Transit Girl. Jamie Shupak

I had worked with at other stations. For one, he’s not a smarmy egomaniac like Stevie Morris from Chicago. And he’s not a dirty old man like Brad Kinney in Miami who would mentally, then verbally, note the neckline of my shirt or dress each morning. Nope, Eric’s reputation is as perfectly polished as each strand of chocolaty-brown hair on his head. As I look at his bare face and slightly undone tie, I see regular-guy Eric, not TV Eric, and I almost start telling him what just happened. But I can’t. I’m still getting to know him, and I don’t want him to think I’m some kind of drama queen. Plus I can feel more tears waiting to escape from a ball in my throat.

      “Wow, sorry. I’m a little tired today. Here, let me …” I say as I fumble with my iPhone. Every morning I DJ the makeup room for us with a shuffling of songs through the decades. It depends on my mood, but some days it’s an Otis Redding tune from Dirty Dancing. I love Otis; he’s my favorite. Well, next to Ray LaMontagne, I guess. Other days it’s the latest Jay-Z/Kanye West collaboration. Whether it’s the Grateful Dead or Lady Gaga, it’s always turned up to maximum volume until Eric walks in, when I bring down the decibels so we can discuss anything that’s occurred since the previous morning. (Nope, nothing to see here; keep moving.)

      I hit play, and of course “Part-Time Lover” comes on. Eric starts humming along, and I can’t find the next button fast enough. Sorry, Stevie, not today. My finger stabs at the pause button instead, and I feel myself starting to freak out as I frantically search for something to play—something preferably not about clandestine affairs. I pause for a minute and pretend to scan an email. “Oh shit, I have to reply to this …” My voice trails off as I grab my makeup and my hair iron before Eric has time to ask who’s urgently emailing me at 4:30 AM.

      “See you on TV,” I call back over my shoulder.

      Back in my studio, I wire myself up with my microphone and IFB—the earpiece TV people wear in order to hear the producer or director during the show. For me, it’s those two people, plus Eric, who I talk to each morning. Just like the din from my TVs, it feels nice to have someone else’s voice in my head for a while—someone other than Courtney’s, or even my own. I stick a wet Q-tip under my eyes to make sure my mascara hasn’t turned on me already and apply another quick coat of lip gloss. I look in the mirror and take a deep breath. You can do this, Guiliana. You can do this. I step into the bright lights in front of my even brighter green screen and adjust my hair and necklace around my microphone, just like I do every other morning. But it’s not every other morning. It’s September 13, and I just found out the man I love, the man I was going to marry, is sleeping with his twenty-two-year-old assistant.

      “And you’re live in five, four, three, two …”

      I don’t feel nervous when I hear Eric say my name, cueing me up through my earpiece—I’m in cruise control. “But before we get to the weather, let’s go to the traffic center and Guiliana Layne with a look at the morning commute. Hey G, starting to feel that change of season, huh?”

      As the green on-air switch lights up, so do I. “Yep. Things felt pretty different when I stepped outside this morning, that’s for sure.”

      Breathe, G, breathe.

      “And unfortunately I don’t have much better news on the rails. The A train is suspended from West Fourth Street to Forty-second Street because of a police investigation, so keep that in mind if the A train is part of your morning commute. As for the roads, it’s a busy one this Wednesday morning.” I take a breath.

      “We begin at the Lincoln Tunnel, where a car fire is blocking access to the north tube trying to leave the city, so you’re gonna have to take the Holland or George instead, heading to New Jersey.”

      Breathe.

      “To Brooklyn we go, where the northbound BQE is jammed from the WillyB to Queens Boulevard. And if you’re hopping on the Belt Parkway by JFK Airport, get ready to sit in big-time slow downs westbound all the way out to Flatbush Avenue. Alternate side is in effect today citywide. Eric, back to you.”

      Breathe.

      “And we’re clear. See you again in thirty minutes, G.” I’ve never been so relieved to hear those words. I look at the clock. I got all that out in one minute, right on schedule. I take a quick peek in my hand mirror. Mascara? Check. I’m struck by how normal I look, like it’s any other day. On the monitors glowing in front of me, it is any other day. The traffic is ebbing and flowing, inching forward and then swarming together in clusters of red. I sit down at my desk and watch, waiting for the clusters of red to break and things to start moving forward again. I’m looking for answers.

CHAPTER FIVE

      One new text message from Gemma.

       WHAT HAPPENED, G??!?!?!?!? COME OVER

      I have to lean all of my body weight into the heavy revolving door of Gemma’s building on Jane Street to make it spin around. I feel like a toddler trying to push their dad down during football lessons in the backyard—it’s almost impossible. I’ve circled through these doors almost as many times as I have those to my own building, but the familiarity does nothing to calm any of my nausea or confusion. Since Gemma quit what she thought was her dream job (being the right-hand woman to a certain stylist-to-the-stars) and moved back from L.A. about five years ago, I’ve been coming here almost every single day, so I don’t have to tell the doorman who I’m here to see. He knows I’m heading to 24J.

      As I get off the elevator I check my phone (12:16 PM) and say a little thanks that Gemma runs her own business, which means she’s home in the middle of the day to field my emotional crisis. I’m so relieved to have made it through work and to her place that I fling open the door so hard it bounces off the wall and almost back in my face. She embraces me the way only a sister can, though technically she’s not related to me at all, of course. She holds me as I lose my breath, then my balance, and eventually all ability to even stand. I’m like a rag doll in her arms. She guides me to the couch and all but tosses me into my favorite corner of her tan suede L-shape and grabs for the blue fuzzy blanket behind me. It’s barely chilly outside and it’s actually pretty warm inside here, but I’m shaking.

      “I’m freezing.”

      “Let me get you some water, Guils. You don’t look so hot. Have you eaten anything?”

      “I can’t … wait, Gem … let me …”

      She walks over to the fridge and my eyes follow her every step. As she opens the door and it swings in my direction I wince as I catch a glimpse of the framed picture of us clipped into a magnet. I remember that night like it was yesterday. It was Gemma’s birthday two years ago. We got so drunk because JR and her boyfriend Luke were both out of town for work. Our faces are smushed together—“like two Gs in a pod,” as our moms like to say—and our two intoxicated smiles are almost joined into one. “Will you be my maid of honor?” is spelled out in brightly colored sticker letters along the border. As if I even had to ask her.

      Gemma grabs for my shaking hands under the blanket and makes sure I have a firm grasp on the glass of water before she lets go. Then she puts the blanket back down over both of us. We’re sitting knee-to-knee, Indian-style. I glance down at my phone in my lap: 12:32 PM.

      “I’m gonna kill him, G,” Gemma says. “And if I don’t, Luke will. Tell me. Tell me everything.”

      I take a deep breath and start to cry. “Gem, I c-c-c-can’t … believe … this is happening. Wait, p-p-p-please can you promise me something first?” She nods. “You can’t say anything to anyone about this because once everyone knows, they’re gonna want me to pack, end it, and move out. And this might be a huge mistake, what he’s done. I mean it, no one. Not my mom, no tweeting, no nothing.”

      She nods again. “I mean, Luke saw the look on my face when we were Gchatting this morning. So he knows something is up. But I won’t tell him anything else …” She pauses, looks at me, then continues. “Yet.”