Free New Amsterdam: Tess by Ashley Pullo Page B

locking it behind her, she shouts, “You should leave.”
    Meg lowers the sheet and stares at her figure in the full-body mirror behind the door. She hasn’t worked out in years, and it’s slowly beginning to show. Places that used to be firm and tan are now freckled and flabby. Meg cups her breasts and sighs, watching in horror as her boobs lose their perkiness and her stomach puckers.
    “Meghan?” Seth says outside the door.
    “Go home, Seth!” Meg snaps.
    Starting the shower, Meg waits several minutes before getting in. After feeling the vibration of the front door slamming, she jumps in the scalding hot water to wash away her confusing thoughts.
    It was just sex. After a night of mojitos. But Seth is pretty cool. And he likes me. But we work together. And he annoys me. Immature fuck gave me a hickey! We’ll have to forget last night. Can we? The sex was pretty good. And he didn’t seem to mind the cellulite. I need more shampoo. I’ll avoid him for a few days. Maybe he doesn’t like me. What if he ignores me? Fuck, I’m late for work.
    Shutting off the shower and drying off, Meg quickly brushes her teeth and runs some gel through her black hair. Even with the recent weight gain, Meg still has incredible cheekbones that are perfect for her pixie haircut.
    Rummaging through her tiny IKEA wardrobe, Meg removes a blue and black striped sundress and a pair of white Keds. She lathers lotion on her bare legs, scowling at the ridiculous tattoo that sits on her ankle. She’s been known to tell people that the cherries and skull represent the misconceptions of rebellion, but that tattoo is a direct result of her Rockabilly phase during her sophomore year of college.
    Meg applies very little makeup – liquid black eyeliner for her hazel eyes, peach blush for her freckled cheeks, and hot-pink lip gloss for her pouty lips. Fully dressed, Meg grabs the orange juice carton from the refrigerator and takes a big gulp, gagging as the citrus mixes with her minty-fresh breath.
    “Bleh!” She spits into the sink. Patting her mouth with a napkin, she then reapplies her lip gloss and bolts out the door to head to her favorite place.
    Like Seth, Meg needed a job out of monetary desperation. Raised as a privileged snot in an apartment on the Upper East Side, she’d played the role of darling socialite for eighteen years. But instead of boarding a plane after high school graduation to spend the summer abroad, Meghan Victoria Fitzpatrick chopped off her russet hair, dyed it black, sold her Louis Vuitton luggage, enrolled in theater classes at NYU, moved into a Village apartment with two roommates, and began her adventure as Meg.
    Following college graduation, very few auditions called for a sarcastic pixie with a raspy voice, so Meg worked as a ticket agent during the day, and a cocktail waitress at night. It was such a clichéd story, and like every twenty-something single girl in New York City, Meg wanted an original story – a complex narrative fueled by romance and self-discovery.
    Trying to find her groove, Meg spent two years living on tips, going on auditions, and sleeping with any man that could offer something in return. Her life was disappointing, and she’d had enough. So last summer, armed with her laptop and the determination to find an adventure, Meg set up an outdoor office in a public space in the Seaport. While padding her thin resume outside a coffee shop, Meg overheard Thessaly and Seth discussing media strategies for The Hive. She’d thought it was some trendy nightclub which piqued her interest, but when she quickly Googled the store, she was presently surprised. She wanted to be a part of this small business, but what she really needed was to be a part of something. Using an aggressive yet creative approach, Meg blasted every social media platform with catchy hashtags about The Hive. She then emailed her resume and a short cover letter directly to Thessaly that read: #hireme.
    So it was on that cool summer