“Besides,” she continues, “we should be celebrating. Even with a terrible presentation, surely you get points for showing up. Get through this project and you can write a check for Nan’s Place and then you can quit. Things are falling into place, chica. The universe has your back.”
“Fuck the universe. She and I aren’t speaking until she makes up for whatever shit storm today was.”
“Almostshit storm,” Kara clarifies. Her joke and following chuckle pull a laugh from my empty body but as it fades, I melt into the lumpy cushions. She stands and takes the familiar motherly stance with her hands on her hips.
“Try to get some rest. I’ll order you some miso soup and we can watch a few episodes of British Bake Off before I have to go to bed. I forgot to mention, I have an early slot for the kiln tomorrow.”
Would you mind terribly if I snuck away to use the facilities before we continue?My clammy skin pales further.
“Oh, that reminds me.”
Kara’s hand is on my shoulder, her motherly tone shushing me.
“Later, Lottie. You need to rest.”
Groaning, I pull the blanket up to my chin and wait for sleep to overtake my virus-ravaged body. It comes swift and silent and the next thing I know, I’m waking from one of those slumbers where you forget what decade it is.
“Mother fucker,” I croak, rolling and reaching for my phone.
The house is dark and a tap on the screen reveals the time: 3:47 am. While I know I should either roll over and get comfortable, or move upstairs to my bed, my brain is now wide awake and won’t shut off.
The humiliation is still too fresh. It pulls heat to my cheeks and turns my stomach over in knots. Vomit-less knots, though, which is an improvement.
In an effort to distract myself, I opt for a mindless social media scroll. After liking a few of Kara’s posts and commenting a few dozen heart-eye emojis under pictures of her newest collection of mugs, one of the suggested friends stops me cold.
Staring up at me from the iridescent glow of my phone is the face of the man who offered me a life raft of a second chance and then watched as I drowned trying to catch it. Tapping on Noah’s picture, I study the profile as it unfolds. He’s followed by a few of my coworkers, though it doesn’t look like he follows any of them back.
Half the posts are Flourish promotions, his own body and lifestyle serving as a walking advertisement. I am pleased to find, despite the feverish illness, my assessment of his physique was accurate. He’s toned and carved in ways that send a whiff of arousal into a tight ball at the base of my spine. Goddamn.
Part of me wants to stare into his gray eyes or drool over the way his soft brown hair lies in perfectly rumpled waves, but I scroll quickly past the pictures of his face. It’s too personal and feels too much like he can tell I’m ogling.
The other half of his profile is less business-centric, but still has the cursed and curated feel of every other influencer account. My pulse is in my fingertips as I take it in, scanning each perfectly manicured image.
I stop on one where Noah sits against a sunset backdrop, a lean and tanned blonde wrapped around his arm. His eyes are bright and crinkled with what looks like a genuine smile. The woman beams too, her manicured fingers clutching a cocktail that matches the shade of orange in the sky behind them. The pose feels too cozy for mere friendship, but the lack of caption doesn’t explain another alternative. However, I am no amateurwhen it comes to social media stalking and even without a tag I know I can sleuth my way through to an understanding of what this woman is to him. Not that I care. It’s more a sick curiosity than anything. Plus, I can’t sleep.
I comb through the comments, looking for clues and clicking on a few of the profiles but only finding private accounts. And then the words, “Miss this already!” followed by far too many emojis pop out. I tap on the profile and am pleased to see it belongs to the woman in the picture: Megan Kidd.
Her hair is different now, longer and darker, but she’s still ethereal and refined. She’s the goddamned poster child for pilates and green juice. Several of her posts are with Flourish products; her rave reviews, encouraging her followers to buy, are encapsulated in tagline captions and accompanied by the expected “link in bio.” Noah appears in a few of her group shots, and I piece together their social circle: a flawless selection of Upper L.A. society full of models, fraternity brothers turned millionaires, and social media influencers.
Noah seems to be the only one who’s left the inner circle and from Megan’s post about his going away soiree, most of them aren’t happy about it. I wonder how long he’ll last in Portland’s nearly all year rainy season, and am lulled back to sleep by thoughts of him hating it enough to flee back to his sunshine and silicone paradise.
Because that is, of course, the only reasonable response to living out your top three most embarrassing moments with someone who happens to be one of the most attractive people you’ve ever laid eyes on.
After Kara’s careful prods and never-failing assurance that I could in fact recover from the last two days, walking into the office on Friday morning is a little less intimidating. Thankfully, everyone’s recovered from the vomit-inducing luncheon and the regular buzz of conversation provides the perfect cover for getting to my desk with as little notice as possible. Spencer and Noah are standing in the doorway of what is now Noah’s office, passing what looks like a pleasant conversation.
I roll over how different this version of him is from the man I met at Blue Heron. While part of me still wants to hate and ignore him for the way he treated me that night, his behavior since has been nothing short of kind and professional. The differences put me on edge. I don’t like not knowing what to expect from people.
“I heard he’s already decided on who gets the promotion,” Ben says, leaning over my cubicle. His perfectly coiffed curls tickle the tops of his ears as he makes a face cluing me into his panic.
Ben is one of the few people I like in this office. I don’t hike and I rarely attend the social gatherings Amy puts together, like the building dodgeball league. But Ben is a pull no punches kind of work colleague. While his biting sense of humor isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, we’ve shared more than a few bonding moments over the way Spencer’s vein pops out of his neck when he’s stressed or teasing each other about over hearing the other suck up to brand reps.
“Oh?” I say, hoping my tone covers for the ball of nerves vibrating in my belly.
“Yeah, but everyone is freaked the fuck out because he’s judging based solely on emailed presentations. I spent four feverish hours with a barf bowl in my arm making sure my slideshow was legible and typo free.”
His worry reminds me that no one, outside of Noah and I, need know I was even here yesterday, and my breath comes a little easier. Someone else will get the promotion, and while that means I am hanging on the mercy of Vince when it comes to Nan’s, it also means there is a good chance I can put all of this behind me very soon. It’s amazing the kind of perspective one can receive after living through what I have in the last forty-eight hours. Still, I can’t shake the stomach sinking fear of failing at the only meaningful goal I’ve ever had.
Ben is still staring at me and I force a lighthearted tease.
