"Skylar, any updates?" Victoria asks from across the conference room. We're having our weekly meeting with the Style team, only it got pushed back from the normal time on Tuesday mornings to Thursday afternoon.
I spit the sip of latte I just started to take back into my cup, coughing. And then look down sadly. Ew—backwash. I read somewhere once that the last tenth of any drink you consume is all backwash. I mean, how nasty is that? You end up just drinking your own spit. Disgusting. And yet…I don't think I have the heart to say goodbye to my nutmeg laced coffee just yet.
"Skylar?"
Oh, right. My boss!
"Yes," I say quickly, covering up for the space out. "I just finished a new column, all about date night ideas to spice up the holiday season. On Sunday, I surprised Patrick by showing up with a few lights, candles, and a gingerbread house kit. With romantic lighting and soft Christmas music, any setting can become magical. I ended the piece with a few more ideas, ice-skating or a movie night, things like that. And added a part about how to seal the deal before the night is through, or just bring new heat to a long-term relationship. I think the readers will definitely swoon." I mean, I know I did.
"And it's on my desk?" Victoria asks, scratching down some notes.
"Yup."
"Good. And how about holiday gift guides? What are your ideas?"
I bite my lip, closing my eyes for a moment. When I open, Blythe catches my gaze, smirking. Did I mention I'm meeting Patrick's parents for the first time tonight? Who also happen to be Blythe's parents? And did I also mention that she's been dropping hints all day, you know, about the utter sabotage she is about to lay down?
Well, she is. And guess what? I'm terrified.
I mean, meeting the parents for the first time is always a little nerve-racking. But when you're a sex columnist who's sort of totally embarrassed about being a sex columnist, that little feeling of nerves gets blown up to full-on panic attack pretty quickly. And right now, Blythe is subtly rubbing her wrist—a gentle reminder that the day ends in fifteen minutes and then the two of us will be alone for however long it takes to get to a brownstone on the Upper East Side.
I look away, back to Victoria. "Well, for the gift guides, I got assigned to gifts for style-savvy techies, so I put together a list of about twenty-five different ideas and put that on your desk to review. iPhone cases, monogram decals, adjustable camera lenses for your phone, various gadgets."
And then I wait. Because I have a feeling I know what's coming next.
"Great." Victoria nods, and for a moment I really think what I was afraid of might not happen. That I might be in the clear. But then she opens her mouth, still holding eye contact with me, and my heart sinks. "For your next column, I want you to put together a sexy gift guide. Costumes. Toys. Accessories. Things like that. Okay?"
I swallow, trying to cover the gulp. "Of course."
Ugh.
I knew it.
I knew this would happen.
I have to talk about toys. Toys? The only toys I know about are Barbie dolls and video games. And that's fine with me.
"Okay, that should be it, everyone. I'll see you all tomorrow. Skylar, can you come to my office with me?"
I subtly spit my coffee out again, holding back a sigh.
Goodbye, nutmeg.
"Sure," I mumble and then toss the paper cup in the trash, following Victoria out the door. My heart starts beating fast—Victoria wants me to come to her office. Why? Am I underperforming? My columns have gotten great traction so far. I even have a little following on a Facebook fan page I created for my penname. I mean, I wasn't going to write these under a real name! But still, the anonymous fame is pretty fun. Even if I find myself answering sex questions nonstop. Sometimes, I feel a little guilty handing out totally false advice. But I always ask Bridge for her opinion, so at least my responses themselves come from a place of experience—even if I have none.
"Skylar, I want you to look through these for your gift guide. A couple of different retailers sent them to our office as samples," Victoria says when we step into her office, and she hands me a loosely sealed cardboard box. "When you're done, just get rid of everything. I don't really find these sorts of things appropriate to keep in a newsroom."
My smile wavers.
Good god—what’s in the box?
For a moment, my fingers flinch, ready to drop the thing like it’s a bomb about to explode, but I hold on.
Stay professional.
You can do this.
"Thank you, Victoria. Have a wonderful evening," I say, doing that smile I've mentioned before—the sweet killer look.
"You too," she says, but her attention is already on the e-mails waiting in her inbox and I know I've been dismissed.
As soon as I get back to my cubicle, I drop the box loudly on my desk with a heavy sigh, and take a step back—staring at it as though it might bite.
"What's in that?" Rebecca chimes. Isabel is out today, so it's just me, Rebecca, and Blythe in the assistant corner.
"I don't really want to know," I mumble. "Just some things for my gift guide."
Rebecca immediately perks up, rolling her chair closer. "Ooh, let's take a look. This could be good."
I step back, giving her room, and she keeps wheeling slowly closer.
Okay. I'll admit it. I'm curious. Not curious enough to get any closer, mind you, but intrigued enough not to stop a girl on a mission.
Rebecca stands, slowly opening the cardboard flaps, and lets out a laugh. "Oh my god."
Blythe jumps into action, crossing the small space and taking a look. Even the permanently composed ice queen cracks a smile, glancing at me with humor dancing in her irises. Then they both look at me expectantly, waiting for me to join them. And dang it…I sort of want to. But I remain seated, holding my ground.
Rebecca breaks, reaching into the box to pull out a see-through red lace bra with a matching thong. "Patrick will love this," she says and winks.
Blythe just makes a noise of pure disgust, muttering, "Tacky."
"And these," Rebecca keeps going, pulling out a set of fuzzy handcuffs next.
My face starts to redden.
Next out is a bottle of some sort of lotion, and I don't want to know more than that.
"Oh my god, look at these," she exclaims, holding out a box of Santa hat pasties. My cheeks are on fire. Literally. I think I might self-combust in the middle of the newsroom. Just poof, vanish into a cloud of ash, dying from embarrassment.
"What about this?" Blythe remarks. And her tone is way too nice, way too cheerful to be sincere. So I jump out of my seat, snatching the cardboard flaps and slamming them closed. Blythe barely has time to jerk her hand out of the way lest it be chopped off in my speed. And hey, I'm moving pretty well for a girl with a broken wrist. But I know one thing for sure—I do not want to see whatever Blythe was about to pull out of my little box of horrors.
"Okay, time to go," I say, shutting down my computer and tucking the box safely under my desk, as far away as I can hide it.
"Are you so eager to meet my parents?" Blythe comments while buttoning her red peacoat.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"
"No, of course not…" she trails off. I bite my tongue, waiting, because obviously, there's something else she wants to say. Wait for it. Wait for it. Blythe throws her purse over her shoulder and then looks back at me, smiling. Here we go… "It's just, they loved Patrick's last girlfriend. Her parents were diplomats. She graduated from Harvard last year, neuroscience major, pre-med. They were heartbroken when he ended things."