Facebook Jeanie Read online

  FACEBOOK JEANIE

  By Addison Westlake

  Copyright 2013

  Kindle Edition

  Facebook Jeanie by Addison Westlake

  www.addisonwestlake.blogspot.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Formatting by RikHall.com

  Cover by MCM Cover Design [email protected]

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wonderful family. I am so grateful for you.

  “Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”

  -Ralph Waldo Emerson

  “Phil? Hey, Phil? Phil! Phil Connors? Phil Connors, I thought that was you!”

  -Groundhog Day

  CHAPTER 1

  ONCE UPON A TIME

  Cradled in her dark apartment, rapt in the warm glow of her laptop’s screen, Clara nestled in for some quality Facebook time. But first, a quick pre-launch inventory to make sure the most important men in her life stood close by:

  1) Ben & Jerry? Check. Tonight a pint of Americone Dream, because Clara still knew how to mix it up and get wild.

  2) Francis Ford Coppola? Affirmative. Here in the capacity of winemaker rather than producer/director. With her right hand, Clara gently nudged aside the base of the towering pile of unopened mail looming on top of her side table. Just enough to create a space in the corner for her wine glass.

  3) Jedi? Curled up on the jacket that she’d carelessly tossed to the floor. The fat, lazy cat who hated her was now using it as a nest. Her ex-boyfriend, Gil, had brought him home and named him after a character in his favorite movie. Then he’d ditched the kitty and Clara because he’d found his soul mate in a 21-year-old toe-ring wearing Pilates instructor.

  “Bottoms up!” Clara declared in her best pirate voice to the empty apartment and took a nice slurp of red wine. Some spilled on her sweatshirt. Sure, she could leave the couch and blot it with a damp sponge, even make it over to her bedroom to change clothes and spray the blotch with stain remover. But if there’s one thing Clara had learned in the 31 almost 32 years of her life, it was that you needed to prioritize. You couldn’t waste time on the small stuff if you wanted to make sure you had enough time to devote to what really mattered. Like checking out photos of your college boyfriend on Facebook.

  Clara clicked on the lower-case f icon along the base of her laptop. Laser-like focus, plowing past status updates, notifications and sponsored ads, she clicked over to friends, then selected him. Mr. Right. The One Who Got Away: Brad Wilkins.

  Beach photos first. Because she’d had a long, hard day. She clicked on the album titled Summer.

  Blond hair kissed by the sun and tousled by the wind, he stood like a Norse god on the beach. He flashed a rugged, knowing smile. The bright aquamarine of his eyes matched the ocean, the sky and the color of dreams. Move over Chris Hemsworth, there was a new Thor in town. And he’d hit the beach, tanned, rested and ready for the ladies.

  An entire paragraph needed to be devoted to his chest. He had the shoulders of a lumberjack accustomed to hauling telephone poles. Pecs so hard and defined a girl could eat dinner off of them, or simply make them the meal. A six pack that mocked other men’s six packs. Put it all together and it made you want to petition NBC to bring back Baywatch, this time starring Brad Wilkins. Millions would tune in each week for the new episode, holding their collective breaths for the moment he took off in a run, shirtless, on the beach. In slow-motion he’d rescue… no one could ever tell you who because every ounce of attention would be riveted to those ripped muscles in action, the way his bicep bulged when he cradled the victim, the way the sunlight almost seemed to magnify the flexing. The man could not possibly ooze more sex appeal. She could practically hear Robin Thicke singing into her ear, “You know you want it.”

  But wait, there was more. Clara clicked onto some new photos. Brad in a tux, debonair and polished yet still with the hint of the rake. Brad holding a beer and looking like a long, tall, cool drink himself in a crisp, dark blue pinstripe suit. The designer should pay him for wearing it, showing other men how it should be done, filling it out with sheer male prowess. You could put a suit on the man, but you’d never tame him.

  Brad wore suits because he didn’t just play around at the beach all day. The man earned six maybe seven figures a year as an investment banker in New York City. Net worth, including the trust fund? Somewhere near upteenbamillion. The man pulled it down, brought home the bacon and the pan to fry it in. Then made you forget about dinner, anyway, because, there, he just took off his shirt.

  Not for the first time, Clara reflected on the sad lack of a soundtrack to accompany Facebook photos. Because if anyone deserved the romantic, symphonic swells that enhanced the viewing pleasure of a Nicholas Sparks film, it was Brad.

  She clicked on another album from the summer two years ago. It was really so nice that Brad’s wife, Ashley, organized everything so well. And was practically a photo journalist, documenting every moment of their lives. Clara knew this not because she was also Facebook friends with Brad’s wife. That would be weird. She knew it because Ashley apparently cared nothing for Facebook privacy settings, plus had the habit of posting photos on both her own page and her husband’s, perhaps in an effort to maintain the integrity of their brand.

  Ah, Ashley. a.k.a. The One Who Nabbed The One Who Got Away. The very night Clara had broken up with Brad in college! Talk about not wasting any time. Ashley had pounced on him like a wedding dress on final markdown at the original Filene’s Basement.

  “Right you were, Ash.” Clara toasted her acumen with a sip of wine and opened up the first of the album’s photos. How did he look even better than he had 10 years ago? He stood, like a proud lion still with all his fabulous blond mane of hair. He emerged from the ocean like James Bond, making women everywhere want nothing more than to be a drop of water cascading down his washboard abs.

  In a tribute to her own post-college 15 pound weight gain settling in nicely around the hips, thighs and belly, Clara scooped out another dollop of fudge-covered waffle cone caramel swirl ice-cream. Sometimes she pretended she wasn’t going to eat the whole pint. But it was a well-known dieting fact that if you substituted ice cream for dinner instead of eating it in addition to dinner, it essentially eliminated your caloric intake.

  Click. Those pearly whites never failed. Clara put a hand to her chest to still her beating heart.

  Should have been. Click. Could have been. Click. Would have been. Click.

  She’d read somewhere that Facebook didn’t notify people how many times you clicked on their profile. Or lovingly stroked their profile photos. She hoped this intel was true because she needed more time to fully appreciate the cleft in his chin. Sure, in that particular photo by an outdoor fire pit, Ashley was by his side looking undeniably trim and cute. But if Clara squinted and placed her right hand strategically over that half of the photo, there he remained. Sultry gaze just for her.

  “Care to top that one off?” he seemed to be asking, martini shaker in hand.

  “Why Brad,” she’d smile coyly and extend her glass, the diamond bracelet he’d just given her slipping slightly down her slender wrist.

  “Have I ever told you how enchanting you look by firelight?”

  A lady knew how to accept a compliment, demurely
basking in the glow. Drawing her hand through her long, lustrous hair, she’d bring it cascading over her shoulder, all the better for Brad to admire its golden tones.

  “You’re the one, you know.” His voice dark and husky, he’d lean in for a searing, passionate—

  Chirp! Her iPhone notified her that she had a new text. But she didn’t have time to read it right now; she needed to prioritize the big rocks.

  She’d learned all about rocks at time-management training. Last year everyone in her pay grade at the county agency had been required to attend. A balding slim-suited motivational speaker had stood front-and-center at a folding table with a glass jar and a pile of rocks. First, he’d jammed the rocks into the jar willy-nilly, but he only fit about half of them. Then, he’d worked some magic. Starting first with the biggest rocks, then moving on to smaller ones and finally sweeping in the pebbles—presto!—every single rock fit perfectly.

  The takeaway? You had to prioritize the big rocks. The most important stuff. You couldn’t get distracted by stain removal. You needed tunnel vision to look right past that gigantic stack of unopened mail including unpaid bills and time-sensitive tax documents. The most highly effective people—the CEOs of the world, the entrepreneurs who went from start-up to global domination, the small-town farm girls named Fran who launched themselves into Manhattan socialites known as Bunny—they knew how to keep their eyes on the prize. And so did Clara.

  Back to business, Clara clicked on another photo: Brad astride skis at the top of a mountain, ranges of snow-capped peaks in the background. Then another, from a batch of photos taken last weekend. Ashley had thrown a lavish garden party complete with a billowing, white tent in the backyard of their New Jersey mansion. Was it an ad for an HGTV dream house? No, just Brad’s $3.7 million home (thank you, Zillow).

  She’d sure showed him, huh? Clara made herself snort. It was a loud one, but that was a bonus to living alone: totally free reign with the snorting. Back in college, she’d really thought she’d taught Brad a lesson when she’d broken up with him in a self-righteous fit. She’d done it right after he’d told her that after graduation he’d decided to follow his father into investment banking. “Way to sell out to the man!” she believed she’d shrieked at him at a crowded party.

  “Hellooo! Is it too late to change my mind?” she called out to her empty apartment. “I’d like to sell out too, please!” Another perk to living alone: talking to yourself with total impunity.

  “I mean, it’s OK,” Clara muttered, surveying their acre of perfectly trimmed lawn, sculpted shrubbery and early blooming tulips. “But it’s no 1-bedroom rental in Oakland with a patio the size of a postage stamp.” That was what Clara could afford on her salary as a program compliance manager at CAHWCFC, the County Administration for the Health and Well-Being of Children, Families and Caregivers. There, Clara took on poverty by obtaining regulatory permits, procuring appropriate public disclosure documentation, and coordinating the implementation of mitigation measures when required. The only problem was she’d simultaneously fallen asleep and developed a splitting migraine while thinking of her job description. Apparently Saving The Children and Ending Poverty As We Know It was a larger and somewhat less glamorous vocation than she’d anticipated back in college.

  She hadn’t had any fully-formed notions back then about what she’d actually do, but she had burned bright with purpose. Others might head into business, lured by the almighty buck. But Clara? She would single-handedly save the needy children of the world!

  It turned out that watching a revival screening of Dr. Zhivago while taking Comparative Social Inequalities and declaring her major sophomore year had created the perfect storm. At 19, Clara had developed a clear vision of her future: heroic, selfless and trend-settingly gorgeous, she’d do philanthropic work set against a Russian winter landscape. Perhaps arriving in poor country villages via horse-drawn sleigh, she’d withdraw her hand from her rabbit fur muff—she’d always wanted one of those hand-warmer thingies—and reach into a sack Santa-style to hand out brightly wrapped presents to soot-covered yet grateful street urchins. On her off hours she’d hold and soothe sweet-tempered orphan babies while handsome young doctors would bring her hot cocoa and ask if she needed a break. “Not yet,” she’d say, as stoic as she was beautiful. Also, she’d be in a fur coat with the babies.

  Shockingly, career planning that solid hadn’t held up so well. Reality had proved a touch different. Clara figured that if you packed up all the good she had done in her ten years post-college, it would probably fit into a teeny-tiny doll-sized suitcase. Perfect for taking a trip to Barbie’s Dream House. Where Ashley lived. With her Ken doll, Brad. No, that metaphor didn’t actually make sense, but it resonated deeply with Clara as she scooped another huge spoonful of dinner/ice cream into her mouth.

  Time to click on that photo of Brad rocking a tux at a New York City benefit.

  “May I have this dance?” Brad seemed to ask with his eyes. Oh my! Clara could picture herself gliding into the ballroom in a gown the color of moonlight. She’d have her hair up, too, and dainty slippers to dance the night away. Brad would slide his hand along the small of her back, strong and sure.

  “Meow!” Like a cat pouncing atop a wedding cake, Jedi ruined the fantasy. Clara looked up to see the cat glaring at her with emotion best described as malice.

  “Jedi.” Clara acknowledged her foe. Had she remembered to feed him? A glance to the kitchenette confirmed that, yes, a can of cat food sat empty on the counter.

  “Meow!” Jedi insisted again, digging his claws into Clara’s coat. Ah, Clara nodded in comprehension. He was missing the leather armchair that used to make his favorite seat every night. The one that Clara used to throw her coat onto, instead of the hardwood floor where it now lay providing insufficient padding. The one that Gil had taken with him when he’d left her.

  “Yeah, that was one great chair,” Clara sighed in agreement, taking a sip of wine. She missed that chair.

  Someday soon she’d pick herself up, dust herself off and buy one of those red wrap-dresses women wore “after” on Jenny Craig commercials. She’d spin her way through the city, carefree and ready for love. Maybe even buy a replacement chair.

  But right now she still needed more time to re-group. Because, honestly, as she sat there in her empty apartment—apparently Gil had owned nearly all of the furniture, including the TV—she mostly felt like asking, “Wait, what happened?” This wasn’t the way things were supposed to turn out. Ten years out of college and her closest companion was a fat cat who hated her.

  Everyone knew the tried-and-true recipe that you were supposed to follow:

  1) Start with early-20’s dating

  2) Whisk in mid-20’s living together

  3) Mix in late-20’s engagement

  4) Bake in marriage

  By 31 almost 32, you got to take it all out of the oven! You were married, had a baby, maybe were starting work on your second child before hitting the big 35. Clara saw it happening all around her.

  Except in her own kitchen. Smoke billowing out of the stove, her onions had charred to black. Her steak had remained raw in the middle, her soufflé had collapsed. She really was a terrible cook.

  She pushed her wine glass onto the side table next to the looming pile of unopened mail. A mini cascade showered down on her, much like a few puffs of snow gently rolling off of an enormous cliff poised above a small village. A few envelopes fluttered to her side—Sirius XM radio! Save on your car insurance!—a couple catalogues, and then a magazine smacked her upside the head and landed right in her lap.

  Clara looked down at it. A male model looked back up at her. Darkly handsome with thick black hair and full lips, he had a killer jawline with a hint of stubble.

  Realizing she was looking at Cornell’s Alumni Magazine, Clara wondered when her alma mater had started putting models on the cover of its monthly publication. Was it some kind of a push to increase readership and, as a result, donations? Not a bad i
dea. Clara picked up the magazine.

  “Knight in Shining Lab Coat” the headline read. Apparently this dark and handsome guy was some kind of brilliant scientist.

  Clara read his name. As if the pages had suddenly caught flame, she dropped the magazine back in her lap. That was no male model. That was Aleksander Novak, the teaching assistant who hated her.

  During senior year she had taken astronomy to fulfill her one outstanding science requirement as a communications major. And, yes, she had assumed the class would largely feature stargazing. She’d prepared for it by purchasing a big, chunky red wool scarf so she’d stay warm while heading out for midnight observations. She figured she might also have to build a solar system model with painted Styrofoam balls, but she had that one in the bag since she’d already aced the project in sixth grade.

  Turned out, intro astronomy at Cornell was a lab science in the physics department, observations done through analyzing data sets on a computer, background in calculus preferred. Clara’s high school math career had topped out with Algebra II. As a result, she’d flung herself onto Aleksander Novak’s weekly office hours like a drowning rat onto a plank of driftwood. He’d been as psyched as anyone overrun with a rodent problem.

  Refill! She poured herself another glass of red wine and looked back at his photo. She hadn’t remembered him as being that handsome, but, then again, it was hard to tell what someone looked like when they radiated disapproval. Come to think of it, there was something arrogant in that pose on the cover. Like he wore a lab coat all the time? Actually, this guy probably did—she remembered him as the ultimate no-fun-allowed buzzkill. Where had he been from again? Siberia or Rangoon, somewhere freezing and joyless where he’d grown up fashioning rocks and sticks into mathematical equations.