Paige. And she’s not alone.
She’s here with long-haired Brandon, the bike messenger. And by here, I mean making out. And by long-haired Brandon, I mean not Jacob.
Did Paige and Jacob break up?
I wade into the crowd until I reach them. And then, because her mouth is still attached to Brandon’s, I tap Paige on the shoulder.
“Hiiiiiii!” she says, whirling around and leaning in to give me a sloppy hug.
“Is Jacob here with you?” I yell over the thumping bass.
“What?” Paige tilts her head to the side, trying to hear me over the beat of the music. “No. Jacob is with Owen, I think.” She shrugs. “This is Brandon.”
“Hi, it’s so nice to meet you.” Brandon throws his arms around me, even though I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am.
“So, you two are dating?” I wave my finger between them.
Paige nods happily.
“And you’re not dating Jacob anymore?”
She shakes her head.
“Okay.” That’s all I really need to know. “Good to see you, Paige,” I yell. She hugs me again.
With a wave, I turn and make my way toward the exit, my heart swirling like peanut butter through brownie batter. Somehow, Paige is dating Brandon. Which means that maybe… Jacob isn’t dating anyone?
Near the coat check I notice one of the bars scattered around the periphery of the warehouse, and… there’s that wave of déjà vu again… the line is short. In the same spot as my Very Bad Year, the Grey Goose and Absolut bottles are lined up on the shelf. I order a shot and carry it to a darkish corner where I have absolutely been before. Just like last time around, beanbag chairs and couches are scattered around on the floor and a few couples are talking or making out. Nobody even glances in my direction.
In one swift motion, I toss back the vodka, feeling the burn all the way down. And then, before I can lose my nerve, I dial my phone. It rings once, twice, three times, and—Oh come on, universe, I’m trying here. The least he can do is pick up. But he doesn’t pick up, and after three more rings, the voicemail clicks on, and Jacob’s voice comes through the line telling me to leave a message. I grip the phone tighter, aching from the sound of him, and when the phone beeps, I consider calling back, just to hear it again.
Instead, I start babbling.
“Jacob, it’s Sadie. I probably shouldn’t be calling you. I’ve messed a lot of things up this year. But I’m not sure I could live with myself if I didn’t tell you that… Well.” I take a deep breath and then blurt it out. “I-think-I’m-in-love-with-you.” I hesitate now because I’m not sure that’s quite right. “No. I know I’m in love with you. And I’m sorry that I didn’t see it—didn’t see you—sooner. I wasted so much time. But for once in my life, I know exactly what I want, and it’s… you.” I pause again, running out of steam now and not sure what to say next. How are you supposed to end a call when you’ve just confessed your love to someone’s voicemail? I really didn’t think this one through, but I guess I wouldn’t be me if I thought things through. Finally, I settle on an extremely awkward, “Okay. Well… Goodbye.” And then I hang up.
I close my eyes, but this time, no warm breeze blows through the warehouse, and there are no magical clouds of sensation. It’s just me, standing in a dank warehouse, hoping a boy will love me. Is it possible I could change my life, not by wishes and potions, but just by being… me?
The throbbing beat of dance music rattles me to my core, and I open my eyes slowly, adjusting to the darkness.
I take a deep breath in, and then—
I scream at the top of my lungs.
The clown. The clown is standing in front of me, his too-wide painted-on eyes only inches from my face. I freeze as terror envelops me. Anything but the clown. His creepy gloved hands wiggle in my direction, and I back up, right into a table. I’m pinned. Trapped.
Again.
And then, like a trapeze artist sailing in, I remember who I am. I am Sadie Thatcher, and I don’t take shit from anyone. I am loud, and opinionated, and yeah, maybe some people would call me abrasive, but those are words they use for women who won’t go down without a fight.
And I’ll own them.
“Leave me alone!” I yell, rushing the clown like a defensive end and smacking my palms squarely into his shoulders. The clown teeters on his ridiculously large shoes, his arms windmilling in slow motion before he sails backward and lands on his padded clown-butt.
He stares up at me from his place on the floor, a stunned expression on his face, red gloves raised in surrender. I brush off my hands, take my time stepping over him, and then slowly walk out of the warehouse.
Chapter 38
I ride the subway back to my neighborhood, and, once again, I find myself swimming upstream through crowds of revelers carrying New Year’s party hats, noise blowers, and bottles of champagne. Out on the street, the buildings create a wind tunnel, but this time, instead of a flimsy bolero jacket and minidress, I’m in jeans and my warm winter coat, and the cold December gale doesn’t faze me. I should head to Higher Grounds; it’s after nine and the party will be in full swing by now. But I have one more thing to take care of, so instead, my feet turn right instead of left down Bedford Avenue.
Ten minutes later, I slip into the kitchen door at Xavier’s. The staff bustles around me, plating dishes and calling out orders, deep in the chaos of the New Year’s Eve service. A few people give me odd looks as I cross the kitchen toward the hallway leading to the office, or nudge each other and gesture in my direction, but nobody tries to stop me.
As I leave the safety of the crowded kitchen behind me and draw nearer to seeing Xavier for the first time since I rejected his advances and he gave my job to someone else, I start to sweat in my heavy coat. I still have dreams about that night in the pantry, still wake up shaking and wondering what I could have done differently. I haven’t really thought through what I’ll do when I find Xavier, but I’ll never put that night behind me until I face him again, on my terms.
And then, before I can spend any more time going over it in my head, I turn the corner and run into him right there in the hallway.
His eyes widen and he takes a step backward, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll give him another shove like the one in the pantry. And believe me, I’m tempted. He wouldn’t be the first clown I knocked on his ass tonight. But I’m not here to assault him, as much as he deserves it. So instead, I say in a cool voice, “Hello, Xavier.”
He’s silent for a moment, looking me up and down, and then he huffs in disgust. “So, you’re slinking back here to beg for your job back,” Xavier sneers. “You think you can just walk out on one of the busiest holidays of the year and then show up like nothing happened?”
I should be angry at the nerve, the ego of this man, thinking I’d ever beg for this job back. Except that a year ago, I did beg for it back. I went and changed my entire life, relived an entire year, because I thought this man’s job, his recognition of me mattered more than my own pride and self-respect. I’ve come a long way since then. And as my friend the fortune teller says, I’ll never make that mistake again.