazy. It's already the eighth. That gives me three weeks." I implore him with my eyes. He can’t be serious. He just can’t.
 

"I suggest you get to it, then."

Kick me when I'm down. I never minded Mr. Hersey. Or more accurately, I was indifferent about him. Now, I come to a definite decision: I don’t like him one bit. Needing a drink and the loving support of my friends, I grab my purse and tell my co-workers I have a meeting with a client before heading out the door to Friendly’s Pub to meet Amy and Megan.
 

Friendly’s is a little hole-in-the-wall spot just outside of the downtown core. The exterior is painted a bright red and is flaked off in parts. Inside, the upholstery on the benches doesn’t match, and neither do most of the chairs. But the music is good—usually jazz or folk—and they have live bands on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. The beer is cheap and it doesn’t taste like rat pee. Whenever my friends or I need a pick me up, this is where we come.
 

I sit in a booth by the front window. I'm the first to arrive. I remove my blazer and carefully drape it across the back of my wooden chair before taking a seat. The lunch rush hasn't started yet and there are only a handful of other tables taken. One guy is leaned over the table and is resting his head in folded arms. It's not even eleven and the guy looks like he's had one too many, so at least I won't look so bad when I have two or three or four.