Wrong Text, Right Love Read online

  At five, it was hard to pronounce the word archeologist. They are excellent teachers. They always explained everything to us according to our age. By the time I was fifteen, I was old enough to sit down and listen to their presentations. Our discussions at the dinner table were never boring. They spoke about the Mayans or the latest discovery in Tuzusai, Kazakhstan.

  My parents don’t know this, but I always thought they had the coolest job in the world.

  According to my brother, Eros, they got paid to discover human activity while playing in a huge sandbox. He might be the oldest of the Brassard children, but the guy hasn’t matured one bit. Even our baby sister, Callie, knows how to be an adult better than him.

  If you’re wondering if I’m the middle child, the answer is maybe. My sister Nyx and I share the honor of being in between those two—we are Irish twins. Meaning, she was born only ten months before me. She’s my best friend.

  Back to me, though. All my life, I’ve been traveling around the world. My parents loved dragging us with them during their excavations. I was raised by progressive parents who believe in hands-on learning. Moving from one place to another is fun, until it gets old. Hence, I prefer to skip the plane unless I’m going on vacation or it’s really necessary.

  Traveling for business takes away all the excitement of visiting a new place. Then, when you add the fact that I’m in New York City to visit my publisher, I’m ready to quit. To top it all, my visit is about my future. I can advocate for everyone. Self-help is my cup of tea—when it comes to giving others advice. For myself, I don’t always follow what I preach.

  This particular trip is giving me internal hives—if that’s even a thing. Don’t let those pictures I just posted on social media fool anyone. I didn’t love the flight or feel refreshed after an almost seven-hour journey.

  This emergency meeting ruined my vacation. I miss Belize already. The sun, the white sandy beach, and the unlimited fruity drinks. My sisters and I were in the middle of our ‘parentcation,’ when I got a call from Sheila, my agent.

  She was able to get me an appointment with my new editor and her team. I have one hour to convince them that my new proposal is so much better than the old one. I wish I knew who I am meeting with, but there were some internal changes within the publishing company—that’s code for they fired a bunch of people—so everyone in the non-fiction editorial department is new to me.

  This might be the easiest meeting of my career or the most destructive one. Lucky for me, Sheila will be there to handle most of it.

  If all fails, I can add another title to our deal, inspired by my experience during the last seven hours. Couples on a Plane: How to Deal with Conflict when You’re Away from Home. Listen, I’ve never been married, but I can tell you that a fight about your sex life on a plane isn’t going to help your relationship.

  Picture this: Persy—that’s me—squeezed in the middle seat between a couple. They couldn’t sit together because she likes the window seat, and he constantly needs to go to the restroom. That’s already too much information for a stranger. Tiffany, the wife, didn't have any trouble letting me know about his small bladder. Jerry, on his part, couldn’t stop complaining about his wife’s many flaws.

  In the meantime, I fought the urge to stop the nonsense altogether. Let’s begin with their lack of boundaries. As they discussed their sex life, I was tempted to stop them, or at least explain to them, that all of their body parts—even their intimate ones—have names. Your thing is an inappropriate way to name them.

  Can they at least call them penis and vagina?

  Their biggest issue is that they can’t recognize that sex is a normal act, just like eating. That their sexual appetite should be satiated often, not just when one of them is in the mood. Withholding it, because they’re using it as a weapon, is also a terrible way to deal with their emotions. Fuck, they at least should be mature enough to… Okay, I’m still flustered about this whole debacle. At least, I stayed quiet.

  Per my lawyer—who happens to be my sister, Nyx—I’m not allowed to give any unsolicited advice.

  Not after the Barbados incident. That’s when I gave this forty-some-year-old woman a long speech about making herself happy. Best speech I’ve ever given to a nonclient. Needless to say, it was so powerful that she dumped her husband. Said man sued me after the divorce was over, claiming that I broke up his happy fifteen-year marriage. He lost—Nyx is that good—but she warned me that I couldn’t give advice to anyone, without signed consent, ever again.

  Even when I controlled myself in front of Tiffany and Jerry, I made a few notes so I could discuss some of the points they brought up during their fight to my listeners. Names and situations will be changed to protect … well, me. A lot of women, men and, hopefully, couples might learn from this couple’s story.

  We’re in the twenty-first century in most countries. Women and men are free to copulate with their partner in the comfort of their homes. We should be able and willing to tell each other how hard, fast, and dirty we like it. This isn’t the medieval times where women used to cover themselves with a blanket that had a hole so the manhood of their spouse could penetrate them, solely for the act of procreation.

  Sex is meant for so much more than breeding.

  Fast forward ten hours, one long flight, two clueless people, and three pieces of luggage lost by the airline, and I’m in the bathroom of the Blackstone and Morgan Press’s offices, changing clothes, after raiding the TJ Maxx across the street. It was either that or a sundress I took to Belize for clubbing that leaves little to the imagination. That’s what I was wearing when Sheila called saying, “I need you at the airport in thirty minutes.”

  Before I get dressed, I drench my dark curls and try to shape them with the hand drier. I love my bronze curly hair, but it is so hard to maintain it without any hair products. Then, I change the cute, revealing dress for a misty rose-pink suede leather mini-skirt, a black halter top, and a long jacket the same shade of pink as my new skirt, accessorized with a pair of ankle boots.

  Trendy, professional, and cheaper than a trip to Fifth Avenue, as Sheila and my sisters suggested. The only time I wear famous designer clothing is when they give them to me to promote them. I had a great LBD in one of my bags. Part of the luggage that will be sent back to Belize, as soon as they find it.

  What, you think I’m cancelling my vacation?

  No, I just took a break. I’d rather be traveling for twenty-four hours than miss the sun, my sisters, and the piña coladas with melon liqueur.

  Once I’m presentable, I walk back to the reception area where the cute redhead behind the desk greets me and squeals, “Persy Brassard, I heard you were coming to visit us today.”

  She pulls out a copy of my latest book and smiles. “Could you sign this for me?”

  I pull out my signature bronzed color pen and ask, “Who should I make it out to?”

  “Penny,” she answers. “I’d bring my chic-stick for you to sign, but I don’t want to get in trouble for pulling out a sex toy at work.”

  Smiling, I say, “To Penny, #HappyisU.”

  Between you and me, I hate signing opened sex toys. God knows if they clean them well.

  “You have no idea how much this means to me. After I read your book, I broke up with my boyfriend of two years, and now I’m in a state of bliss.”

  “Glad to help,” I say, pulling out my ID so she can sign me in.

  She hands me a guest badge and says, “I don’t need that. We know it is you. Thank you so much for being you.”

  I wink at her and respond, “Thank you.”

  When I reach the elevator bank, I dial Sheila’s number.

  “What’s happening, Cutie?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Umm, in Los Angeles,” Sheila answers.

  “We have a meeting at two o’clock with my publisher,” I remind her, hoping that she is joking. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Uber might not make it in time if you’re just now l
eaving your house.”

  She chuckles. “I’m so glad you didn’t become a comedian.”

  “Sheila, I’m serious. Where are you?” I ask, looking around, hoping she’s somewhere in the distance, laughing at my worried face.

  “Persy, you’re one of the most successful women I know. The word ‘impossible’ doesn’t exist in your vocabulary—”

  “Sorry to interrupt your bull shitty speech, but, as I mentioned, we have to meet with my editor in less than five minutes,” I state in a more professional tone.

  “You can handle this by yourself.” She delivers the words in a confident manner. Before I can argue, she yells, “Marcus Donovan Daniels, do not insert a pea in your sister’s nose or you’re going to be grounded for the rest of the week. I am not in the mood to go to the emergency room—again.”

  Okay, then. We’re not playing. This is not a drill. She’s definitely at home trying to control her very sweet demon. Sighing, I say, “You couldn’t find a sitter then.”

  “Nope. My son has terrorized every woman in Southern Cali, and he’s not even six years old.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “Remind me again why I pay you?”

  “Because even when I cannot be there, I always make sure your labor is compensated in vast amounts of money or products. Even when I’ve yet to understand what the description of your career is,” she jokes. “Again, what is it that you do?”

  There’s a pause before she answers, “Oh, yes, you explain to people how to properly put a sausage inside of a bun—or is it a hammer into the toolbox?”

  “Oh my god, you didn’t just say that, Sheila,” I say offended. She knows how much I hate when people give stupid names to body parts. “And that’s not what I do.”

  “Marky is here,” she mumbles. “If I explain in detail your job, he’ll be telling that to everyone we know. Remember that time when he overheard you give a lecture about touching oneself?”

  “Umm, not at all.” I fake ignorance.

  “You know, that time when he asked his teacher if she knew where her clit is because ‘pasturbating’ is something women should do every day?”

  I laugh so loud that several people look at me.

  “It’s still not funny, Persephone. I’m sure Clyde is about to divorce me because of you.”

  “Listen, I’m about to enter my meeting, but look on the bright side. Your husband will never leave you because you two set your bed on fire nightly—thanks to my wisdom. Also, your son is already learning the good stuff.”

  “Wait until you have children,” she threatens me.

  “Bye!”

  Sheila isn’t just my agent; she’s my oldest friend, too. We go way back. She used to live next door to my maternal grandparents, and when we visited them for the holidays, she’d be hanging out with us. Once I became famous, she offered to be my agent. She had her shit together before Marky happened. Nyx insists that I should find someone more professional. I’m happy to work with the people I trust. But would it kill her to be by my side when I’m about to confront the big bad wolf?

  Three

  Her

  Tuesday, May 19th

  Sheila didn’t prepare me for this meeting. We both thought that I could do some research during the flight. Unfortunately, the airplane didn’t have internet access because we were outside the United States for most of the trip. So, when I step into the conference room, all I see are five strangers staring at me. I hate to be at a disadvantage, even more so, when my future is in their hands.

  “Ms. Brassard, please come on in,” the woman at the head of the table says, waving her hand to the seat right next to her. “How was your trip? Ms. Daniels mentioned you were out of the country.”

  As I’m about to answer, the person sitting on the other side of her, does it for me, “She was in Belize.” Aware that I’m taken aback by the prompt response, she adds, showing me her phone, “I saw your social media story from yesterday. That underwater video is life. I’d kill to be there. Every year, I look forward to following you on your ‘Parentcation.’”

  I stare at her, unsure on how to respond. When I hear people using my phrases and speaking like me, I’m taken aback. It’s surreal and somehow uncomfortable.

  “Parentcation?” somber face, black slick hair, and red pouty lips asks.

  Having a conversation with them would be a lot easier if we could introduce ourselves to each other. Everyone swears that being an influencer is everything, but when millions of people know you and you don’t know anything about them, it feels like a one-sided relationship—or like you’re part of a show. The Persy show. Yes, I know I have a podcast called “Life with Persy,” but it’s not the same.

  “What is a Parentcation?” somber face asks.

  “Once a year, before the family trip, Persy and her sisters go on vacation. They call it Parentcation,” the chirpy woman to her left answers. Do I sound that annoying? She’s making me rethink my entire branding. “The annual trip happens during Memorial Day week. Where are you guys going this year?”

  “Why take a vacation before a vacation?” somber woman questions.

  I wait a couple of seconds, in case the chirpy one answers for me. Since she doesn’t, I take that as my cue to finally speak.

  “Hi. Thank you for seeing me today,” I greet them. “I’m Persephone Brassard, but I’m sure you already know that. I’m just not familiar with any of you.”

  “Rosi Costas. I’m going to be your editor, and I’m the chief and editor of the self-help division,” she explains. “You don’t need to know about the rest. They are my assistants. Now, explain to me about this vacation, before taking a vacation.”

  Chirpy copycat frowns but stays quiet.

  “When my youngest sister, Callie, graduated from high school, she wanted to do something different. I understood. Going to some remote location without any technology for a week with our parents isn’t exactly a vacation,” I explain. “Nyx and I saved up for a year and took her on a vacation, a week before the official family trip. After that, it became a tradition, and we call it the ‘Parentcation.’”

  She nods once and turns her attention to her tablet. “Ms. Brassard, you’re here because it seems that your book, Ready for My Happily Ever After, won’t be delivered on time—also, that you want to change the concept.”

  I’m about to speak, when she cuts me off, “For the record, I want you to clarify the rumors we are hearing. Are you losing followers after the public breakup with your longtime boyfriend, Ian Hills?”

  “Listen, if you’d like to talk numbers, social media reach, and—”

  “How many listeners have you lost since the breakup?” She starts interrogating me.

  “Well, season three wrapped up last April, right before Ian and I broke up,” I lie, since we actually broke up last January—New Year’s Day to be exact. “I’m not back on the air until June. I can tell you that my social media following is just as strong as it was before we announced our amicable separation. We grew apart and realized that we weren’t what the other needed.”

  That’s code for things ended on a sour note, but I’ll deny it until the end of time. This wasn’t a friendly breakup, and it didn’t happen in April. It happened on New Year’s Eve, minutes before the stroke of midnight.

  When I asked him where he saw our relationship heading, he answered, “We’re having fun, Persy. I’m sure you’re not expecting more. I don’t see myself tied to you, not with what you do for a living.”

  I felt like he kicked me in the stomach. We got along so well. Our relationship seemed so perfect. I thought we were going to move in together next year. I was expecting a ring. Clearly, I was wrong. Needless to say, we didn’t share anything that night. Not even a kiss.

  I was expecting a ring!

  He then continued with words like, “I wouldn’t propose to you. My parents would die of embarrassment if I ever introduced you as my girlfriend.”

  Later, I found out his parents thought he was dating
my sister, Nyx—not me. Since he had a few sponsorships thanks to my contacts, we agreed on keeping a lid on our breakup until April. After that, I made a post that sounded sweet and not at all angry about our separation. I’m still upset and confused about the entire relationship and separation. Those are two years of my life I’ll never get back.

  Did I lose followers after the post? Probably. Listen, I’m no JLo or a Kardashian, but with seventy-five million followers, I can say that I do well enough.

  “What you’re telling me is that you’re single, and you can’t deliver the manuscript,” Rosi concludes.

  “No. The concept doesn’t fit my ideology. My vision is for women to understand what ‘happy’ is to them.”

  “You make sure that women meet the right guy and be happy,” she explains. “Yet, you don’t have one, and that’s why you want to sell me some bullshit.”

  “Umm, no. My blog and my podcast are about teaching people—men and women—to live life, make themselves happy, and sex. Dating is a part of life, but I never advocate for having a permanent relationship to feel fulfilled.”

  I have to divert her attention from Ian. We’re not circling back to that relationship. If I tell her that, according to my ex, I’m just for fun, I might lose all credibility.

  “You are single,” she concludes. “This isn’t what we agreed to publish when you signed the deal with us.”

  She wasn’t even part of the department when I signed the contract. Thank God I only agreed to write three books.

  “Single-shaming is overrated. You don’t need to be with someone to be happy. You know my number one commandment, Happy is You. #HappyisU. The second is all your emotions are valid, you don’t have to be happy all the time. #Justfeel.” I glance at her hand. She doesn’t have a ring on the important finger. That doesn’t mean she’s not married, but I take a chance. “What’s your relationship status, Ms. Costas?”