Read Online Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single by Heather McElhatton - Free Book Online

painful echo of BigKev saying lose a little weight is playing on a continuous loop in my head. I have this piercing dehydration/humiliation headache and I look like I’ve been in a small fistfight. I used an antipuff serum and calming facial wash, along with three different kinds of cover-up, but what I really need is some spackle and a trowel.
    I can’t stop thinking about David. I know he was a bastard, but besides that, he was perfect for me. Tall, creative, musical.He loved bad bars and strong drinks, but he wasn’t anywhere close to being an alcoholic. He was funny. He had such a perfect sense of humor. The only problem with David was he didn’t feel the same way about me. He said he did, but he was constantly standing me up and treating me like shit, but if I’m going to be honest, there was something about that that seemed right.
    David was very forceful. Sex with him was like being bumped with a shopping cart. Then he was done and snoring next to you.
    I linger in my car and re-do my makeup, hoping maybe Brad Keller might show up again. This time I could be charming and funny instead of paranoid and enraged. Maybe he likes angry, complaining women. Some men do, especially if their mothers were that way. Maybe Brad has had his share of women who are people pleasers and sycophants; maybe he’s still single because he hasn’t found that sassy firecracker he’s been looking for. I wait in my car as long as I possibly can, my windows fogging over with my breath until I’m late for the plus-size prom dress shoot.
    I get up to my cubicle and wrestle off my hundred-pound Eddie Bauer parka. The thing is double-insulated, double-quilted, and double-stuffed, and will keep you warm in an ice storm, but it makes me look huge and it’s freaking heavy. When I wear it I feel like I’m giving a seventh-grader a piggyback ride. “Good God!” I say, dumping it onto the floor. “Why the hell do we live in Minnesota?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Ted shrugs. “Nice people and lots of parking.”
    â€œMore like nice apathy and lots of depression.”
    â€œOoh,” he says, “those would make good mascots. We could take two Minnesota loons and name them Depression Loon and Apathy Loon. Depression Loon would ask Apathy Loon to peck him to death but Apathy Loon wouldn’t care.” He looks at his watch. “Aren’t you late for the shoot?”
    I’m even later than I thought. I try to pull everything together and Ted hands me his copy of the shot list when I can’t find mine. I snap it up and scamper down the hall. God. I have to remember to never say “scamper” again.
    By the time I get to the studio—a boxy, hot room located conveniently in the Keller’s basement by the boilers—they’ve already set up the lights for the set, which is a series of large white pillars and a wooden gazebo with a barbecue grill in the background. Very midwestern belle epoque Southern plantation hot dish. My eyes adjust slowly, and I make my way over to the coffee table, which I’m hoping will also have aspirin or perhaps prescription-strength pain killers.
    I hear someone shout, “The list? Is it here now ?” and I hurry toward the brilliantly lit set, where Alan, the catalogue director says, “Oh, thank you. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to keep us all waiting.”
    Then Brad blooms into view.
    â€œMr. Keller here is watching the shoot today,” Alan snaps. “He’s the new boss. We do anything he says, got it? Ed Keller’s direct orders. Straight from the top. The people who have been here for years are not the boss now, the new guy, who just got here, he’s the boss.”
    â€œOkay,” I say and Brad raises an eyebrow at me.
    I smile.
    â€œYou’re going to double-check the shot list, Jen,” Alan says. “Since the photo department got bitched at last time, someone