Sixteen
SORA
Love comes when you least expect it. That’s why they need to make security surveillance systems for the heart.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
Okay.
He said he’s falling IN LOVE with me. Say … what? How can he be on the edge of L-bomb territory? It’s been a nanosecond. I mean, I know we’ve known each other forever, but most of that was when we were kids, and not to mention a big chunk in the middle where we didn’t really know each other at all. But he seems so sure. So confident.
I don’t know what to do. I’m freaking out, if I’m honest, because Jack seems like the real deal. That’s the only way to describe him: hot, selfless, genuine, wise, and he’s into me.
Maybe he’s … my one?
I fidget with the gorgeous, gold-lined invite. My ticket to the Golden Chef Awards. I can’t believe he gave it to me. Of all the women in the city he could invite, he invited me.
How is that even possible? People don’t fall in love that fast. Do they?
A quick Google search tells me that there’s actual science that says all you need is thirty-six personal questions and one hour.
O-kay, so maybe people do fall in love this fast.
I’m literally humming tunes to myself while I head to the kitchen to brew coffee, daydreaming about Jack, who drove me home last night, and then walked me up to my apartment, and kissed me gently at my front door. I wanted to invite him in, but he had an early morning at the bakery today, and besides, I am trying—sort of—to keep my #GoSolo pledge.
Because the Solo February messages keep pouring in.
Help! I got smashed and went home with someone last night. Can I still #GoSolo?
My coworker asked me out. Can I go AND #GoSolo?
I don’t know if I can do this. #GoSolo is just so hard!! Any tips for those of us out here hanging by our fingernails?
I’m wading through the hundreds of messages feeling like the worst kind of fraud. I’m pretending I have all the answers when clearly, I have none.
I am also about to be on Let’s Talk! I’ll be discussing how I’ve taken a #GoSolo vow when I’m not at all sure I plan to keep it. Or that I am keeping it, anymore. I feel like I’m living a double life.
Then again, how different is this from the time I ranked concealers for our special cosmetics issue? I work from home. I barely shower, much less wear makeup. Please.
But with every question I answer, every #GoSolo debate I weigh in on, that nagging guilt just gets worse.
And remember how Jack said he’s falling for me? Falling for me.
I need to tell him I’m going to go on Let’s Talk! But … what am I going to say? “You’re falling in love with me, great. I’m going to go on national TV and trash love and relationships. Remember how you spent all of last night trying to convince me to give love another chance? So, I guess the answer is no. By-eeee!”
Larry trots over to me in the kitchen, never wanting to miss the opportunity I might drop food, and tries to come and lean into my leg, but misses it and hits the cabinet door instead. Poor guy. I reach down and scratch him behind the ears, and he looks up at me, his permanent wink on, and lolls his tongue out. Arial calls then.
“Love the ‘babysitting on Valentine’s’ piece? So cute? Yes? But … one question? Who is the friend you refer to? ‘Friend’s niece’?”
Damn it. Why does she have to ask questions like that? Does she think she’s my editor or something? “Uh, just a friend.”
“Can we identify her?”
“Uh, no. No, my friend doesn’t want to be named.” Because she is a he, that’s why. You can’t put a Mann in a Solo piece. I realize I’m skating the line here. But hell. It was a cute piece. Playing Pretty, Pretty Princess sure beats wallowing in self-pity, and shouldn’t we all, no matter our age, respect our inner princess?
“Okay?” Arial says, backing down. “Just needed to ask? The copyeditors will be on me about that. Oh, and I’ve got good news for you. If the Let’s Talk! segment goes well, my boss says we might have a full-time staff position for you.”
“For me?” Full time. Benefits. Being able to see a medical professional outside of a drugstore quick clinic. “Really?”
I glance down at Larry. This could mean all the good kibble. Forever.
“Yes! They are so excited about you? They’re talking about you being our singles correspondent?”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“Just … reporting on the single life? Maybe we could call it ‘Yas, Single Queen’?”
“Oh. Wow.” Being a singles correspondent would mean I’d need to stay single. Maybe forever. I think of Jack. “I’ll think about it?”
“Okay. I’ll try to be in the studio tomorrow? It’s so exciting!” And Arial hangs up.
So, I want to do something good in the world. But what is that? Solo February? Is that even a good thing? Women empowerment, yes, and all those ladies that keep posting comments sure seem fired up. That is a good thing, right? So why do I keep thinking about Jack? Why do I keep thinking that while I can be a great version of myself without him, that I don’t want to be without him?
And then there’s the morning show. Tomorrow.
I should tell Jack I’ll be on. But … I don’t. There never seems to be the right time to bring up the fact that I’ll be on a morning talk show pontificating on why men suck. I fear Jack might take it personally. Or worse, that he’ll vow to watch the show, and then I’ll feel all self-conscious about talking about the power of being single. So I don’t lie to Jack. I just don’t tell him. Is this bad? Probably.
All I know is that I’ve always wanted to write something important, and I don’t know that this is important, but I do know that I’ve had more readers for this than anything else I’ve ever written. And that has to mean something.
I’d rather just neatly compartmentalize my Solo February work diary and my personal life, and never the twain shall meet. It’s kind of like when I binge on cookie dough ice cream at midnight when I’m trying to diet, handily leaving it off my calorie-counting app. I’m pretty good at putting problematic behaviors in little silos.
Besides, how many people really even watch Let’s Talk!?
Okay, so it’s one million people. One million people watch, give or take a hundred thousand. And the hosts combined have two million followers, so I might be in trouble. I’m staring at “fun facts” on the wall of the greenroom of the local affiliate morning show, the wind howling outside, and the skies filled with snow that threaten a second February blizzard. There’s already three inches of the white stuff on the ground, which I slogged through to get inside the building. The slush is currently melting off the heel of my stiletto boot into a puddle on the floor.
The greenroom is lovely, though not technically green. It’s charcoal gray, with modern-looking furniture and free bagels and cream cheese and a coffee maker offering vanilla and mocha flavors of joe. I sit nervously twisting my purse strap, wondering why I ever agreed to be on television. And what if Jack finds out? Or someone Jack knows?
I should text him. Now. But what would I say? “Oh, funny thing, I’m on Let’s Talk! right now! Why didn’t I mention it before—oh, huh. Funny. I just forgot!”
Crap.
I glance down at my designer black-and-white dress, courtesy of Arial and the Slick closet. It was one of the only samples that wasn’t a size double zero, but it fits pretty well, I think. And I’m wearing red-soled stiletto boots that probably cost more than my rent. I feel like I’m looking pretty damn awesome. But that’s only because I’m used to wearing worn flannel pajama bottoms and that damn faded Turkey Trot sweatshirt. Plus, what is this relentless stabbing across my rib cage? I realize it’s been so long since I’ve worn a bra that I’ve forgotten what torture devices they are.
“Sora?” asks a perky twenty-something wearing a smock and holding makeup brushes.
“Yes?” My voice comes out as a dry croak.
“I’m Gabrielle. I’ll be your makeup artist.” She blinks, hopeful. “Want to come to makeup?”
“Do I ever!” I’m so relieved. My makeup is a disaster. When I tried to glue on my fake eyelashes at 5:30 A.M., it became a hot mess real fast. A) I couldn’t get them to adhere properly, and B) when I tried to fix the left one, it dropped into the toilet. Ergo, no fake lashes. I might as well just wear a name tag that reads “I’m a mole person.”
Gabrielle’s a leggy brunette who weighs ninety pounds soaking wet, and as she leads me to a director’s chair in front of a giant mirror lit with the kind of big round bulbs that will show me all of my clogged pores, I worry that she’s going to tell me I need to exfoliate. With a sandblaster. Instead, she surprises me with a warm smile.
“You know, I’m #GoingSolo, too,” she tells me, powdering my intensely oily forehead with a brush. “You’re, like, my hero.”
“I am?”
I can’t believe Gabrielle and I have anything in common. She’s gorgeous, ten years younger than me, and probably can’t go anywhere without literally fighting off the attention of attractive, rich people.
She nods. “Seriously. I’ve been having so much trouble. My boyfriend…” She rolls her eyes. “Ex-boyfriend now. He opened credit cards in my name. Maxed them out. Ruined my credit.” Gabrielle gently places one false eyelash on my right eye.
“No! That’s terrible.”
“The worst part was that I thought he was so generous. Giving me gifts. Taking me on vacations. But he was using my money the whole time. Can you believe that?” She fixes my left eye now. Gabrielle is between me and the mirror, so I can’t see myself. She picks up a brush from her small table and swipes a bit of color from her eye shadow palette.
“Well, you deserve better,” I say. “I hope you know that. You should just date you for a while.” I close one eye and then the other, as she gently swipes on eye shadow.
“Oh, I have, and I’ve been loving it so much, and I just wanted to thank you.” She backs away for a second to gauge her work, then she dips her brush into more silver shadow and goes back in. “You really helped me out. You … you even wrote back to me last week!”
“I did?”
“Yeah, I asked you about tips on staying strong, because I met this super cute guy and was so, so tempted to cheat.” She puts down the eye shadow and searches for blush. She swipes some on my cheeks.
“Oh? Really?” I feel a hot flash of guilt at the back of my neck. “What did I say?”
“You gave me this awesome pep talk about staying strong, and it really, really worked. You told me that working on myself was more important than some hookup with a guy who probably would’ve just ghosted me later.”
“Yeah.” I smile weakly, vaguely remembering replying to her message, one of probably hundreds I’ve gone through. What if I’d steered this poor woman away from her Jack? And what if Gabrielle ever found out that while I was busy giving her a pep talk, I was not living by the same high standards? I felt so torn. Should I tell her the truth? Ugh. No. I can’t. But I should. I bite my lip.
“Are you … uh, okay?” Gabrielle asks me, because I have no poker face. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” I blink. “Just nervous.”
“Don’t be.” Gabrielle moves so that I can see myself in the mirror. I’m a new woman. I barely recognize myself.
“Wow,” I say. Turning my face one way and then the other, studying Gabrielle’s work in the mirror. “You’re … amazing.”
“It’s all you, honey,” she says. “And don’t worry, people have been talking about you being on all week. Everyone’s gonna love you. Like, there was a line out the door and around the block for the audience! And that never happens.”
I swallow as I meet her gaze in the mirror. “A line, really?”
“Yeah, they got here early to see you.”
“Oh. Good.” Gulp.
“Okay, it’s time!” cries the producer, a middle-aged, balding man who pops his head into the makeup room. The butterflies in my stomach jolt awake as if they all landed at the same time in a bug zapper. Pop, pop, pop! I don’t want to do this. I want to run out of the studio. What am I doing going on television that’s in national syndication? I take a deep breath.
“You’re gonna do great!” Gabrielle promises me, as she gives my arm a squeeze. The on-air light flicks on near us. The roar of the applause from the studio audience makes talking now impossible. Thank you, I mouth to her as she fades back into the dressing room. When the applause dies down, I hear the hosts—Veronica and Eric—introducing me. From behind the small sound stage, I can see the big windows showing Michigan Avenue, which even this early in the morning is somehow already filled with tourists. From my position at the side, I can see Veronica and Eric sitting on the barstools around the glass table. I see the empty one at the edge, and realize I’m going to have to somehow climb up into it. How did I miss this part? I’m wearing a tight-as-hell dress with three layers of spandex beneath at max stretch, so taut its original black is now gray, and knee-high black stiletto boots. How is this going to work? At least I’m wearing clean underwear. Most of the country might be about to see that, too.
My heart pounds in my chest and I close my eyes and wish three times I was back in my condo with Larry when I hear my name called and the audience erupts in manic, almost psychotic, applause. Oh, God. It’s time. My feet go before I know what I’m doing, and I’m walking and waving at the audience—which is 99 percent women—and they’re on their feet. I’m getting a standing O. I’ve never gotten this much approval from anyone before in my life. Gabrielle wasn’t kidding. These women are here for it.
I’m temporarily stunned by the warmth of the applause. I get that there are flashing lights and a stage manager with his arms up and hands waggling to get them to cheer, but they don’t need much encouragement.
I wobble up to the stage without falling (thank God) and heave myself up on the barstools (are these seven feet tall?). And almost manage to keep my knees together. Veronica Martinez looks flawless beneath the hot studio lights with her perfect long, dark hair, her poreless skin, lashes for miles, and a perfect mauve lip gloss that I suddenly feel I must have in my makeup bag. Eric Littell, a former sports reporter, wears a T-shirt and a checked blazer, his blond, curly hair shorn short, and a big, fat chip on his shoulder I can see from here. Both have teeth so white they look radioactive.
“Welcome,” Veronica tells me. “I have to say that I am so excited to have you here. And so is our audience, right?” Another high-pitched screech goes up from the crowd. I glance outward to the audience once more, but the hot studio lights make it hard to discern faces. “Of course Eric here isn’t so excited.”
Eric looks like he wants to punch Veronica full in the face and then high-kick her into a corner, going complete MMA on her perfectly styled self, which means these two have slept together before. The desire for hate sex is burning between them like the first signs of a herpes outbreak.
“Well, I mean, we’re talking about Solo February, right? I can’t help but take that personally. If all women decide to go solo or whatever, then what am I going to do with my Friday nights?”
The audience gives Eric some pity ahs. Oh, poor Eric. He’s somewhere in his late thirties, a local celebrity and an avowed bachelor, and pretty much is a walking advertisement for male toxicity, which probably means his DMs are full of interested women.
“Not everything is about you, Eric,” snipes Veronica, barely containing her disdain. “Now, Sora, you’ve become quite the online sensation. Tell us about what inspired you to start Solo February.”
“Have you met men?” I joke, and the entire audience erupts in tittering laughter. I glance tentatively at them, noticing all their excited faces. Are they really so excited to see me? “But, seriously, I’d had a string of terrible relationships…” I tell them about Dan, and a little about Marley, and get a lot of sympathetic ahs at all the right places. “And then one day I thought, why do I need a valentine? I mean, bacon is my first—and could be my only—love.”
Lots of cheers for that one. I also feel a pang of guilt. If Jack saw this … would he be offended? Would he think it’s funny? Ugh. And what about all these women in the audience? What would they think if they knew about Jack? They’d roast me alive. A bead of nervous sweat trickles down the small of my back.
Focus, Sora. Get your head in the game.
“So you’re seriously replacing men with bacon?” Eric scoffs.
“Bacon is so much better than men, right, ladies?” I raise my fist and get some hoots and cheers.
“But come on, isn’t this just man-hating?” Eric isn’t going to let me get off with all softball questions. He doesn’t like anything about this segment. Or me. Well, no problem, Eric. Your cologne smells like eau de pompous ass. And you’re wearing enough of it to sanitize half the Chicago sewer system.
“It’s not about hating men, it’s about loving yourself,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. Several ladies applaud. “Solo February is for everyone, so you swear off relationships. It’s not just about cis straight women swearing off cis men. Or whomever. It’s really about focusing on one’s self, getting in a better frame of mind. I mean, I love men. They just don’t always love me back.” More laughs. And one “Amen!” Eric looks out at the audience and a subtle frown puckers his lips. He’s not happy. He glances back at me, and his gaze tells me he’s judging everything about me: about how I’m not as slim or as tall or as Nordic as he likes. He’s wondering, but not saying, why I would bother with Solo February since he isn’t interested, and he can’t imagine who would be. All of this I glean from his beady little blue eyes.
“Yes, but doesn’t it feel a little desperate?”
“How so?” I feel guarded. Like this is a trap.
“Well, I mean, aren’t you just playing hard to get?” Eric just shakes his head as if he already knows all the old “tricks” women play when they’re trying to seriously tell him no.
“Hard to get?” I echo, astonished. “But, going solo isn’t about having people chase after you. It’s about really working on oneself.”
“Honestly, I think you’re just pushing the problem on men. Ever thought if men don’t like you, then that’s a you problem?”
The audience lets out a gasp and a few long ooooooohs about the burn. Okay, Eric. Wanna play the toxic masculinity game? I love this game! My turn!
“The problem,” I say, “if we’re talking about straight men, is that some of them”—I’m talking about you, Eric—“think they have a right to everything they want. They think they can show up and be assholes”—Oops. I swore on live TV—“and we should still fawn all over them. We’re supposed to just take what they give us and be grateful. But that’s just not good enough anymore. Why are we always tying ourselves into knots for them? Why do they get to call all the shots? Why do they—with all the privilege they get handed at birth—get to tell us we’re fat? Or our boobs aren’t big enough? Or that we should like sports more? Or that we should like the beers they drink? Or that we don’t make the salaries they make because we don’t negotiate hard enough, even though when we try to do that, they tell us not to be bossy or pushy?”
Several loud ladies in the audience hoot.
“We can’t win. We dress too provocatively, then we’re asking to get assaulted. We dress too conservatively, and then we’re dowdy and don’t try hard enough. But when we try too hard, we’re high maintenance. We’re asked to be cool, not be like the other girls, but then when we are, we’re too manly, too … whatever.”
Eric’s beginning to look a little panicked now and he should.
“The things some of us like—romances and rom-coms and fizzy pink champagne are stupid and silly, but the things some guys like, like loud action movies, sports, and beer are important. Nobody is paying millions of dollars for a fifteen-second ad for a rom-com Christmas movie on cable. But they should.”
Someone in the audience shouts, “Preach!”
“We go on juice cleanses to clear our body of junk food, but what about junk men? Our souls need a cleanse. We need to get all those toxic men out of our lives by fasting. At the end of thirty days, we’ll be able to see them for what they are: entitled, privileged jerks who are messing with our lives because we let them.” I take a deep breath. “And we’re not going to let them anymore.”
The audience roars with approval and leaps to their feet in thunderous applause that seems to shake Eric’s chair.
Then I glance at Eric. “And, Eric, I’d say, with all due respect, that maybe if you see this as something that’s our problem and not your problem, then maybe, quite frankly, that is the very definition of a you problem.”
“Oh, she got you. She got you good.” Veronica beams triumphantly at Eric. He looks down at his note card, face flushed red. How do you like being called out on live TV, Eric? Did some of that toxicity bounce off of me and stick to you?
I glance up and my gaze falls on the window leading outside. Shoppers on Michigan Avenue have stopped and are watching the segment through the clear glass with a clear picture of the studio. Front and center, I see … a familiar figure there. Jack Mann, standing at the window. He’s in jeans, a hoodie, and his peacoat, his thick dark hair stuffed beneath a beanie cap, his jawline sharp enough to cut that double-pane glass. He’s a walking reminder that there are good guys out there, and it might not be fair for me to paint them all with such an unforgiving brush.
“So, how have you personally been doing with the challenge, Sora?” Veronica asks me right at that moment.
“Me, personally?” Jack waves at me. I swallow. “Fine. Doing fine.”
“So, no dates for you until March first?”
“That’s right,” I say, and nod, even as I remember Jack’s ask to the Golden Chef Awards. The last weekend in February. “I’m one hundred percent date-free. Don’t want a date. Don’t need a date.”
I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. I’m just babbling. The audience leaps to their feet with thunderous applause and a few hoots and hollers. It washes, tinny and empty, over me, as I fight back a hot flash of guilt. I feel like an impostor.
Veronica thanks me for coming on the show and sends us to commercial break, and as soon as the cameras are off, Eric curses and leaves the set. Veronica turns to me, beaming.
“You kicked ass, girl. Love what you’re doing,” she tells me, and vigorously shakes my hand. “Galentines forever.”
I laugh, the guilt still thudding in my ears. I’m a fraud, I want to tell her. I might have put Eric in his place, but I’m not the crusader everybody thinks I am. But before I can work up the nerve to blurt out the truth, Veronica’s back studying her script and a tech guy whisks me away to untangle me from the mic attached to my dress. A few seconds later, I’m standing outside the studio on the icy sidewalk, snowflakes twirling around me. Cabs honk on the street, and a big bus lumbers by, kicking up black smoke into the wintry air. I find myself glancing around … and I realize I’m looking for Jack.
What am I going to tell him? How much of the show did he hear or see? My insides churn with indecision.
I hear my name called. Jack Mann is behind me.
“Oh … uh … Jack. Hi.” I feel a blush creeping its way up the back of my neck. God, the man is gorgeous. Pure sex machine.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be on TV?” He shakes his head. “I would’ve been watching from the start! They didn’t even have the sound on out here, so I couldn’t hear you, but you looked great! Can’t believe you were on Let’s Talk! That’s huge.”
“I know I should’ve told you … it was kind of last minute.” Why am I lying? Let’s change the subject. Fast. “What are you doing downtown?”
“Oh, Pierre lives nearby. I was just grabbing coffee with him.”
“Solo February!” a random woman on the sidewalk shouts nearby. She makes eye contact and raises her fist. I realize then that the audience from the morning show is filtering out into the street, which is quickly getting blanketed in a fresh coat of snow. I get a high five from a middle-aged woman who then glares at Jack as if he’s a maggot wiggling through rotten garbage from a leaky dumpster.
“Thank you for that,” she tells me. “You’ve inspired me.”
Another lady shouts, “Men suck!”
Jack looks at her, uneasy.
“So, have you given any thought to the Golden Chef Awards…” Ack, here it is. Moment of truth. Am I picking Solo February over Jack? But how can I pick Jack with the sidewalk literally filled to the brim with #GoSolo followers?
He rubs the back of his neck. He’s so damn broad and tall that he seems like a man who could chop down pine trees with his bare hands. Just karate-chop those suckers.
“About that…”
Jack’s face falls just a little. He seems to know already what I’m going to say.
A familiar face parts the crowd then.
“Sora? That was so good?” Arial comes bounding up to us on the sidewalk. Where did she come from? She’s wrapped in a geometric scarf and a designer puffy jacket with an asymmetrical collar. “Did you see me? I was in the back corner of the audience? I got in late, so I couldn’t come to the greenroom.”
“Uh, no, I didn’t see you,” I say as she wraps me in a tight hug. I feel white-hot panic run down my spine. I try to telegraph a message to Jack: run. Hide. Jack, however, just looks at me, confused.
“We are going to be even more viral? Is that a thing?” Arial laughs at her own joke. Then she sees Jack for the first time, craning her neck up to take in his impressive shoulders, which have begun to take on snowflakes like a mountain range.
“Uh … Arial, meet Jack. Jack, this is my boss … Arial.”
Jack grins. “Oh, nice to meet you,” he says, offering a massive paw. Arial takes it cautiously, a gleam of understanding and a sharp look of disapproval in her eye as she looks at him and looks at me.
“My? You are good-looking, aren’t you?” she remarks.
“Uh. Only on days I shower?” Jack shrugs a manly shoulder. His self-deprecation makes him sexier.
“How do … uh, you two know each other?” Arial asks.
“We went to elementary school together. We’re just old friends,” I add, quickly, dismissively. Jack shoots me a look. I can’t read it.
“Friends?”
“Yeah. Just friends. I mean, come on, we were in kindergarten together.” I’m more definitive this time, except that I do read the look on Jack’s face. Loud and clear. He’s disappointed. Something more. Hurt.
“Oh, good.” Arial’s relieved. “Come on then, Sora. I thought we could grab coffee? Nice to meet you, Jack!”
Arial pulls me away before I can say a proper goodbye. Jack still looks a little stunned and confused as he turns away from me on the sidewalk and walks away, shoulders slumped in defeat. I want to call after him.
But I don’t.