I pressed the power button on my laptop with flourish, rejoicing at nearing the end of a long and busy week. The Sexy LA campaign was picking up momentum- The XPerience were already posting selfies and short video testimonials about using the product. The response was overwhelmingly positive, to the point where others had joined in to share photos and videos of their own hair using the Sexy Hair lines. The buzz was amazing and the entire web team had been on our toes all week, trying to stay ahead of the curve and keep the ball rolling.

I was about to clock out for the weekend. I'd scheduled Friday off for a much needed mental health break and I was looking forward to my couch, my dog and all yoga pants everything.

Then Jen walked into my office and ruined all my plans.

"We're doing Happy Hour at Red Room," she chirped, standing statuesque and chic in a splatter paint bodycon dress and stiletto heels.  

"Who's we?" I asked, lowering the lid to my laptop, unplugging it from its dock and slipping it into my work bag. I didn't know who I thought I was kidding, scheduling an actual day off. I would still be working... just from home, with my legs slung over a snoring beast.

"Me, you, Ian, Wendy... maybe a couple of people from accounting. They just closed July books.  I'm sure they need a reason to drink right now."

I shook my head, putting on my best really tired face. "I don't think I'm going to make it, Jen. I just want to get this weekend started. Like, as soon as possible."

"Yelena Christina Guadalupe Sandoval..."

"Oh, really with the full name? Like that will change my mind?"

"You always say you're coming to Happy Hour and then you never come to Happy Hour. You have tomorrow off, so you can even stay out late, guilt free!"

I stood, slinging my bag over my arm, fulling intending to listen to her sales pitch all the way out of the door, and then get in my car and drive home.

"Just come for an hour, have one drink, eat one appetizer, laugh at one joke."

"You know I'd love to, Jen. I'm just so tired-"

"Oh I know, honey," she cooed, looping her arm around mine. "We all are. It's been a good, long week, right? Now we're going to celebrate by getting drunk on fancy wine.  So you're coming. Right?"

I did the thing I try not to do, which is to look Jen in the eye, because I swear she is hypnotic. Those hazel things are witchcraft.

But the next thing I knew, I was sliding into a bar chair and ordering a glass of Cava.

This was new for me. Hanging out after work. With... anybody. I kept to myself, mostly. I was friendly and social at work, and I'd even venture out to the food court down the street on occasion. But hang out, in a restaurant, with people? Never.

Well, at least not in the last five years. I used to have this important job, working for important people. I was always on the go, everywhere, all the time. Putting out fires and supplying pat answers that may or may not have been true. Bailing clients out of jail. Pulling them out of places of ill repute, then threatening to sic an attorney on anyone who'd dare say my client was there.

For a time, I loved it. I felt high powered and creative. I could think on my feet, fast as lightning. My clients depended on me and I loved wielding that control.

One client in particular liked me a lot, and for a lot more than writing bios and creating a buzz about him and his life and his music. Despite a raging ego, we clicked.  So much so that we went from a volatile and borderline hostile working relationship to a passionately wild- and sometimes violent- affair in a matter of months.

I loved him. Then I hated that I loved him. And then I hated him.

When it ended, I was a mere shell of myself. My career and reputation hung in the balance and suddenly, all eyes were on me. I couldn't handle the pressure, the scrutiny, the whispers, the knowing glances. I had to escape, to erase myself and try to start over, if possible.

A year later, I heard about a job from a friend of a friend and I signed on at Sexy Hair with the caveat that I retained my personal identity. My face would never be used, not on the website, not on the social media accounts, not in any capacity in my job as publicist. I wrote copy, I developed programs, I wrote publicity plans and strategy. Someone else would have to be the "face" of Sexy Hair. Thankfully, Jen was more than willing to be that person.

"Are you gonna call that guy, or what?" Ian was across from me, sipping through the foam on a tall, cold glass of beer. Jen sat next to me, nursing a half full glass of red wine and perusing the Tapas menu.

"Which guy?" I asked, knowing exactly which guy he meant.

"You know who I mean. I know you didn't throw his number away."

I willed myself to not glance toward the front pocket of my bag, where JC's number had been safely zipped away every night after I pulled it out and looked at it and smoothed out the creases. And then folded it back up and put it back in the bag.

"And how do you know that?"

"You had a way about you, when you spoke about him. And then how your face lit up when I said I had his number-"

"Okay, that wasn't my face lighting up, Ian. That was my face wondering if you'd get fired for giving me his phone number."

"Whatever you say, love. Whatever you say, ever so strongly." He chuckled and downed more beer. Then set the glass down and pushed his rolled up sleeves higher up onto his arms.

Sometimes I wished that I was attracted to Ian. I could use a distraction from always worrying about Rex trying to worm his way back into my life. Alas, he was nowhere near my type and, if I had to make a very informed guess, was halfway in love with Wendy, our web editor, who was seated next to me and acting way too nonchalant.

I rolled my eyes at the two of them pretending they weren't on the cusp of an amazing office romance. "I haven't called him. And I'm not going to. Aren't you going to use him for Sexy LA, anyway? It'd be weird for me to like... date him if he was officially representing the product."

"Excuses, excuses," muttered Jen. "You need to take a big, huge, personal step and you're inventing every excuse in the world to not do it. The not dating musicians thing-"

"The I just got a puppy thing," Ian suggested, chiming in.

"The Mercury in retrograde thing," said Wendy, then back tracked. "Wait, that wasn't Lena."

"No, that was you and your one hundredth reason for not bedding Ian," said Jen. Wendy blushed exactly fifty shades of red. Ian just grinned.

"I've talked to him," I admitted softly, staring into my glass of Cava.

"What? When?" The tapas menu was tossed aside and Jen was suddenly all ears.

"I ran into him. Actually, my dog ran into him, knocked him over into the mud, then jumped all over him. Long story short, he ended up hanging out at the pool at my condo complex. We... talked."

My voice trailed off, hoping I wouldn't have to pick up the rest of the story from there, but Ian bellowed a demanding, "And?"

"And..." I exhaled a long breath, letting my shoulders sag. "He asked me out, okay? He asked me out and I fucked it up and he left and I really will probably never hear from him again."

"Fucked it up how, Lena?" Jen propped an elbow on the table and rested her temple on the tips of her fingers. "Did you tell him that bullshit about not dating celebrities?"

"Why is it bullshit?"

"Because it's not about celebrities. It's about one celebrity that you're still hiding from for no damn reason. You haven't heard from him in years. JC could be the man of your dreams and-"

"The man of my dreams," I mocked dryly, then rolled my eyes and took a deep swallow from my wine glass. "Did you really just say the man of my dreams?

 "The. man. of. your. dreams," she chanted, tapping the table in cadence to her words. "But you'll never know, because you sit in that apartment every night of the week with that damn dog, doing nothing with your life. How do you expect to move on from Rex, Lena? Huh?"

I knew Jen wasn't really looking for an answer. Which was good, because I didn't have one. I already felt bad about the conversation I'd had with JC. He seemed a little hurt, a lot confused, maybe his pride was bruised. I had my reasons for turning him down, however much bullshit others thought they might be.

But... at the same time, maybe everyone was a little bit right. I hadn't heard from Rex in years. And maybe, after five years, I could step out of my shell a little.

The very idea of it scared me shitless. That's how I knew I had to do it.

>>||<<

A few hours, another glass of Cava and an entire flatbread pizza later, I sat down on a bench near the path between my building and an open wooded area where I let Barksdale run free and snap at butterflies to his heart's desire.

In one hand, I held my cell phone. In the other, a folded piece of paper. I unfolded it, smoothed it out like I'd done at least once a night for the last week. But instead of folding it back up, I laid it in my lap and dialed the number.

My heart slammed around in my chest while the line rang... once, twice, then- ‘This is JC. I'm not available at the moment, but leave me one and I'll get back to you. Peace.'

He'd sent me to voicemail. I didn't even know what to say. Or do. Should I hang up and try him later? Send him a text? Or- the beep at the end of his outgoing message made me feel like I had to say something. 

"Hi. JC. This is uhm... this is Lena. We met last weekend at the Prince Tribute concert. And my dog attacked you at Runyon. You probably remember the dog more than me but...uhm. So, I was just giving you a call. To... talk...."  I rolled my eyes at myself. "Anyway, if you wanted to... also talk, give me a call back. My number is 323-555-1823. I hope you call. Okay, bye."

I pressed end call and slammed my eyes shut. "I hope you call? That's what I ended with? Could I have sounded any more pathetic?"

Barksdale let out a short bark and bounded over to me, resting his massive head in my lap. I smoothed down the fur down his neck and scratched behind his ears, something he loved for me to do. He groaned and his tail wagged, whipping the gnats in the evening air around.

"He's not gonna call back anyway. I know that, even you know that. But I tried, right? I reached out, I made an effort, I-"

My phone buzzed against the wooden bench. A number that wasn't in my address book popped up on the caller id display.

"Holy fuck, Barksdale. He's actually calling me back."