Wednesday night/Thursday morning, 4 a.m.

My bed

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.

* * *

Tursday, 12:30 p.m.

My cubicle, lunchtime

"Mads, I'm really, really sorry about the way I talked to you last night on the phone," Nick said, turning on a sheepish expression, which I was just beginning to realize he could affect on cue.

He hadn't called to apologize or to ask if he could drop by at lunch to apologize. He'd just barged in, his usual MO, with take-out lunch for one.

"Nick, I've done a lot of think?"

"I know it must be really hard for you, Mads," he interrupted. He took a bite of his grilled chicken on focaccia bread, chewed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, popped a French fry into his mouth, then took a long gulp of his lemon-lime Gatorade. "I mean, I know you got hurt when I ended things between us. But when I laid eyes on Tam last month, I just flipped. I had to have her. You understood, right? And when she dumped me, man, you want to talk about pain? You don't know anything about it, sister. I'm just beside myself over her. So she wasn't really mad about me dropping by pageant headquarters last night, was she? I just wanted to congratulate her in person for making the finals, and she went and pulled a Buffy on me! So did she stay mad, or did reminding her of my good traits and my woman-enticing resume work its Nick Jones magic? And did?"

I stared at his moving mouth, at his Billy Crudup face, his long, lanky, muscular body, his Prada clothes, his Soho haircut, and all I saw was a 32-year-old child. I'd loved this person for absolutely no reason at all. I wasn't about to wonder what I'd seen in him. I knew. And I was ashamed of it. Nick Jones was nothing more than everything Heidi and Tamara had said he was: a shell with nothing inside. Nothing. Except for a lot of gook and some serious issues.

No need for a deep breath. "Nick, I'm going to tell you how to get Tamara back.

" He brightened, put down the chicken sandwich and sat straight up. Those deep brown eyes looked into mine intently, waiting for my words of wisdom.

"Nick, do you remember when you asked me to list your top five biggest problems as a guy and a boyfriend?"

He nodded.

"Remember how I couldn't think of even one?"

He nodded and slurped his Gatorade.

"Well, Nick, I've come up with thousands."

His face fell. Then he smiled and gave me a playful sock on the shoulder. "You jokester! C'mon, tell me what you said, then what she said. Do you think there's a chance she'll take me back?" He took another slug of his Gatorade.

I grabbed the bottle out of his hand and threw it in the little trash pail under my desk. "This is no joke. There's nothing funny about it. I. Am. Not. Joking. Not for a second."

Nick eyed me. I could see him taking in my serious expression. "Okay, so tell me. I can take it. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know, right? I mean, that's what this is all about, working on myself so that I can be a better boyfriend to Tam when she takes me back."

I smiled my evil smile. And for the next 25 minutes, I listed everything that was wrong with him. Everything. I started with his narcissism and ended with his criminal habit of stalking. I threw in a litany of his crappy treatment of me. I spared nothing. On and on and on, I spoke.

He opened his mouth to protest a few times, but clamped it shut each time when I backed up everything I said with cold, hard evidence. He slid lower and lower in my guest chair until he was almost horizontal.

"One more thing, Nick," I said. "When you've thought long and hard about how you've behaved, how you treat people, what you're made of, I think you should email me an apology for Tamara, which I'll forward to her. I suggest you apologize for your despicable behavior these past weeks, and I want you to state that you now understand that no means no. You will add that you will never call her or try to see her again. And then, after you hit Send, I want you to find a good therapist."

Nick sulked for a good five minutes, picking at threads in his Prada pants. Finally, he said, "But ?"

"No, Nick. There are no buts."

"Bu?"

I shook my head slowly and his lips pressed shut. He stared at me for a good, long moment, then searched for answers in his tube of French fries. Finally, he nodded gloomily.

I nodded back. "Look, I've got a ton of work to do on the Mighty Mascara packaging, so...I'll see you around, okay, Nicks?"

He raised an eyebrow and stood up, still sulking. "But what about tomorrow night? Aren't I having dinner with you and the Simons, pretending we're hot and heavy? I've been craving the Mesa Grill's mahimahi for weeks."

I looked at Nick and forgave him for being such an asshole. Then I forgave myself for not having realized he was one until now. The forgiveness lifted a 10-pound dumbbell off my chest, off my heart, off my head. I felt happier in that moment than I had in a very long time.

"Actually, you're off the hook, Nick. I no longer need a pretend boyfriend. I'm fine on my own." I'm fine on my own. For the first time in my life, I owned those words. "But thanks for still being willing."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Well, tell your dad and stepmother and the kid I said hi. They'll be disappointed I'm not there. They really like me."

"You are absolutely right," I responded gleefully. "They adore you."

He managed a weak smile, then sulked away down the hall.

I intercommed Heidi and made plans to celebrate the lesson learned after work with enchiladas and margaritas, then called Tamara and made plans for lunch at the Arm's Inn on Saturday. And then, as though I were the Moil, I swiveled around in my desk chair with a delighted clap of my hands.

* * *

Epilogue

Two weeks later

Tamara: To pay for college (pre-med at NYU), she signed a six-figure contract with Cashmere as the new spring face because "that's where Maddie works." Tamara and I meet for drinks/dinner at least once a week. (By the way, Sunglasses turned out to be her agent.)

The Moil: Promoted me to senior copywriter with an office, a credenza, and a big, fat raise.

Heidi: Enjoying her own promotion to senior copywriter with all the trimmings since I insisted she was my creative and intellectual partner on all Cashmere initiatives past, present, and future. The Moil bought it. Then again, it was true.

The Simons: Booked a first-class flight to New York for the Miss Yorkville pageant. (It was a start. We'll see.)

Rob Carvel (if you were curious): Called to say he'd read in some weekly rag that I'd made the finals of the pageant and would I like to have dinner soon? (No, I would not.)

Nick: On a six-week-long yoga retreat in southern Arizona, no cell phones allowed. (Emailed me the apology, which I then promptly deleted.)

Me: Fine on my own.

The End



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