Hate Notes

“Goddamn it!” I’d managed to keep my tears in until I found a bathroom in the lobby of Millennium Tower. I’d even somehow succeeded in keeping them at bay while I went into one of the large stalls to pee. But then there was no toilet paper, so I opened my purse and started to dig for a tissue while I was still hovering. My hands hadn’t stopped shaking from the ass-chewing I’d just experienced, and I wound up bumbling the damn thing, causing the entire contents to spill all over the floor. And . . . my phone cracked as it smashed against the fancy tile. That was when I broke down and cried.

No longer giving a rat’s ass about germs, I sat down on the toilet seat and let it all out. It wasn’t just a cry because of what had transpired upstairs. It was a cry that was a long time coming—a big, fat, ugly cry. If my emotions were a roller coaster lately, this was the part of the ride where you put your hands up and careened down at a hundred miles an hour. I was glad the bathroom was empty, since I had the terrible habit of talking to myself when I was really upset.

“What the hell was I thinking?”

“Dog surfing? God, I’m such an idiot.”

“Could I have at least embarrassed myself in front of a less intimidating man? Perhaps one that wasn’t a tall, dark, confident Adonis with an attitude?”

“Speaking of men, why are the good-looking ones always such jerks?”

I wasn’t really expecting an answer, although I got one anyway.

A woman’s voice spoke from somewhere in the bathroom on the other side of the stall. “When God was making the mold for good-looking men, he asked one of his angels what else he should add to make a man more attractive in her eyes. The angel didn’t want to be disrespectful by using foul language, so she simply said, ‘Give him a big stick.’ Unfortunately, the added piece was put on backward, and now all good-looking men are born with a large stick up their tuchus.”

I laughed through an unattractive sniffle. “There’s no toilet paper in here. Would you mind passing me some?”

A hand appeared under the stall door with a wad of tissue. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

After using half the paper to blow my nose and dry my face and the other half to wipe myself, I took a deep breath and began to collect the contents of my purse from the floor. “Are you still out there?” I asked.

“Yes. I figured I’d wait to make sure you were okay. I heard you crying.”

“Thank you. But I’ll be okay.”

The woman was seated on a bench in front of a mirror when I finally emerged from hiding in the stall. She was probably in at least her seventies, but she was dressed in a suit and groomed to the nines. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. Why don’t you tell me what upset you?”

“I don’t want to trouble you with my problems.”

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger.”

I suppose it’s better than talking to myself. “Honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

The woman patted the seat next to her. “Start at the beginning, dear.”

I snorted. “You’ll be here until next week.”

She smiled warmly. “I’ve got as much time as we need.”

“Are you sure? You look like you’re about to go to a board meeting or get honored at some charity event.”

“It’s one of the only perks of being the boss. You set your own hours. Now, why don’t you start with dog surfing. Is that actually a thing? Because I have a Portuguese water dog that might be interested.”

“. . . and then I just ran out. I mean, I don’t blame the guy for being upset that I wasted his time. It’s just that he made me feel like such an idiot for even having dreams.” I’d been talking to my new friend, Iris, for more than an hour. Just like she’d said, I’d started at the beginning. We’d been through my engagement, the breakup, my job, Todd’s new fiancée, my drunken apartment application, and the resulting ass-chewing that landed me in the bathroom in tears. For some unknown reason, I’d even told her I was adopted and how much I longed to find my birth mother someday. I didn’t think that fact had anything to do with everything that was upsetting me today, but nevertheless, I found myself unloading that piece of information along with my tale of woe.

When I finally finished my story, she sat back. “You remind me of someone I knew a long time ago, Charlotte.”

“Really? So I’m not the first unemployed, single, broke hot mess to have a near nervous breakdown while you were trying to wash your hands?”

She smiled. “It’s my turn for a story, if you have a little time.”

“I literally have nothing but time.”

Iris began. “In 1950, a young seventeen-year-old girl graduated high school and had dreams of going to college to study business. Back then, not many women went to college, and very few studied business, which was widely considered a man’s field. One night shortly after graduation, the young woman met a handsome carpenter. The two had a whirlwind courtship, and before long, the girl had immersed herself in his world. She accepted a job as a secretary answering the phones for the family business that the carpenter worked for, spent her evenings helping his mother take care of their home, and put her own passions and dreams on the back burner.

“On Christmas Day in 1951, the man proposed, and the woman accepted. She thought by the following year she would be living the American dream of being a housewife. But three days after Christmas, the young man was drafted into the army. Some of their friends were also drafted, and many of them were getting married to their sweethearts before they were shipped off to the military. However, this woman’s carpenter didn’t want to do that. So she vowed to wait for his return and spent the next few years working for his father’s carpentry business. When her soldier finally returned home four years later, she was ready for her happily ever after. Only on his first day back, he informed her that he’d fallen in love with a secretary on base and was breaking off their engagement. He even had the audacity to ask for the ring he’d given her back so that he could offer it to his new girlfriend.”

“Ouch,” I said. “Did I mention that Todd’s new fiancée is wearing my engagement ring? I wish I’d never thrown it at him.”

Iris went on. “I wish you hadn’t, too. That’s what this girl did. She refused to return the ring, telling him she was keeping it as payment for four lost years of her life. After a couple of days of licking her wounds, she dusted off her dignity, held her head high, and promptly sold the ring. She used the money to pay for her first business classes at college.”

“Wow. Good for her.”

“Well, the story doesn’t quite end there. She finished up college but was having the worst time trying to secure a job. No one wanted to hire her to run a business when her only experience was secretarial work for her ex-fiancé’s family carpentry company. So she embellished her résumé a bit. Instead of saying she was the secretary of the carpentry company, she wrote she was the manager; and instead of listing her duties as typing up quotes and answering phones, she listed preparing bids and negotiating contracts. Her improved résumé got her a job interview at one of the biggest property-management companies in New York City.”

“Did she get the job?”

“No. Turned out that the personnel director knew her ex-fiancé, knew she had lied about her responsibilities with the carpentry company, and berated her during the interview.”

“Oh my God. Like what happened to me today with Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass.”

“Precisely.”

“So what happened?”

“The world has a funny way sometimes. A year later, she had worked her way up in a rival, smaller property-management company, and she received a résumé from Mr. Locklear, the man who had berated her during that first interview. He had been downsized from his position and was looking for a job. So she called him in with the intention of giving him back as good as he’d given it to her. But in the end, she took the high road and hired him because he was qualified and, after all, she had lied on her résumé.”

“Wow. Did Mr. Locklear at least work out?”

She smiled. “He did. After the woman removed the stick up his ass, they worked together quite nicely. In fact, eventually they started their own property-management company, and it grew into one of the largest firms in the state. Before he died, the two of them celebrated forty years in business, thirty-eight of which they were married.”

By her smile, I knew. “I guess your name is Iris Locklear?”

“It is. And the best thing that ever happened to me was having that soldier break our engagement. I was never meant to be a housewife. I’d forgotten all about my own dreams. Was being a buyer at a department store your dream career, Charlotte?”

I shook my head. “I went to college for art. I sculpt.”

“When was the last time you sculpted?”

My shoulders slumped. “A few years ago.”

“You need to get back to it.”

“It doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

“Maybe. But you need to figure out how to love the life that you have, while you work on the life that you want. So you’ll find a job that pays the bills and sculpt at night. And on weekends.” She smiled. “That’ll keep you from trolling the internet and submitting fake real estate applications.”

“That’s true.”

“Everything happens for a reason, Charlotte. Take this time to reevaluate your life and what you want out of it. That’s what I did. You can only find true happiness within yourself, not inside of other people, no matter how much you care about them. Make yourself happy, and the rest will come. I promise.”

She was absolutely right. I’d been so busy being miserable and sulking that I’d forgotten there were things I loved that made me happy. My own things. Sculpting, travel . . . I had the oddest urge to run home and make a list of things I wanted to do. “Thank you so much, Iris.” I engulfed her in a big hug, not caring that she had been a stranger an hour ago.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”

I washed my hands and, using the mirror, did my best to wipe away my smeared makeup. When I was done, Iris stood. “I like you, Charlotte.”

I snorted. “Of course, I remind you of you.”

She extended a business card to me. “I have a position open for an assistant. It’s yours if you want it.”

“Really?”

“Really. Monday morning, nine a.m. The address is on my card.”

My mouth hung open. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. But bring me a piece of pottery you make this weekend.”