Shut Up and Eat Your Cake

|| ONE ||

Chapter 1:

If you decided to think of a successful college graduate, with an internship in the most famous magazine in all New York, a GPA of 3.9 and a body that almost all of her/my colleagues call 'extremely sexy' for an excuse to hit on her/me every single day, you would not think of a mass of auburn hair sitting in a dirty old public toilet with an almost dead phone, less than 5% of the Battery charged and nowhere to go. That was for sure.

I never thought, in my twenty-three years of age, that I would end up, head in hand, on a public toilet, on Valentine's Day, looking for five underage children and a slightly older guy that can take over three or even four of those WWE contestants who show up with that weird gold belt thingy.

But you know, nor did that girl who was sitting in the stall next to me, on my right, crying her eyeballs out and telling me the story of how her boyfriend died last year in a car crash and how this was the very first Valentine's Day she spent mourning on him. She even described his – and I quote – "amazing green eyes and perfect blonde hair" that I thought she was trying to make fun of me for not having a boyfriend.

Nor the one on my left, who was (and probably still is) laughing her pants off for God knows what and clapping every time anybody said the word 'Why?' that I even considered calling 911, but I dropped it off, telling myself that I should mind my own business.

How did I end up here? You might ask.

And I might tell you that, though I have absolutely no exact idea or great recognition of what had happened so fast I pinched myself to make sure it's not a dream, I have a very strong hunch that perhaps it had something to do with the reason that Kelly Henning, my boss, had instructed me to go to the airport and drive home her charming loving sons.

Charming loving sons my ass, more like five British gorillas burping their guts off and a small five year-old who was, indeed, the highlight of my day. And let me just tell you, they weren't 'charming' or 'loving' at all. And I didn't (and still don't) know why I, whose job was – emphasize on was – to bring coffee, print sheets of paper and smile whilst doing so despite the burning urge to kick someone, was being left with this peculiar and annoying assignment. 

Although this wasn't really an explanation of my situation or how I got there, at least, it was its main cause, because, while five tall 'charming' sons with ages ranging between twenty-five and thirteen, plus the mentioned beforehand small five year-old were the least of my problems, they turned out to be my biggest and most dangerous one. Yet.

Mainly, the reason was that Garrett, the guy that's almost twice as tall as me, stole (okay, fine, I gave it to him, because I was scared he might hit me or something) my car keys, shoved the kids inside the car and left me to rot in my place, outside of the airport.

And not just that, but from the very inaugural beginning of this dull (or not) Tuesday's morning I was circling through the part between the airport, Mr. and Mrs. Henning's home, the older guy's apartment  and the lovely headquarters of the magazine I'm working at, at least, four or five times. On foot. And I wasn't even being paid to do that.

Not only have I been left with none other than a laughing crazy woman and another one that can't stop crying, have been left without any form of transportation, but also – as in to make this day any worse – the money in my handbag can't even buy me a coffee.

Perfect.

Just perfect

If there was something I particularly desired there and then, it was for an evil enough guy (or girl, no preferences) to open the door and kill me in my place, take the blame for it, and hope no one loves me enough to come and kill him (or her, again, no preferences).