A Perfect Life?. Dawn Atkins

city clamor to a whisper while she’d slept, Claire tugged it open and stepped onto her bookshelf-size terrace. Sucking in fresh oxygen, she let Central Avenue’s hum and growl fill her ears. For a second, she remembered how happy she was to be here—right in the middle of downtown, close to the city’s pulse, part of the action. From the fifth floor, she could easily see Camelback Mountain.

      What about the apartment now? This was Claire’s first adult place and she was going to gradually buy real furniture, not the bricks-and-board shelves or bean bag chairs she’d had since college. Jared and she had been going to split the rent and on move-in day—Saturday—they were going to buy a couch together. Well, a futon, but close enough. Buying furniture was a committed couple thing to do. Except Jared was already committed to someone else.

      That lovely bubble of love she’d been floating around in popped, splattering her with stinging flecks of soap, thanks to K-BUZ Radio’s Valentine’s Day extravaganza. Without Jared, she wouldn’t be able to keep this apartment. Not without a huge raise. She was only a mini account exec at Biggs & Vega Advertising, with tiny clients—car repair shops, a tire wholesaler and dry cleaners—and it would take her a while to build. She’d just begun her buckle-down campaign a week ago. She was twenty-five—a whole quarter of a century old—with a serious boyfriend, she’d reasoned, so it was time to get serious about her career. Just the day before she’d asked Ryan Ames, a senior account exec, to be her mentor.

      Her mind flitted through odd thoughts—her futon-no-more, her now-too-expensive apartment, her new mentor Ryan and Mr. Tires, her biggest tiny account—anything but the nuclear blast that had just vaporized her heart.

      Maybe she was still asleep and this was a nightmare. She pinched herself on the forearm—ouch—and then again just to be sure. Ouch again. She was awake, all right. And filled with the feeling she got when she’d done something dreadful—like spilled red punch on Mr. Biggs’s Italian loafers at the Christmas party or bit down on a walnut shell, cracking her tooth—situations where she’d give anything to do a quick rewind of the moment. Turn left instead of right. Spit instead of swallow.

      She grabbed the railing and took in more air. Blindly, she watched traffic pass. How many people zipping down Central had just heard her on-air humiliation? Her gaze caught on a man heading toward her building. She recognized him as the musician who’d been playing on her corner for tips the last couple of mornings. She’d dubbed him Guitar Guy. She was certain that he hadn’t been listening to K-BUZ. He was about her age.

      Claire stepped back into her bedroom, slid the door shut and thumped her head on the cool glass a couple of times before dropping to sit on the floor. Resting her chin on her knees, she let a couple of tears slip down her cheeks and onto her shins. But just two. That was all the leakage she’d allow for that rat. Jared, how could you be married?

      And how had she picked him to fall in love with? She’d taken her time, looked around, chosen very carefully. Oh, yeah. She’d very carefully picked out a cheating bastard.

      Well, she couldn’t sit here feeling sorry for herself. Heartache or no, she had a job to get to. And a career to boost. She’d feel better once she got moving. Shine it on, her friend Kitty would tell her. Climb back onto that little red tricycle and pedal on, sister.

      Managing a smile at the thought, Claire tromped to the bathroom and turned the shower on ultra hot. She grabbed the loofah Kitty and her other two best friends had given her as part of their apartment-warming gift and dragged it across her back. Too scratchy. No pain, no gain, her friend Emily would say. She’d call the Jared disaster a learning experience. Zoe, who’d picked out the raspberry face soother, would tell her to be gentle with herself to get through the hurt.

      Claire sighed. She needed to talk to her friends about this disaster. The four called themselves the Chickateers—all for one and one for all—sharing the good, the bad and the dreadful every Wednesday for Game Night. They gathered at Talkers, a bar not far from Claire’s apartment, to talk, drink wine and play a game they took turns choosing.

      Thank God tonight was Game Night. She would share her tale of woe and the Chickateers would tell her what to do. And it would all be okay.

      Scalded pink from the sizzling shower, Claire wrapped herself in a thick Egyptian-cotton towel—also from the Chickateers—and headed for her huge walk-in closet—another thing she loved about this apartment and did not want to lose.

      What to wear? Now that she was getting serious about her career, clothes were an issue. In advertising, appearance was everything. She had to make the right statement. She pulled out a Lycra tank top and suede miniskirt. Too casual. How about this kicky gauze tie-dye number? Too femmie. She flipped more hangers. At the back, she found the suit her mother had given her when she first got hired at B&V. Navy blue, tailored lines. Very dress-for-success.

      Perfect, because from now on, Claire would focus on success. Without Jared in her life, she could stay late at work, take work home. Not that her piddly-ass accounts required much extra effort. Penny-saver ads and newspaper flyers mostly. She sighed.

      That’s what Ryan Ames would help her with. He was new to the firm, but a very hot exec who’d brought some top accounts with him, and she was pretty sure he liked her. When she’d proposed the mentor idea yesterday, she’d thought she detected a flicker of the man-woman thing on his face, but it faded so fast she figured she’d imagined it. She’d definitely talk to him today. Anything to distract her from the misery that kept rising in her throat like one too many Jell-O shooters.

      Clothes on, Claire headed into her bright white, melamine-cupboarded kitchen for something to put in her stomach. There was nothing but Crystal Lite and celery in the fridge. Just as well. She felt like hurling.

      For a minute she wanted to crawl back into bed, suit and all, throw the covers over her head and just cry.

      No way.

      She had to keep going—slog through the day until Game Night, when her friends would help her. She needed their guidance more than ever. Jared the Jerk was proof positive that her judgment was wonky. Where were her instincts anyway? In her butt? Somewhere the sun didn’t shine, that’s for sure. She was clueless about men. And lame about love. Rotten at romance? That had a ring to it. If she were writing a commercial about herself.

      No matter what, she would not call Jared. Uh-uh. Regardless of how her fingers itched to hit speed-dial one. No way. She’d walk to work. Early. Better to keep moving and stay away from phones.

      She jogged to the elevator, rushed across the lobby, pushed out the glass doors and rounded the corner, where she ran smack-dab into Guitar Guy.

      “Oh,” she said, backing up a step. “Hi.”

      She had to admit he was a hunk. About her age, she thought, and very tan. This close she could see he wasn’t a druggie. He had intense gray eyes that seemed smart, not frantic and not a bit bleary. Shaggy black hair—too long—hung over his forehead, and he wore comfortable-looking cords and a gray muscle shirt, worn, but clean. A stylized yin-yang tattoo ringed his left bicep, and he wore a stud in one ear. He smelled of soap—Irish Spring?—and patchouli.

      Watching his fingers on the well-polished guitar, Claire felt a little vibration shimmy along her nerves. The music was old-fashioned and torchy. Something you’d drink brandy and sniffle to in some smoky bar. And he was good. Very good.

      As she walked past, he spoke, the words so soft they were like a whisper in her head. “You’re trying too hard.”

      She stopped dead and turned. “I beg your pardon?”

      “That getup you’re wearing.” He gave her a slow head-to-toe perusal. There was a little bit of sex in it, but it was more like a friend determining whether something fifty-percent off was really you or not.

      “You’re critiquing my outfit?” she asked.

      He met her gaze steadily. “Just making an observation.”

      “Well, I have one for you then. You need a haircut.”

      He considered her words, then