Charmed by her beauty, I begin to read her column, something called Corner Chat. It seems to be an advice column about problems of the heart, which isn’t usually my thing, I admit. But curiosity gets the best of me, and my eyes scan the page.
The first letter is unremarkable. A man secretly (and pathetically, if you ask me) is in love with his brother’s fiancée. But Casey Henderson’s response is impressive, and I’m surprisingly moved by her compassionate but firm reply. She tells the man that she understands his feelings of jealousy and desire, but urges him not to act on his feelings. “Someone better for you is out there waiting to meet you,” she’s written. I like that.
In the next letter, some girl is crying about a guy who dumped her. He wasn’t the good guy she thought she knew, she’s heartbroken, yada yada yada. All women in Manhattan say this.
I’m scanning the column to get a sense of Casey’s writing style, but then the third letter catches my eye. What the fuck? I see the word “ghost,” and then the words “diamond bracelet.” Oh fuck. Just my goddamn luck.
Frozen, I stop reading. This letter was written by Maria. Damnit. Maria’s not exactly an eloquent writer, but she also made our tryst sound so bad, when it really wasn’t. And since when was she ever my girlfriend? When were we ever in a relationship? What a liar. Besides, it’s a diamond bracelet for crying out loud. I’m supposed to feel guilty for giving her a lovely present? Oh, I’m so sorry for giving you an outrageously expensive parting gift. I am such an asshole.
Heart pounding, I begin to read Casey’s response. Hopefully she’s on the same page as me.
* * *
Dearest DANAGBF,
I am positively incensed for you. Before I launch into my diatribe, I just wanted to say I’m sorry that somebody put you through this because clearly this man is a misogynist. Worse than that. He’s a pig, full stop.
* * *
I stop reading. This is bad. I throw the newspaper to my desk, suddenly sweating, while buzzing Janelle.
“Yes, Mr. Lane?”
I clear my thoughts and attempt to sound casual.
“Have I received any er, packages this week? Did any of them contain a diamond bracelet?”
There’s a confused silence.
“Janelle?”
“Sir, um, is that code for something? I don’t understand.”
“No, not a code. Did I receive a bracelet?”
“No, no bracelets,” she says, utterly puzzled.
“Thanks, Janelle.”
Okay, so Maria hasn’t sent the gift back then. But this paper was only published a few days ago. Perhaps it’s still in the mail.
Bracing myself, I go back to the column and wince as I continue reading. Wow, this Casey woman is relentless and I can almost feel her nails as she rips into me.
* * *
This “man” is clearly unfit for being in any sort of relationship. It sounds like his only true love is money and he will forever use things to make up for his shortcomings.
You say this man was successful, but to me, he is far from it. This man is a true failure. Just because he can afford to send his assistant to do his dirty work does not make him anything other than a coward and a poor excuse for a male human being. He behaved like a spoiled child. Believe me, darling, you have dodged a very fancy and well-disguised bullet.
My advice? If you want to send the bracelet back, then send it back. If you want to keep the bracelet, by all mean, keep it. Hell, you could even sell it. Use the money to go visit your family and friends. Who needs him to be happy?
At the end of the day, I hope you do whatever makes you feel comfortable. I wish you all the best in the future. I will be thinking of you and this heartless bastard for a while.
Yours truly,
Casey aka The Corner Chat Advice Lady
* * *
My heart slams against my chest. I feel almost calm with fury.
Who the fuck does this woman think she is!? She doesn’t even know me or who I am but she can call me a failure and criticize my actions while she’s at it? She doesn’t even know the whole story. This is libel. I can’t believe this is happening. I cannot believe I thought this Casey Henderson person was beautiful, when actually, she’s a ruthless witch. And I hate witches with a vengeance.
Seething, I snap the paper shut and pace my office before grabbing my briefcase and stalking out to the elevator. Who the hell does this woman think she is? I hit the first floor running, almost panting with anger. My long legs eat up the sidewalk, plowing through clusters of confused tourists, thoughts racing. How dare this stranger make all of these assumptions about me?