“Hey Hillary, James has my car still and he’s out on a fire call. Can you please drop me off at home?” Maria, my co-worker, asks.
I guess I have to leave sometime.
“Of course. I was just shutting down my computer. Let’s go.”
10:04 p.m.
I’m lying on my bed in my pajamas, staring at my ceiling fan going around, and around and around. It’s making me incredibly dizzy but I can’t look away. It’s keeping me distracted from thinking about Jameson. Is he still sleeping? Did he read my email? If he did, is he happy or mad or sad or anything? Will he call me tonight? If he doesn’t how will I ever fall asleep?
11:23 p.m.
Dark and silent. A horrible combination for a tortured mind and heart.
12:36 a.m.
Still nothing and sleep is starting to win this battle.
“You’re not smart enough.”
October 10, 2001
PACKING SOME LAST MINUTE THINGS for my three-day business trip to Hoboken. Selling lighting was never in my life plan. Starting at this company, it was never my plan to sell lighting. Hell, I applied for the receptionist position and they moved me up to sales coordinator. Something about having the charm with clients on the phone when I was a receptionist. Hey, I’m not complaining.
My boss Dan really wants to land this client. I told him I’m not comfortable talking to these people about the specifics but he can count on me to put on the charm for them. Luckily, I’m not going alone. I’m driving with Marianne. She’s been with the company for over ten years. We’re going to meet John, the Vice President and Dan Jr., the owner’s son. They run the Hoboken office. All three of them are fun and down to earth. After the business part of the trip is over I know we will have a blast!
That’s exactly what I’ll need to keep my paranoid eyes off of my phone waiting to hear from Jameson. I need to get a handle on my emotions today. Yesterday I was a fucking mess. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. Not hearing from him drove me nuts.
October 11, 2001
Marianne and I are laughing in our hotel bathroom, fighting over the sink while brushing our teeth. She knows I am a nervous wreck so this is her way of calming me down.
“Bitch, I will spit this toothpaste on you. Just watch.” She threatens jokingly.
“You will not. You said my boobs look great in this blouse. You wouldn’t risk ruining it when my girls look so great. Our meeting has four middle-aged men. I need this blouse intact.”
She couldn’t hold it in. Toothpaste foam all over the bathroom mirror and sink.
“You’re right. Wilma and Betty are looking spectacular. After we nail this meeting you’re taking me bra shopping. Maybe Mark will finally propose if my boobs look like yours.”
“Ba-ha-ha! After seventeen years you think a new bra will get you a ring?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. I should get matching panties too.”
“Let’s go crazy, lady.” I respond with a huge eye roll followed by a smile.
October 12, 2001
Marianne and I are driving back to Massachusetts with a feeling of accomplishment, and hungover. We did a little bit too much celebrating over dinner with alcohol, but when the company is footing the bill you don’t skimp on it.
“Do you want music?” Marianne asks.
“I’m good but if you want it’s cool. It’s your car.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’m sure my head is pounding just as much as yours.”
“You got that right.”
“You know the only difference is I’m not driving myself crazy over a guy.”
I turn my head and give her a half smile, turning my head back the other way and stare out the window. She understands my silence, gives my hand a slight squeeze and leaves me alone for the rest of the drive home.
October 13, 2001
The silence from Jameson is making me feel like a lunatic. I can’t handle it. I have to call him. I grab my phone and dial his number.
“Hello?” a female voice answers the phone.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”
“Okay.”
And she hangs up.
Shoot. My eyes must still be a little foggy from the long drive home yesterday. I dial again.
“Hello?” the same female voice answers.
“Um, hi. I’m looking for Jameson.”
“He’s busy at the moment. Can I take a message?” she asks.
I recognize that voice.
“No thanks.”
Fuck! That was Gloria!
I drop the phone. Fall to my knees on my bedroom floor and cry. It’s over. I’ve lost him.
“You’re a major screw up.”
October 14, 2001
I HAVE ELEVEN MISSED CALLS and three voicemails, all from Jameson.