Mr. Wrong Number(51)
I could still hear his words on the balcony. You really think in a town like Omaha it’s not going to come out?
As if on cue Colin appeared, skipping down the loft steps, looking like expensive sin. He could’ve been in a brochure for a country club that very second, in his bare feet and tailored pants, throwing out his good haircut and bone structure like tangible pheromones.
But as I laid eyes on all of that sophistication, it hit me—he was the one who told. He had to be. I was positive he hadn’t called the paper and ratted me out or anything like that, but I was equally positive he’d probably laughingly recounted to my brother or some of his rich-boy buddies the story of his idiotic friend who was pulling off an idiotic ruse.
He’d probably seen the billboard and told the story.
Dammit, I’d known everything was too good to be true. The job had been too good to be true, and so had my “friendship” with Colin. What the hell had I been thinking, trusting the guy who told me in sixth grade that my makeup looked like something a drunk old lady would paint on her face?
I turned away from him and listened to the details of how to continue my insurance before the HR girl officially terminated both me and the phone call. The second I hung up, Colin stepped into my line of sight and said, “Who was that? What’s wrong?”
I just shook my head and blinked fast, but tears fell as I managed, “It’s . . . God. It’s just . . . of course.”
He took a step toward me and I held out my hand. “Listen, Colin. Can you just go?”
His eyebrows were crinkled like he was worried. Yeah, right. His eyes traveled all over my face as he said, “Yeah, but maybe I can help.”
I croaked, “You can’t.”
“But maybe there’s a—”
“You’ve already helped enough, okay?” I wiped at my eyes but my voice was throaty when I crossed my arms and said, “Thanks for sexing me up, Col, but you need to leave.”
“Col?” He leaned back a little, like I’d taken a swipe at him, and said, “What just happened?”
“What just happened?” I sniffled and another stupid tear fell, but I didn’t feel sad anymore. I was on-fire pissed, and I narrowed my eyes at that jackass. “I trusted Colin Beck, that’s what happened. I just got fired, that’s what happened.”
“What?” He looked confused. “You got fired?”
“Yeah, as it turns out, they don’t like it when their parenting columnists aren’t parents.”
“Oh, shit. They found out?” His eyebrows went up. “Wait. You don’t think that I—”
“Of course I think that, Colin. You’re the only one who knew.”
He looked speechless for a second—sucks getting caught, bro—and then he said, “Livvie, why would I—”
“Because you’re you, Colin!” I dropped my arms to my sides and wanted to scream. “You’re an arrogant asshole who has always mocked me for your own entertainment. I’m sure you thought it was hilarious that I was lying about my job, so you probably shared the story with your douchey country club friends over golf and caviar or something.”
He looked stunned by that. “Is that really what you think of me?”
“For sure it is. Just wait till you tell them about last night, right? Your dad will probably call you a chip off the ol’ block and buy the whole place a round.” I jerked the sheet around my body and said, “I’m going to shower. Please be gone by the time I get out.”
* * *
? ? ?
I SLOWLY OPENED the bathroom door and listened.
Nothing.
All was quiet, which meant that Colin had left, thank God. I’d held it all in while I showered, just in case he was still there and wanted to talk, but now that I had visual confirmation of his absence, I lost it.
I broke down into full-out ugly crying as my quiet apartment forced me to face all of the terrible facts. I’d lost my job, trusted a jerk, slept with said jerk, and now I had furniture that I couldn’t afford on the way and a fab new apartment that was way out of my price range.
Which was zero, by the way.
I pretty much bawled for the next hour, overwhelmed by everything I’d just lost.
Then I got pissed.
Because almost as bad as the ruination of my burgeoning career was the thought of Colin in one of his fancy suits, tipping back martinis with women who looked like Harper and saying, “I know the girl who writes that. She’s the one who burned down her apartment—remember her? Yeah, she’s a total screwup who doesn’t even have kids.”
Insert a fancy lounge full of rich professionals laughing.
Shit.
I stripped the bed of Colin’s sheets and jammed them into a trash bag. At first I was going to leave them on his doorstep, but knowing my amazing luck, Jack would find them and I’d be totally hosed, so I decided not to. Ultimately I took the bag down to the dumpster and threw away a perfectly lovely set of expensive linen sheets.
By late afternoon I was out of emotion. I got in that sterile, detached mood that always hit after saying, Screw everything. I applied for a few content jobs and sent an email to one of the online companies that’d offered me freelance work before I’d been hired by the Times. They were all crappy, creativity-free positions, but they’d at least pay the bills.