CHAPTER 8

M onday morning is bad.

I'm a complete wack job.

Do you know how to ignore someone you have the total hots for? What if you had to see them everyday? Could you do it? I can help.

Been theredone that.

Just let me explain.

Here's how… One: deny eye contact.

All eye contact must and will be denied.

Look at the floor.

Study the cracks in the linoleum and the stains on the carpet.

Memorize the thick, yellowing varnish on the hardwood floors in the hall and try to come up with a number for how many times they've been sanded and sealed up again.

There's so much to see (on the floor) if you only look hard enough.

Two: sex—have a few one-night stands with dudes who are sufficiently attractive enough for you to get a lady boner going after a couple of drinks.

(Does this, perhaps, sound kind of repulsive to you? Believe me, it can be if you don't have the right attitude.) They're of age, adults, consensual, informed, blah, blah, blah (but please, do note that those things are important).

This stops your body from pleading with you for just one more kiss from the person you're dying inside for and trying so desperately to avoid.

It works; just make sure you use protection so you don't end up with any diseases or a case of the babies.

What? I'm gross you're thinking? I'm telling you, releasing sexual tension is of utmost necessity.

Three: throw yourself at someone else.

Do you have a Gunnar Anderson who frequents your office? Use it to your advantage.

Peel your eyeballs off of the dotted ceiling board and flirt with him, ruthlessly, aimlessly until you're giddy from so much stupidity, until your face fucking hurts from being such a ventriloquist's dummy.

Don't sleep with your Gunnar.

That would complicate things.

This needs to remain fairly easy.

We're trying to get a job done here, aren't we? Four: drink.

Not just get blasted on Fridays but every night of the torturous week.

Drink wine out of a box on Wednesday while you binge on Chinese take-out and watch terrible TV.

Then accidently let out your neighbor's cat—the one you're supposed to be feeding.

Spend all day Thursday making missing cat fliers at the office in between puking sessions in the communal staff bathroom.

Done! Five: last but not least, stop trying.

Look like shit.

Don't even wash your clothes.

How can anyone be attracted to you when they are starting to suspect that secretly you're homeless? You can bathe, but do it without enthusiasm.

Leave a ton of conditioner in your hair, so it takes on that dull, greasy sheen that Daisy's fur had when you finally found her after work one night, meowing outside the Lavateria six blocks from your house.

It's effective.

It works.

It hurts like a bitch.

Especially when you have to stare at the beautiful painting he made you every time you step foot in the office.

You have to remember he thinks you're an impenetrable prickly pear when all you want in the world is for it to be him who penetrates you.

On (oh!) so many levels.

Then you decide to go home because you have to and because you can.

It's time to make one last ditch effort to save your family home and take a breather from Lana Finch.

Because, let's be honest here, that bitch is bringing you down.

You can go be yourself, whoever that is, with you mom and dad and your extremely difficult younger brother.

You can take a break from trying to save the world at large and concentrate on saving your world —the one you came from, and the one you couldn't wait to escape.

Detroit in February is a wonderful thing.

Your family is devastated.

Housing court is a cheery and rewarding place.

Hey, you're using up vacation days so try to enjoy it!

Then as luck would have it, one Wednesday night you stay late at the office, trying to work ahead into next week so no one will even notice you're gone.

You don't want people to say you're not pulling your part.

It's you who locks up and turns off all the lights.

You've done this only once before because outstaying Amir and Pedro who work the front desk is nearly impossible.

You take the bus home because you didn't bring your car, and you press you head against the glass playing "who are you and where did you come from" with every random figure you see in the street.

There are so many people in Los Angeles that you're suddenly overwhelmed with humanity and the weight of just being.

People are like grains of sand.

There are so many, almost too many people.

The bus stop is only a few blocks from your house.

You're not afraid to walk them, but you always take out your keys and jingle them loudly as if to announce, "I live so close, I might just enter any of these.

So don't bother mugging me because the next pad will be mine."

I've got my keys out, my assertive walk —nothing can touch this.

Except for maybe a figure in black pants and a hoody, standing illuminated by a streetlight.

Now there's not an overwhelming infinite number, there is only one person.

A human, not a grain of sand, and one wearing a backpack you easily recognize.

If a client from work shows up on, or near your property, you should call the police just like you did for the guy with the knife.

It wouldn't be safe to approach them alone or allow them to engage you off site where there's no supervision.

But what if you're obsessed with him and you kind of, sort of, maybe— accidentally, once kissed him? You walk faster and hold your bag tighter and straighten your spine.

Be a grown up! Say the right thing! Just ask him to leave!

"Hey, Lana, Can we talk?"

"Not outside of Pathways.

It's against procedure."

"I just really need to talk to you.

I could give a fuck about procedure."

"Procedure is important.

I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

But it

comes out in barely a whisper.

Where the fuck is my conviction? It disappears whenever it catches wind of this man.

"Do you want me to go home with you? To Detroit, I mean? Pedro told me you had to go this weekend.

Sorry, I know you like to be private."

I open my mouth to respond but nothing comes out.

I feel betrayed by my co-workers and staff.

My loss isn't something I want to share with everyone.

"I wanted to offer support.

I want to help you."

Can I please run into his arms and do the Dirty Dancing lift? Can we kiss under the streetlight in the most rapturous, epic, unforgettable kiss? Until the world crumbles around us and we rise to the heavens in an eternal embrace.

(Maybe with rocket boosters and fireworks and philharmonic accompaniment?) Can I forget I'm a grown-up and just finally suck his face? I stand there, staring at him with my chest heaving and my stomach bottoming out.

This feels like a moment.

The big one.

But, it's a moment I can't have.

One I absolutely must deny myself of.

"That is an incredibly generous offer, Mr.

Cruz, but I'm afraid it wouldn't be appropriate.

Neither is this—showing up at my place.

I'm going to pretend this didn't happen so you won't get in trouble."

And with that I walk right past him.

I don't look back to see his face.