The Romance Plan - Lila Monroe Page 0,68
taking, so now that Sterling is officially kaput I’ve been scrambling to try and find something else.
Anything else.
I’ve applied to be an editor of a quarterly publication for vintage car enthusiasts. I threw my hat in the ring to be a story coordinator for a software company that specializes in extremely grisly war games. And I wrote a very charming cover letter to go with my application for a job as the salacious sex advice columnist at a low-end men’s magazine, only to have them request my cup size along with my resume. At this point I’d be willing to proofread the copy on a Chipotle takeout bag if it meant I could pay my rent next month.
All that rejection isn’t helping keep my mind off Liam, so in the meantime, I’m cleaning house. I blast Whitney’s greatest hits album as I pack up three huge boxes of old books to haul down to Goodwill, then list a bunch of designer purses on a secondhand site and scrub the shelves of my tiny refrigerator with bleach. I’m trying to decide what to do with my extensive collection of heels—I’ve heard there’s a big market for previously worn shoes on Craigslist, though I don’t really want to think about why—when my phone rings. I’m buried too deep in my closet to get to it in time, but when I press play on my voicemail a woman’s gratingly cheery voice fills my ears.
“Eliza!” she trills. “Ciao and hello! This is Anne Brower with MediaCorp. We’re getting ready for the big transition over here, and I’d love to get your input. Give me a call back at your leisure—” She pronounces it lezzure—“and we’ll set up a time for you to come in and chat.”
“Ugh!” I throw my cell phone clear across the apartment.
The big transition, my Aunt Tilda. Is that what they call firing dozens of employees and dismantling the beloved company that took Harry his entire lifetime to build? It’s exactly the kind of corporate euphemism Liam probably loves. His diary is probably full of them. “Transition,” I mutter angrily to myself, shaking my head in disgust. “Downsizing. Trimming the fat!”
That’s when my apartment door swings open and Maddie and Katie walk in.
“I used my key,” Maddie announces, bending down and scooping my phone off the floor before handing it back to me. “We brought wine.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Sorry. Just a dumb call from MediaCorp. Apparently, they want me to come in for a meeting so they can have the pleasure of firing me in person.”
Maddie frowns. “That doesn’t sound very efficient,” she says thoughtfully. “You’d think Liam would have advised them better than that.”
“Screw Liam!” I say savagely.
“Speaking of which,” Katie says pointedly, grabbing a trio of glasses, “are you sure that phone call is the only thing you’re upset about?”
“What? Yes, totally.” I shake my head like a person who didn’t just involuntarily roar her ex’s name like a wounded lion. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh. Sure you are,” Katie says, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to put on a brave face here, Eliza. I’m the Breakup Artist, remember? There’s literally nothing I haven’t seen.”
“And I’m literally telling you, I haven’t even thought about him that much this week.” I lie.
“Oh no?” Maddie fires back, taking a wine glass from Katie’s outstretched hand and peering at my bookshelves with a knowing smirk. “Not even while you were curating your fiction collection both alphabetically and by color?”
“It’s a perfect system,” I protest. “Both practical and beautiful! I’ve been refining it for years.”
“Uh-huh. I see you’ve also reorganized your spice rack and purged your sock collection,” Katie observes, looking around the apartment. “And also built what appears to be a Jenga tower out of tampons on the bathroom shelf? I thought April went crazy cleaning after a breakup, but you could teach her a few tricks.”
“It’s an art installation!” I insist. “I needed a way to channel my creative energy while I was waiting for my face mask to dry.”
“Okay,” Maddie announces, setting her glass down on the counter with a clink. “The wine is clearly not going to do it. We need tequila. And we need it fast.”
They take me to a hipster cantina around the corner where we post up at the bar with chips, guac, and a trio of palomas in tall frosty highball glasses. “You could always just call him, you know,” Katie points out, licking the salt off the rim of her glass. “Liam seemed great that day