It’s not flirty. Not really.
But it’s not not either. I get a bit weird when it is. But Carl always eases back.
I don’t know who he is. But I know how he texts when he’s in a bad mood.Clipped.
I know what shows he watches to decompress.Corporate dramas, and anything with subtitles.
I know the weird way he organizes his grocery list.Pantry to fridge.
I know how he deflects when he’s hurting—but who doesn’t—and how he always,alwayschecks in when I’m quiet.
And yeah…
It’s been nice.
Having someone to talk to, literally about everything.
I tap out a reply.
I’ve packed and repacked three times. My suits are judging me. My shoes are mutinying. And yes, I ate all the trail mix.
Wherever you’re going, whatever you’re doing, you’re going to kill it. The suits are just jealous of your power.
I’m putting that on a tote bag.
I’ll buy ten. And matching mugs.
It’s dumb. It’s small. It’s everything.
And it keeps me from drowning in the ache of a man who kissed me like I mattered then walked away like I didn’t.
#StoryOfMyLife
I set the phone aside and zip the suitcase closed, sealing in my clothes, my nerves, and every feeling I don’t want to carry with me.
My carry on sits half-packed on my bed, mocking me with its disorganization. My brain won’t shut up long enough to finish the task. I try to distract myself by checking off to-do lists, mentally rehearsing my pitch, but nothing sticks. I need a break. Something mindless.
So I open my email.
The first few are work junk, the usual requests for files or confirmations or pitch prep reminders. And then–
Shelby Davidson
Subject:Finalized Itinerary – Cross Island Pitchpocalypse.
I click.
The PDF opens slow, like it knows what’s coming. Like it’s trying to cushion the blow.
There it is.
A list of every major player attending. Three names I recognize, two I don’t.
But one I definitely do.
His name makes my palms sweat. And for some reason, I click Big Stream’s company link, launching the firm profile. I’m poking a bruise.
There he is.
