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  In a low, breathy voice I say, “What if it’s just us?”

  Brett’s eyes widen and his eyes dance to my chest and back. His mouth opens and closes again. It opens again … and then closes again. Briefly, I worry if the perkiness is too much for him.

  My mind is reeling, and if not for the gummies—one last night, one this morning—I’d faint from the pressure. I can’t unsay my words. Can’t go back in time and give myself implants. This is it, all or nothing, me vs. every other woman in the world (or at least this office building).

  Assaulted by doubts, I twist under his astonished gaze, waiting for the verdict.

  Was I too forward?

  Yes.

  Did I embarrass myself?

  Yes.

  Do I have a chance in hell?

  “Sure,” he says. “Absolutely. Lunch.” He swallows nervously, admiring the perkiness in quick, furtive glances. “Career stuff. Special projects.” He clicks his mouse a few times and types something. “I know, uh … there’s a little place I like to go sometimes.” He swallows again. Another glance. “Good food. It’s actually near my house.” He types something quick and hits enter. “I’m actually hungry now, so …”

  Hell yes.

  Ted’s Diner is quick and cheap. Brett fills the time talking about sports. Afterward, the trip to his house is tense.

  We go upstairs. We undress. We lay down. No chopsticks, no coffee mug, no whipped cream. No oral for me, and he obviously doesn’t want it because he immediately lubes up. No kissing.

  I watch the clock on the nightstand while VP Brett humps me for six and a half minutes, after which he pulls out and finishes on my belly. I clean up in the bathroom, and when I return he’s already dressed and heading downstairs.

  He’ll meet me outside.

  On the way back to the office we listen to eighties satellite radio. He parks in his assigned spot near the front and outpaces me to the building so that we’re not seen together.

  Pete says hi when I go to my cube, but I don’t reply.

  I punch in the code to the storage room and sob for the next half hour, hating myself and questioning my worthiness to be loved. Somehow, despite using Pete in my petty revenge against those women, only now do I feel dirty.

  I walk into HR and quit that afternoon.

  Twelve

  I check my phone twenty times a day, but Pete still hasn’t texted me. Fearful of what he’ll say, I don’t text him either. If he texts me on his own, without prompting, then he’s forgiven me. If he doesn’t, I’m beyond redemption.

  My parents have money, though they insist I earn my own fortune (loving folks that they are). Brett was supposed to take care of that for me, but that’s changed now, isn’t it?

  After some truly epic waterworks, I manage to squeeze a few miserable dollars from Dad, so I’m never without food or electricity. I am, however, out of gummies.

  I call my friend in California and he says he’ll ship some soon. He asks if I want anything “stronger,” and I say I don’t. A tiny ray of hope for me, that I haven’t fallen that far.

  At some point, I break down and text Pete.

  Hi.

  I wait there for five minutes staring at it, but nothing happens.

  I try again: Pete?

  I see the little dots moving at the bottom of the screen, and I’ve never been so afraid in all my life. Here’s where he tells me to go to hell, calls me a freak, threatens to call the cops if I keep harassing him.

  Who is this? Who’s Pete?

  I’m so surprised by the reply that I don’t text him right back. It makes no sense, unless…

  Me: Where’s Pete? Who is this?

  He/She: I just got this phone. I think the other person quit. Sorry :(

  Pete had a company phone—an old model kept exclusively for interns. He could text on it but not much else. When they offered me one, I’d chosen to keep my iPhone, because I’m not a cavewoman.

  Something dawns on me, and I can’t believe I’ve only just now remembered. I click the camera app and check the pictures from Saturday:

  Me, mugging for the camera and making pouty faces with whipped cream.

  Me, wearing Dino Tits’s open-face sweater, spreading wide for Pete with two sets of fancy chopsticks sticking out of me.

  I swipe through the videos and play the most awful scene ever. Instead of deleting it, I surprise myself by laughing. I’m weirdly happy—because my cameraman is Pete, and he’s not looking away. He’s actually involved with the shot—he zooms up on my pussy as I drain into the mug. He pulls back a little for a wider shot, then zooms in again when I drink it down. The camera lingers on my face as I lick my lips to a glossy shine with the remaining liquid.

  I’m getting horny and I shouldn’t be. Before I mess up and ruin my self-pity party, I shut it down, then head to the bedroom to see if I can’t fall back asleep.

  There’s a knock on my apartment door. Probably UPS with paper towels or toilet paper, which I buy every month in bulk. He’ll knock and leave it there. This is a safe building with good neighbors, so I’m not too worried about someone swiping it.

  More knocking.

  “Go away,” I say and crawl into bed.

  Yesterday, I covered the curtains with blankets to keep light from leaking around the sides. It mostly works. I might ask the old guy upstairs if he has any duct tape. Old people always have useful stuff like that.

  More knocking.

  “Shit,” I say and crawl back out of bed.

  I’m in my panties, no bra. If whoever it is wants me so bad they can’t leave me alone, they’re getting the full show. What do I care? The boss got the show and the after party, too. May as well show the whole fucking world.

  “What?” I half yell as I pull open the door.

  Pete’s standing there with a pair of what look like movie tickets in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other. He’s wearing a suit, and he looks very handsome. Despite what he’s holding, my first thought is: He’s landed an interview.

  “Hey there, karate girl,” he says, wearing that bratty little smile. “I see you’re naked again.”

  I nod stupidly. “Uh huh. How are you?”

  “Pretty good. Moving back with my parents until I can get another gig. They’re sort of pissed at me.”

  Wracking my brains for something to say, all I manage is: “What are you doing here?”

  Why did you say that? That sounds mean!

  If Pete’s offended, he hides it well.

  “I was mad at you for a while,” he says. “Then, when you quit, I realized the only thing I liked about the place was you. I used to peek over the cube all the time because of your, uh, little karate sessions. Under the desk.” He grins impishly. “You never even noticed me. Your face, I swear …” He shakes his head fondly. “So serious. Like you were studying for a test.”

  Ah hah!

  I poke him in the chest. “So that’s why you were always bugging me.”

  A woman who lives down the hall suddenly walks by. She smiles politely at Pete looking neat and handsome with his bouquet of flowers. Then she looks at me and gasps. Averting her gaze, she hurries down the hall muttering angrily.

  “Guess I should invite you in,” I say.

  “Might be a good idea.”

  I step out of the way and he comes inside. As soon as the door shuts, I rush into his arms and hold him tightly. I don’t know about tomorrow, but today I’ll never let go.

  He came back.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I say into his chest.

  “Because I’m taking you out—on a proper date. It’s gonna be super boring, with good manners and conversation and everything. After dinner, we’re going to the movies. When we get there, you’ll eat popcorn out of a paper bag like everyone else. If you’re nice, I’ll let you kiss me when I drop you off.”

  I sigh happily. “Such a fuddy duddy.”

  And he’s all mine.

  Dear Reader

  I hope
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