They say that a lady walking in stiletto heels means business, for the clicking sound exudes her power and confidence; however, when you drag your feet as I do, the clicking is more like a screeching, ominous symphony. It's not power nor confidence–it's the echo of misery and exhaustion.
Thankfully, I am alone in the hallway.
My phone keeps vibrating in my purse, and I let it ring, reluctant to face the world. Coming to a halt by the front door of our condominium unit, I lower my gaze, letting my long, brown locks cascade over my face. I silently scrutinize my reflection on the polished glass tiles, fingers on the doorknob. I take a few deep breaths and pretend to smile, only to notice that I am close to tears.
I remember how I was around three hours ago. I was way different from the girl I am looking at right now. I look sad. My eyelids feel extremely heavy and lifting my limbs is challenging. All I crave is sleep. To forget.
Well, I guess I am sad.
The outcome of today's events isn't new to me. Nevertheless, this thing happening over and over again will never give me immunity. Truthfully, the feeling of worthlessness I go through gets worse every time. Why did I expect this date to be different anyway? What was inside this stupid head of mine?
Fine. Allow me to elaborate: I just got rejected. Again. What aggravates me is that this time, I did everything I could to be attractive. I splurged on a new pair of red pumps and an expensive, black dress. I painted my nails burgundy and even used a hair straightener to style my wavy hair. Heck, I even stalked the guy on social media so that I'd know exactly which topics to bring up before I see him.
No, he didn't explicitly tell me he didn't like me, but he also didn't have to. The mere fact that he ended the date abruptly was enough. There will be no second date.
I grunt as the events of the night vividly unfurl in my memories.
"Sam, I'm really sorry. This is embarrassing, but I forgot that I have to finish some research," Mark told me without looking me in the eye. He fiddled with his sleeves and added, "I have to go."
"Oh, um, I see. It's okay. I also have to work on some projects anyway," I lied, glancing at my watch, my insides tangled into knots.
Two hours. It only took two hours for it all to crumble.
He asked for the bill. I offered to pay for my share, which he politely refused, then we walked out of the restaurant.
"Do you need a ride?" I offered, a last attempt to prolong the date. Pathetic, I know.
He looked down, toyed with his sleeves again, shoulders rigid. "No, I'll take the cab."
"Are you sure? Where are you going? I can probably drop you off."
He shook his head quietly. "I'm good."
He waved his hand, and a taxi parked in front of us. My shoulders fell in defeat.
"Bye, Sam."
"Yeah, sure. Bye. Thanks."
"Yeah... Thanks."
And then Mark left. That was it. The end.
He was my type. He worked as a journalist. He was funny and smart and he wore eyeglasses that made him look older despite his youthful features. But who cares what I thought? He blew me off after dinner. My preparation took longer than the date itself.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
I growl as I open the door and then cross the threshold of our condominium unit number 1604. I emphasize "our" because I share this two-bedroom space with my older brother, Patrick. Flicking on the lights, the interior I had meticulously designed comes into view.
The kitchen walls are painted marble gray, with wood countertops and three bar stools separating the kitchen from the dining area. Black and white curtains hang on top of the windows, and a wine rack filled with bottles of red wine and champagne was placed in the corner. A sink sits atop the neatly arranged wooden cupboards, housing utensils and dry goods, with a condiments rack hanging nearby, accompanied by a mounted pot rack.
Moving to the dining room, painted in serene ivory white, a wooden dining set for four is in the center. A white ceramic vase with sunflowers graces the table. I replace the flowers every week because I insist on keeping fresh ones. Next, the utility room where we do laundry is just behind the kitchen.
From the dining area, it will take merely seven steps to reach the living room, adorned with a silvery, sectional sofa adorned with beige throw pillows, perfectly complementing the 48" flat-screen TV. The living room walls are ivory white as well, and a gray carpet covers the entire floor. We have another wooden, square center table with a vase on top. Again, I put in fresh sunflowers to bring in a touch of nature indoors. Patrick's DVD collection is near the TV, while another wooden bookshelf is next to the enormous glass windows. When daylight streams in, the brown curtains gracefully cascade from ceiling to floor, casting a warm and cozy ambiance.
Our bedrooms are conveniently located opposite each other, while the only bathroom is between our bedrooms. A family picture from 16 years ago (Mom, Dad, Patrick, and I) hangs next to the bathroom door.
Heaving another sigh out of frustration, I sit on the couch and stare at the space in defeat. Patrick's not here, and thank God he isn't. Who knows what he'll say to get on my nerves again?
He is two years older than me, and yes, we are close, but his constant desire to mock me for my failed dates surpasses the sisterly love he has for me.
I kick my shoes off my feet, and they hit the center table, making another crisp click sound. My phone finally stops ringing. In an attempt to distract myself, I power on the television, idly flicking through channels. The sound it emits is vibrant to my ears; my mind, however, is flying elsewhere.
"Where did I go wrong?" I whisper to myself in angst.
I feel so small and stupid and hopeless. I have no idea why my blind dates always end up leaving after dinner. The moment they request the bill without asking for my phone number, I realize that it's over. No second date.
My phone rings. Again. I fumble through my purse and see that it is Cathy—my matchmaker and one of my very few friends. She won't stop calling. I wince. She'll definitely chew me out again and then I'll go on explaining that I don't know what I did wrong because honestly, I really don't. As I've said, I have no idea!
The moment the phone lands on my ear, Cathy is already yelling, "What the hell happened again, Sam?"
She is disappointed in me. Hah. Good for her because I don't even know what to feel about myself.
"This is the fifth blind date I set up for you. What again?"
"Same thing," I reply, voice barely audible. My self-esteem is already beaten into a pulp. After all, it is already my fifth blind date. How long has it been since I started doing this? A year? Ugh. I've lost count.
I hear Cathy sigh wearily across the line. "He called me. He said you were too good for him. You're successful and too nice plus, you deserve a more suitable man—"
"And he isn't the one?" I hiss. These are the same reasons I've been hearing all my life. Back then, I thought these recycled excuses were compliments. After listening to them a million times, however, it has started to make me feel insulted. I am 'too good' because I have a stable career? Because I can financially support myself? What do they mean by that? How can I be 'too nice' when they do not even want a second date?
"I'm wondering if you're unknowingly giving off the wrong signals to chase them away."
"What? Why is this about me?" I scowl, feeling a slight twinge in my stomach.
"I'm not blaming you, alright? You're the bomb. I'm just not sure what's going on. Did you even like him?"
Great. Even my friend is confused. Same, Cathy. Same.
"I did."
"Then did you make an effort to show him? Maybe he thought you weren't interested."
"Geez, I'm not that uptight. I know how to flirt," I grumble, leaning on the sofa to relax my back a bit. "You know what, Cathy? Stop matchmaking me. I don't want to do this anymore. It sucks. I don't need a boyfriend. I'm rich anyway. Romance is overrated."
"Sam—"
"It's cool. I'll just work my ass off forever. I'm happy with my career, and I have you guys. It's more than enough for me."
I sound miserable, but this is Cathy. She's been my friend since high school, while Bea and Sandy became our friends during freshman year in university. Therefore, if there is anyone who would have the slightest inkling of how I ended up being a 26-year-old who has never had a long-term boyfriend, it will definitely be Cathy.
"Sam, you're a great woman. I really think that they all meant what they said. You are, well, too accomplished. And... Maybe that's the reason why," she mumbles.
I scoff. "You can't be serious."
"Hey, I'm not saying it's your fault."
I get up from the couch, eager to change into more comfortable clothes. The dress is snug on my waist, and it just reminds me that I tried too hard, yet still failed.
"Then what does 'too good' actually mean? Whose fault is it then?" I snatch up my shoes and start pacing. "Please. Enlighten me. 'Cause I'm starting to believe that it's a line made up for people who can't say what they truly think."
"We just haven't found the right man. You're probably out of their league."
"Am I? That's such a stupid defense," I hiss, shaking my head.
"You know what? Maybe I've been picking the wrong men. They're all trash."
I pause. What am I doing? This is not on her.
I heave a sigh.
"No, no, no. I'm sorry... I shouldn't take this out on you. You're trying to help. I'm just... So pissed, Cathy. You know that I'm trying so hard, and it's like none of it matters. I wish they would just tell me the real reason why they don't like me. I don't want to question myself anymore."
"No, it's alright, Sam. You're frustrated," she answers. "This wouldn't be hard if only we could fool around in the office. Jonathan from HR has the hots for you."
I roll my eyes at the suggestion. I'm aware that she's only trying to make me feel better, but Jonathan's a kid, and he's a temp. He's only 22 years old.
"You gotta be kidding me. He's like my younger brother. It's not like there are decent guys in the office—"
I finally twist the doorknob of my bedroom door, revealing the most disturbing scene I never thought I'd witness in my whole life.
"What the..." I gasp.
"Sam?" I hear Cathy across the line.
"I'll call you back, okay?" I end the call abruptly, dropping my shoes and my purse on the floor.
Pieces of clothing are everywhere—clothes that don't belong to me. My eyes dart to the bed, and I recognize the jet-black, messy hair and bare, broad shoulders. His lips are pink and slightly parted. Even with his eyes closed, he is incredibly good-looking. Still incredibly good-looking.
I can't believe that he's here. After three years, he's back in the Philippines—in my room.
I am supposed to be happy about it at the very least. We weren't that close, but since he's someone I've known since I was a teenager, I should be able to tolerate his presence.
I can do that. Really.
Except, he is lying half-naked with a woman I don't even recognize. On. My. Bed.
My pulse speeds up, fingers trembling in rage. The fatigue and worthlessness I was feeling a moment ago are instantly replaced with resentment. In fact, the bottled up anger and frustration I have been keeping all this while erupt all at once.
"Derek!!!" I scream at the top of my lungs, not caring if the neighbors can hear. I am seething with anger. His timing couldn't be worse.
They jolt awake in surprise. Derek sits upright, groaning, then he rubs his temples. He looks at me, eyes half-opened, with no sense of remorse whatsoever. The woman, on the other hand, turns beet red. She is only wearing her undergarments. As if caught in a criminal act, she hurriedly grabs her clothes from the floor and begins putting them on without looking at me. She must have been aware that I am so close to strangling her.
Crap! What did I do to deserve such a bad day?!
Derek stretches his arms and then grins at me. The audacity of this man. It is 11 PM, and he is in my room with a short-haired woman who looks years younger than both of us.
My nostrils flare as I shout, "What the hell?!
"Chill, Sam. You're so loud," he complains, scratching his neck. "Welcome home."
"You jerk!" I leap onto my bed and grab his hair with both hands. Derek yells in pain as he tries to push me away, while the woman stands there, stunned. But I don't stop. I've had enough for one day, and he's managed to infuriate me even more.
"Ouch! Stop it! What are you doing?!" He continuously tries to get rid of me. I continue pulling his hair until he falls to the floor, and then I finally let go. With the blanket completely gone as his cover, I notice he is only wearing his boxers. A quick scan is enough to make me realize that his bodily proportions have changed. They've changed enough to make a girl go red.
It isn't a big deal because Patrick likes going to the gym, but it is a little odd since Derek and I aren't blood-related, and we haven't seen each other for so long. The last time I saw him half-naked was on a beach trip at least ten years ago.
He's definitely, definitely, way hotter now.
Christ. What am I thinking?