I might have fallen asleep for a few moments, but when I finally remembered how to use a lock mechanism correctly with my questionable slippery key (when in doubt, slowly get on your knees, give it a little blow, and firmly push it in), I walked (okay crawled) inside to all the lights in my apartment on.
Every single luminescent bulb in the apartment: on.
So even though I was in the most inebriated state I'd ever been in my life, I clearly saw one of the top contributors for InTrend Magazine, Sophia Willington, having sex with Trager the Mailroom Guy, smack dab in the middle of my living room. Sex being a questionable word for the act I stumbled upon. She was riding him like a racehorse. My drunken brain could not wrap itself around the fact that thee Sophia Willington was in my apartment with Trager the Mailroom Guy. That's what we called him too—everybody who worked at the damn magazine—Trager the Mailroom Guy.
Who incidentally, was supposed to be marrying me in three fucking weeks.
2
Lexa
“You won’t ever have to regret your mistakes if you don’t choose to make ‘em.” @Kavon #Whoops
Eleven a.m. ripped into my temples like a jackhammer; unfortunately, it was not of the stripper variety. It was of the hangover kind, with shards of glass exploding like fireworks behind my eyes. My dry throat scorched with fire and heartbreak. Tears blurred out the world.
My fingers reached up and over to my bedside table, grabbing my alarm clock. Squinting through one eye, I set it for three o'clock that afternoon. I needed to sleep off the rest of the horrible night then jump on a five-fifteen plane to downtown Chicago for a three-day conference for the magazine. My hand bumped into a tall glass of water and bottle of aspirin that someone thoughtfully left on the nightstand for me. Nice. I wonder if Trager left it after he finished screwing Sophia. Maybe Sophia left it after she finished riding him. I shoved the blankets over my face, refusing to drink anything either of them might have left for me. The sheets still smelled of him, of us, and I dry heaved over the side of the bed.
Sleep played a nasty game of hide-and-seek with me, finding me every few minutes, only to fill my head with visions of the night before. I lay awake then drifted off, clutched at my sheets in a groggy struggle with reality, and fell asleep again, repeatedly. The cycle was maddening.
At five that afternoon, I was running through terminal five in JFK airport, my carryon swinging wildly behind me. I must have looked the part of a murderous, jilted woman because I was stopped by security three different times; at one point completely patted down and buzzed for explosive residue. I mentally kicked myself for not remembering the load of dynamite I usually take on airplanes. When I jokingly said this aloud to the TSA agents, I won a full body scan. Yay me.
Very few people get my humor. It's a shame how much they miss out by having poles up their bottoms.
They ended up delaying the plane ten minutes due to my unappreciated sarcastic wit. An ancient dinosaur of a flight attendant pursed her lips at me when I was finally allowed to board, "You should be apologizing to each and every passenger on this plane." Yeah, I'll get right on that, lady.
The two-hour flight had me leaning against the small, rectangular window watching the sky slowly darken. The weight of everything that happened the night before pressed heavily on my shoulders—which only added to the stress of a three-day work conference with all the cheating parties involved.
I tried to mask my anxiety from the rest of the passengers by flipping through the conference's itinerary. A mother holding a small child sat next to me, softly humming a lullaby. The gentle scent of lavender and baby formula tingled at the bridge of my nose. My eyes watered. My heart ached. Trager and I had planned to try for kids right away. Stupid cheating ass.
Tears. Lots of them. They fell. Practically drenching my shirt with sorrow.
Ignoring the baby’s precious little snores, I wiped roughly at my eyes and tried to focus on my paperwork. My eyes traveled across the papers, yet the only thing I could concentrate on was the InTrend logo splashed across the top of the pages. InTrend Magazine was the premier account of the biggest publishing group around, Holt Media. It is published every two weeks, focusing on everything from politics to popular culture, and boasted the largest readership of any other magazine ever printed. It's best known for its musical coverage and bi-monthly controversial columns. Quite boringly, the position I was acknowledged for, even though I've accomplished much more, was a fact checker.
That was my humble title. Lexa Novak: Fact Checker.
My team worked in the dungeon, deep in the basement of one of New York City's famous skyscrapers. My job was pretty self-explanatory. We check the accuracy of facts by researching. We're the ones that make sure names are spelled correctly, places written about actually exist, and reality matches the words of some of the jerks that write for us.
It wasn't the job I set out to get when I first interviewed with Holt Media. Heck no, I wanted to be something more; a contributor, an editor, something with guts. I was interviewed directly by the Editor in Chief and Owner of Holt Media, Mr. Remington Holt. However, not listening to the weather forecast that day left me sopping wet and dripping monsoon-like rainwater all over his office.
My shirt was white.
White shirt plus rain equals my idol, Mr. Remington Holt, mistakenly calling me Nipples. It wasn't just one time either; he just kept repeating it during the entire interview. “Well, Nipples, here at InTrend we treat each other like a family and share our nipples.” And even though I had the brains, the education, and the personality, Mr. Holt senior deemed me a future prodigy in the exciting field of freaking fact checking. "So you'll always find the right weather forecast. We're glad to have you aboard, Nipples." Yeah, that happened. So, my job was to make sure we only printed the truth.
But the only truth I could concentrate on that very moment was Trager and what he did. I felt so pathetic. Our wedding was in three weeks, with a total of one hundred and fifty-six guests. He was supposed to be the one. I knew deep inside my ideas on love were unrealistic. They thumped around in my idealistic brain from my obsession of romance novels and cheesy made for TV movies. I secretly believed in happily-ever-after and fairytales, underdogs rising above their challengers, and being truly madly in love.
Now? I believed it all sucked. Stupid lying romance authors making me want things that just weren't real. Disney Princesses everywhere should stand up and fight back. I laughed bitterly in my seat, waking the sleeping baby, who started to wail like a banshee.
My first step into spinsterhood: making innocent children cry. Next up, adopting a dozen cats, buying a big vibrator, and learning the etiquette of prissy repressiveness. God, the bitterness and anger were overwhelming.
After the plane landed, through thirty minutes of the Symphony of the Uncontrollable Baby Sob, I jumped on a Blue Line train packed with a late shift of rush hour business people. A forty-minute jerky ride took me to the Jackson Street Station, from which I trudged all the way to the hotel. Downtown Chicago streets were littered with tourists and college students walking about. I wanted to scream to each and every one of them how much of a loser Trager was. I wanted to start a revolt, have everyone on my side, and attack the stupid little cheater. I finally understood what it meant when people expressed their want to scream from the rooftops. Oh, if I only could. The things I would say.