The Other Woman

Allyn

I lived under a rock and I’ll be the first person to admit that fact. My world consisted of reading books for a living. I was the biggest dork ever, but, truth be told, I hated most people. My job, and the gorgeous beauty of the internet, allowed me the luxury of holing myself up in my apartment for days at a time without needing to show my face in the office and I was completely okay with that.

As an English major with a master’s degree from the University of Michigan, I wowed my way into a small publishing firm, where my official job title was “manuscript appraiser,” which was the firm’s fancy lingo for book editor. I managed the Online Distribution department, which was responsible for all editing and formatting to manuscripts to be published for ebooks, and I oversaw the work of seven different junior editors. Sometimes I edited on my laptop, but most times I zapped through ink cartridge after ink cartridge and printed out the manuscripts and I bought red pens in bulk.

My cell phone buzzed, making me jump. The screen of my iPhone signaled that I received a text message from my best friend, Chelsea. As I pulled up the message, I realized that I’d lost track of time, of course, and she was probably checking up on me.

Woman, you’re late. I’m at our normal table. Get here.

I had to laugh. While her text message sounded harsh, it wasn’t. Not in the least. Chelsea had a very dry and sarcastic sense of humor. Another message buzzed before I could even send a reply.

Make sure you change out of your reading clothes. We’re going out after we eat dinner.

Reading clothes. Pffft. What the heck was wrong with my black yoga pants and oversized Pink zip-up hoodie? Yeah. Chelsea knew me all too well. After taking a quick glance out the picture window that was the pièce de résistance of my living room, I saw that it was dark outside. I really had lost track of time.

Chelsea said we were going out after we had our weekly dinner date so I guessed that meant I was going to have to push aside my common disgust and detestation for the general population. She was definitely more of a social person and loved going out at night, while I, well, didn’t.

When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t really think I needed any make-up aside from a few swipes of mascara. My hair, well, that was a different story. My blonde tresses were limp from the fineness I inherited from my grandmother, and it looked a bit frumpy from washing it last night before going immediately to bed with a towel wrapped around my head. I was late and didn’t have time to do anything to it. I sighed. Not like I was trying to impress anyone.