The Art of French Kissing Read Free Page B

more-than-generous offer three months ago. All of a sudden, my life was completely falling apart.
    “Oh,” I said finally. I wasn’t sure what else to say. It seemed my brain was working in slow motion.
    “Out by noon, Emma,” Andrea repeated. “Please, no scenes. And again, I’m sorry.”
    I opened and closed my mouth, and when no words came out, I forced myself to nod at her to acknowledge my comprehension.
    I didn’t panic. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Instead I numbly cleaned out my desk, went home, and cried for the rest of the day.
    When I woke from a troubled half slumber the next morning, exhausted and confused, I tried my best to pull myself together. I logged on to the computer, went to OrlandoSentinel.com, and searched for PR jobs. There were eleven posted, and foolishly optimistic, I applied for all of them, faxing my résumé from a nearby Kinko’s and dragging back home around noon, feeling useless and confused.
    In the next two weeks, which I mostly spent holed up in the house, refusing to talk to any of my friends, I was called in for six interviews. Unfortunately, I burst into tears during five of them (not that this was normal for me in the slightest; I blame it on the post-Brett trauma). In the sixth interview, the one in which I hadn’t cried, I knew I wasn’t going to be hired when the man interviewing me asked why I wanted to work as a PR rep for J. Cash Steel, and I couldn’t come up with a single reason because, well, I really didn’t
want
to work for a steel manufacturer.
    Brett called three times in the two-week period, asking me in a monotone voice if I was okay. I was confused by his uncharacteristic concern until he finally revealed his
real
reason for calling at the end of the second week.
    “Look, I know you lost your job, Em,” he said. “And I’m sorry to hear that. But I’d love to move back into my place. Any idea when you might be ready to move out?”
    I’d called him a name that my mother had once washed my mouth out with soap for using. Then I slammed the phone down so hard that it cracked.
    That afternoon, I finally picked up the damaged (but still functioning) phone to call my three best friends, the girls who were supposed to be my bridesmaids. They hadn’t called since I’d split from Brett, but I hadn’t called them, either. I hadn’t wanted to talk about it. I knew they’d be shocked to hear that he’d left me, and I was looking forward to being consoled by them.
    At least they’ll stand by me
, I said to myself before I dialed Lesley’s number.
At least I can count on them not to hurt me.
    Wrong again.
    “I feel terrible telling you this,” Lesley said after she’d mentioned casually that she’d known about the dissolution of my engagement since last week, “but I thought you’d want to know.”
    “Okay . . .” I waited for her to go on, wondering why she hadn’t called or come by if she’d known for a week that Brett and I had split.
    “Well . . . maybe I shouldn’t tell you,” she said quickly, her breath heavy on the other end.
    I sighed. I didn’t have the energy to play games.
    “Whatever it is, Lesley, I’m sure it pales in comparison with everything else in my life right now.” After all, what could be worse than having your engagement broken off and then being fired the next morning?
    “Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” Lesley said, her voice trailing off. She paused. “All right then. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it. Amanda has been sleeping with Brett.”
    Okay. So clearly
that
could be worse than having your engagement broken off and then being fired the next morning.
    I opened my mouth to say something but no words came out. I suddenly felt like my whole chest had been hollowed out. I couldn’t breathe.
    After a moment, Lesley spoke again. “Emma?” she said. “Are you there?”
    “Urghrhgrgh,” I gurgled.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Uhrhghrh.” I couldn’t seem to formulate