The Sexpert

“But I like him so much,” I say.

“I know you do, babe. But he’s making you unhappy and you know he’s trying to out us. So maybe this is for the best? You did say he believes you’re not the Sexpert, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Then maybe you should leave well enough alone. I mean, if he calls you, that’s one thing. But don’t go to him. If he likes you he’ll get in touch. He already knows you like him. You weren’t the one being weird on Saturday.”

“That’s true,” I say, sighing heavily. “OK. Well, I’m walking into work, so…”

“OK,” she says. I know she’s making her BFF pouty face for me. And I appreciate that too. “Call me at lunch if you need to. I’m here all day.”

“Thanks,” I say, ending the call.

I just don’t understand what’s happening. We were at meet-the-parents stage on Saturday morning. He wanted to eat my frosting.

And that excuse was lame. Come on, work? On Saturday?

Except I think I used that same excuse on him.

And I was lying, see?

So what is going on?

Unless… unless he found out something about the Sexpert and—

“No,” I say out loud. I’m standing at the elevator now, so six people look over at me with curious glances.

I sigh again, then just look at my feet as we all pile in.

It takes like ten minutes to get up to the fiftieth floor, the elevator stops so often. It’s weird, because usually the view when I step out is enough to lift my mood. But this morning everything about this elevator ride is annoying.

“Happy Monday, Eden!” the girls call from the reception desk.

I force a smile, once again understanding why people hate it when I say that. “Happy Monday,” I say, passing them by.

“We got éclairs,” Sylvia says as I pass the printer. “Go grab one before they’re gone, Eden!”

But not even dessert for breakfast can up my mood today.

I am heartsick. And I hate it.

I put my purse away, sit down, and log on to find out what fresh hell is waiting for me today.

“Eden!”

Well, there’s the Devil’s mistress now. “Yes, Gretchen?” I say, popping my head up over my cubicle partition to see her office.

“Get in here now.”

Shit. I make eye contact with Janet, who gives me an exaggerated eye roll, and then call back, “Coming!”

I grab my tablet and reluctantly make my way to Gretchen’s office. “What’s up?” I ask. My upbeat tone is totally fake, but who cares? It’s not like Gretchen gives a crap about my mood.

“What’s up?” she huffs. “Why did you disobey me?”

“Excuse me?” I ask, kinda bewildered because I don’t recall disobeying her, but mostly annoyed. Because it sounds like something a parent says to a child. “I don’t understand what you’re referring to, Gretchen. Please explain.”

She narrows her eyes at me, totally catching on to my passive-aggressive response. “You changed those articles. They are all about dessert now.”

“No,” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose. “I gave the bloggers some suggestions so they can maximize traffic. That’s all. I didn’t tell them to use it, I just provided them with options.”

There’s nothing Gretchen can say about this. Not really. Not without coming off as a total bitch. So she looks me up and down, like she’s studying my outfit.

I’m in the clear there. Because I’m back to my usual uniform of drab skirt and button-down shirt.

“Much better,” she says, nodding to my clothes. “You looked ridiculous on Friday. I was just trying to save you from humiliation.”

Do. Not. React.

That’s what I tell myself. I was, after all, passive-aggressive first, right? This is her earned retort. I should just say, “Mmmhmm,” bob my ponytail yes, and move on.

That’s what I should say.

“Well, I’m surprised you noticed me at all, Gretchen. Since you blatantly pretend I don’t even work here when you steal my ideas and present them to Pierce as your own.”

She gasps.

Yup. Probably not the right response. But for like two seconds, it makes me happy.

“Is that what you think? That your childish ideas about sex and dessert are what will save this magazine? And”—she huffs out a laugh—“I suppose you think you’re the clever, scrappy everygirl who will have all the answers and get some big promotion at the end of your delusional fantasy?”

Oh, yeah. We’re on. Big-league bitch fest coming in three, two, one…

“Attention! Attention!”

“What the hell?” Gretchen says.

We both look up at the ceiling where Pierce’s voice is blaring though a speaker.

“Attention, please!” he says again. This time there’s a whine of feedback and everyone collectively groans and holds their ears. “Please give me your full attention!”

I look at Gretchen, trying to decide if our ‘meeting’ is over and I should go back to my desk, or stay here and listen to the announcement.

“We’re not done yet,” she snaps.

“Fine.” I nod and turn my head away as Pierce begins to speak.