And the Next Thing You Know . . . Read online

  “I’m dead serious. There can be no tantrums at this job.”

  “Fine!” I admit, sometimes I had a hard time staying calm. Everyone said it was natural because I have this red hair—in contrast to Becca’s strawberry blond, mine’s like a forest fire. So instead of being easygoing like her, I was the redhead cliché with the crazy-ass temper.

  But I swear, I only went ballistic with people who really deserved it.

  “You are aware,” I reminded her, “that that thing at the diner was totally not my fault.”

  “Oh absolutely, Theo. Absolutely.” Sarcasm. From my own sister.

  The reference was to a tiny little incident at my last awful day job—waiting behind the counter in a diner. I sort of went off on a jerk—who was also a customer. That the jerk soooooooooo had it coming didn’t impress the manager, who was not exactly the sharpest note on the piano either. I was immediately asked to turn in my clip-on bow tie.

  I’m not gonna lie—it was a great job to get fired from, and getting fired like that was—fan-fucking-tastic. I highly recommend it.

  But Rebecca was pissed about it and said I was irresponsible, which I was/am, I admit. And of course the loss of a job and the concomitant loss of income meant that I couldn’t quite pay the dipshit flatmates this month’s rent on time—which was apparently the straw that broke the camel’s water, and that’s how they became my dipshit ex-flatmates, which necessitated the move here—to my sister’s fold-out couch.

  “Human Resources wants you ASAP,” said Rebecca, “but when can you start?”

  “Oh man. I was hoping Madison would ask me to go with him up to the Goodspeed Opera, but I don’t know yet. Can you put it off a week?” Madison was my sort-of boyfriend, whose new musical was getting a development production at the Goodspeed in Connecticut—it’s not really an opera house or not anymore, anyway. Madison wrote the book and lyrics for this show.

  “I’ll see. When will you know?”

  “I’ll talk to Madison.”

  “Good. Let me know. Soon.”

  “Maybe you should make it two weeks just to be safe? Or three?”

  She gave me one of her big-sister looks, which I took to be a—

  “No.”

  Chapter 3

  When Things Started to Go to Hell

  Jeffrey

  I was in a hallway at the office, talking to another attorney, when I heard something from around the corner that made my blood freeze.

  “Well, da-yam!”

  That—in case you don’t know—is a ‘damn’ that is so damned gay that it cannot be confined to a single syllable. I shuddered involuntarily.

  I recognized both the voice and the strange locution.

  How do I explain it? It was like finding a squirrel in your living room—probably harmless but it doesn’t belong there.

  I didn’t bother to finish what I was saying to the other guy—I had to look around the corner and see for myself.

  “Tommy!”

  Tommy Radford was sitting at a secretary’s desk at my firm. Where he definitely did not belong.

  A., he worked at another firm; and

  B., he was Roger’s best friend—Roger, my ex-boyfriend. Which meant that Tommy should have been carefully filed away under Somebody-I-Never-Have-to-Deal-With-Again, no?

  And yet.

  Tommy never liked me, and I never liked Tommy. So what the hell was he doing at my firm? Did he just move over here to torment me? Spy on me? What?

  “Tommy, what the hell?” I said by way of a greeting.

  “Hey, Jeffrey.” He smiled at me sweetly and folded his hands on his desk like a little girl. “How’ve you been?”

  “I’m great. Never better. Why the hell are you here?”

  “I work here, like it’s any of your beeswax. I hopped firms and now I work for Mr. Kaminsky, among others. Have you met Mr. Kaminsky?”

  “Of course I’ve met Mr.—! Since when?”

  “You mean me, here? Since last week.”

  “Great. Great.” I shook my head. “Congratulations.” This was just like my life. “And I’m so glad for Mr. K.”

  “Don’t you want to ask how he’s doing?”

  “Mr. K.?”

  “No! Roger!”

  “No. No, I definitely don’t want to ask how Roger is doing.”

  “He’s doing great!” said Tommy anyway. “You probably heard about him and Fletch?” I had. “And that he left Goodkin Berdann?” I hadn’t. “And now he’s taking some classes at NYU, he’s teaching violin—it’s that whole follow-your-bliss thing.”

  “Thanks for the update, but I don’t care, I really don’t.”

  We were talking about my ex, obviously. Roger, a lawyer, who had apparently given it up. He wasn’t a very good lawyer, so it was a smart call.

  “Speaking of bliss, you should see him and Fletch and just how happy they are together.” This is why there are gun control laws. “I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

  “I didn’t ask, you twit.”

  “Let’s try to be professional, Mr. Bornic.” He was obviously just trying to piss me off, and he was just as obviously really good at it.

  I had started out this Monday morning—like so many others—in a fairly bad mood. Discovering that Tommy Radford was now going to be underfoot, a constant, little pissy reminder of some of the many reasons I was in a permanently bad mood, did not help. Tommy would be here—what?—reporting back to Roger? And vice-versa? Did Roger send him over here? To keep me up-to-date on just how wonderful his life was without me?

  I mean, seriously!!!

  “Can I get you something, Jeffrey?” Tommy said, smiling.

  “Yeah. You can get stuffed.”

  It was of course at exactly that moment Victoria Collins came out of Kaminsky’s office—Victoria who was the partner who oversaw all the associates—I’m an associate—and who was quite influential in sorting out the associates who wanted to be partners—and boy-oh-boy did I want to be a partner. And she just heard me tell a brand-new secretary to get stuffed.

  “Jeffrey?” was all she said. And she walked away.

  It was official. I hated my life.

  I hated Tommy Radford’s life more. Somebody should do something about it.

  I stomped down the hall, past the elevator bank to the stairs, and then down two flights to my floor. If my office door had been closed, I’d have kicked the thing open. Instead, I found Rebecca McPherson leaning over my desk, writing something on a Post-it.

  I closed the door behind me.

  “Did you know they hired Roger’s best friend?” I practically yelled at her.

  “No. What was his name, Tommy? Wasn’t he at Goodkin—”

  “He was! Yes indeed, he was! And now he’s on 23!”

  “He’s a secretary? Here?” she said after a second.

  “For Kaminsky.”

  “No! Really? Too funny. Because with Kaminsky running the Hiromi case, you could be dealing with Tommy constantly.”

  “I know, I know, and it’s not funny at all.”

  “Anyway, I was just checking in.” She crumpled the Post-it and tossed it into the recycling bin under my desk. “Have you seen the new trainer in the IT Department?”

  “Oh please. You’re fixing me up with somebody from IT now?”

  “I didn’t say a word about fixing you up. Yet.”

  “I avoid IT whenever I can. Those guys—what’s up with them?” The IT Department was computer/tech/network support. It was where the geeks you didn’t talk to in high school went when they grew up. Those guys made the paralegals look normal. I swear, every guy up there had something wrong with him.

  “Don’t be such a snob.”

  “Seriously? A., what makes you think I’d go out with a guy from IT?”

  “You haven�
��t seen this guy.”

  “B., there are no gay guys in the IT Department ever.”

  “Until now. Rumor is this one—”

  “And C., what is it about me that makes you think I can’t get dates without your help? Am I that hideous? I don’t think so! I’m tall, blond, blue-eyed, and I make a ton of money. Of course, I’ve really let myself go—” I said, pinching my completely non-existent tummy fat.

  “No, you’re not ugly, and no you haven’t let yourself go,” she said with an eye-roll.

  “No! That’s right! I keep all that ridiculously expensive gym equipment in my spare room because I actually use it. Truth is—I’m totally hot.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just that—you know—since Roger, you’ve been so—”

  “I haven’t either!” I knew what she was going to say. That I’ve been sort of out of it, that I’ve been distant, cold, crabby. Okay! I got dumped last fall, so cut me some slack! Dumped by my aforementioned ex-boyfriend. My far-too-frequently aforementioned ex-boyfriend, if you ask me. How was I supposed to get over Roger if that was all everybody wanted to talk about, huh? And now with Tommy hanging around.

  And I was getting over it!

  Totally!

  And it did not make me a sexual charity-case, because I most decidedly wasn’t.

  “I don’t need your help, you know. I get plenty of dates.”

  “You get plenty of hook-ups. You do not get plenty of dates. When was the last time you saw somebody for more than sex? Or more than once?”

  “First of all, counselor, that’s my choice. And furthermore, re second dates, I could ask you the same question.”

  “We’re not talking about me.”

  “Terrific. Let’s talk about me. I love talking about me. Know why? Because there’s nothing wrong with me. I am perfect. Okay, I can be a bit of an asshole, but I am still eminently date-able.”

  “All true!”

  “You were supposed to argue with me about the asshole thing.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Look. Do-not-do-not-do-not try to fix me up again. Please? Understood? It’s just embarrassing for everyone.”

  “Okay! I won’t fix you up. Except…”

  “Except?”

  “Well, there’s maybe one guy I met at a City Bar thing—he’s from a little boutique firm, I forget the name—and I may have already kinda talked to him about you, and I may have kinda sorta promised.”

  “Dispromise.”

  “He’s super sweet with gorgeous eyes.”

  “Your idea of gorgeous and my idea of gorgeous are two very different gorgeouses.”

  “Even by your high standards, these eyes are gorgeous.”

  “If he’s over forty, forget it.”

  “He’s definitely not over forty. I don’t think.”

  Deep breath.

  “We’ll fight about it when the time comes.”

  “Agreed. Argument adjourned,” said Rebecca. “Plans for lunch?”

  “No—Un Deux Trois?” Little French joint.

  “I’ll make the reservation.”

  “And hey, Rebecca? Now that we’re not fighting—I need a favor. Kind of a huge favor?”

  “Whaaaaat?” She drew the word out, long and wary.

  “The work on my apartment—they have to cut a hole through to the floor below me?”

  “Why you bought that apartment below you, I will never understand.”

  “Yeah, well, I did. And the schedule had them cutting through in a few weeks, but something changed, and now they want to cut through the floor this week.”

  “And?”

  “And can I sleep on your couch while they do it? My apartment will be completely unlivable for a few days.”

  “Normally I’d say no problem, but my baby brother just got tossed out of his apartment, so sorry—no room at the inn.”

  “Oh, was that the move you wanted me to help with? Sorry, I—”

  “If you couldn’t, you couldn’t. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Sorry.” One of those Rebecca things. Was it because she was from Iowa that she didn’t even consider it as a possibility that I’d lied just to duck? “Next time.”

  “I’ll call you when he moves out.”

  “He moved in with you?”

  “Yup. So the couch is, sadly, ocupado. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a hotel anyway?”

  “There’s some frigging thing in town, and I can’t get a room in midtown anywhere. Darlene found me something in New Jersey.”

  “Sorry. Wish I could help. A sleepover might be fun.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “And you’d be lots easier than my brother. I love him like crazy, but he is an even bigger pain in the butt than you, and that’s saying something.”

  “It is gratifying to know that I am the standard against which all other butt-pains are measured.”

  “Why don’t you come over and we’ll put him in a hotel. In New Jersey.”

  “He’s that bad?”

  “He’s something. You’ll meet him. Anyway, he’s twenty-four and I haven’t killed him yet, so I guess we’ll survive. I’ll see you at lunch. Now get back to work, you.”

  Deep breath. Definitely—get back to work.

  Reminder: Keep looking for a hotel room. Damn.

  Amend that.

  Reminder: Tell Darlene to keep looking for a hotel room. (See how I work?)

  I woke up my computer screen and rattled my password in.

  Why do people send so much frigging e-mail, anyway?

  Text to Jeff

  I’m running late. I invited Theo. Introduce yourself.

  !!!

  Text to Theo

  Running late. Be nice to Jeffrey.

  I’m always nice.

  Stop making me laugh—I’m in a meeting.

  Who the f is Jeffrey?

  Chapter 4

  The Blind Date that Wasn’t

  Jeffrey

  Café Un Deux Troix. A noisy pseudo-French place, not fancy, around the corner on 44th Street. I told the fat, pseudo-French guy at the door that I was meeting someone, etc., just as I got the text from Rebecca.

  “Ah, oui,” said the guy. “This way. The first of your party is already here. La.” He gestured across to the other side of the busy dining room—lunchtime in Midtown Manhattan, of course the place was full. And, la, sitting alone at the table in question: a guy.

  I should just bolt.

  I couldn’t believe that after our conversation this morning, Rebecca had immediately turned around and set me up with yet another in her string of losers. I guess this was the one she promised—and the last. It had better be.

  I could kill her anyway. And of course she’s deliberately running late, to toss us two together. I’m sure she thinks she’s being soooo crafty.

  The guy had flaming red hair, and he was slumped down in his chair, staring at his phone. Charming.

  So what had she said? I hadn’t been paying that much attention, and now I couldn’t remember. Was this the new IT Department guy who was supposed to be so hot? Or the lawyer from some puny “boutique” firm. Puny firm—they should just call it Barely Passed the Bar, LLP.

  But he didn’t really look like a lawyer, lousy or otherwise. And except for the slacker slouch he was working, he didn’t really look IT either. A bunch of curly red hair. She had said something about cute—even gorgeous—and I had to hand it to her, this one was certainly pretty.

  I don’t do ‘pretty.’

  This kid’s features were girlish, delicate, and absolutely nothing I would ever ever ever date. Since when did I go out with skinny little twerps??? Since never! What was Rebecca thinking?

  I went out with manly guys, scruffy guys, guys with chests and chest hair, burly
bastards, gym rats, guys with honest-to-god beards. Roger, in case you were wondering, was an exception, but even Roger wasn’t as far out of my target demographic as this one.

  This one looked like a hundred pounds of twink.

  All of this shot through my head as I navigated between the tables of the dining room.

  Let him down easy, I said to myself, moving sideways through the room. I’d had lots of practice blowing guys off. Usually I was so smooth at it, they felt flattered by the time I was done giving them the shove.

  “Hi,” I said from across the table with my darlingest smile, and I extended my hand. “I’m Jeffrey.” He seemed perplexed, and then he finally took one hand off his phone, reached up and shook my hand from where he was sitting. Kids these days.

  “Theo,” he said. He went back to his phone. Theo? Seriously? How twee was that? I looked at him again. Of course he was Theo. You never saw such preciousness, with his long lashes looking down at his phone, ridiculously pale skin—and some freckles. And yeah, Rebecca was right—nice eyes. But not my type. Way not my type. Totally not sexy.

  “I’m really glad to meet you,” I tried again, pulled out the chair across from him and went to sit down. Problem: he was slunk so far down in his chair, his feet—in falling-apart sneakers—were right there. I gave him a look, raised my eyebrows and smiled an even more charming smile. The little creep sighed, I swear to God, before he sat up halfway.

  “Thanks.” I sat down and graciously shook out my napkin with my best prep-school manners. He didn’t seem impressed. One of his sneakers actually had duct tape holding it together. Like I would date a guy in duct tape. “So nice of Rebecca to arrange this.”

  “She’s running late,” he said, extending his hand to show me his phone with her text.

  “Yeah, I got something similar, in point of fact. But I have to tell you—Theo, is it?”

  “The-o,” he said, with super careful enunciation. I wanted to pick him up and throw him.

  “I’m not sure what Rebecca told you about me—”

  “Not a damned thing.”

  “Oh.” He was no more enthusiastic about this than I was. “Okay. Well, I just want you to understand—this is nothing personal, and it’s no reflection on you whatsoever—you’re a really good-looking guy and under different circumstances, I’d be thrilled to go out with you—”