“Is there a reason you’ve logged fifty hours in four days?” she questions.
I shrug my shoulders as Stephanie’s glasses hug into her forehead as she raises her eyebrows. “Getting a jump start on some of the new year marketing campaigns. I know our clients will appreciate some solid marketing after the holiday season.”
“I’m sure they will but, Kate, I can’t have you log eighty hours this week, and that’s where you’re headed at this rate. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” she suggests.
“I’m leaving tomorrow for Tulsa,” I remind her. “I need to finish a few things up, and I’ll be gone for a few days.”
“Or how about a few weeks?” she suggests. “You know I love what you accomplish but, Kate, I’d be a horrible boss if I only cared about you doing a great job at your work.”
“I’m fine, Stephanie,” I reply.
Her eyebrows arch. “You’re fine? Kate, I’ve seen you not once, but twice, chug the entire pot of coffee in the break room. Which, I know you love coffee, but even this has seemed quite extreme.”
It was disgusting, too. Both times. The coffee tasted like dirt, but coffee is my comfort, and I guess I’ve needed a lot of that since getting back to New York—even if it felt like an uncomfortable hug from an ex-boyfriend with how acidic the brew had been.
“Kate, what exactly happened over Christmas?” she finally asks.
I’ve kept silent about Boone, except to Kevin. Kevin has heard it all, and my last few texts he’d read but hadn’t responded to.
I tried to help it, but I blame the social media algorithms, really.
I’d been scrolling Facebook when an ad for a chicken coop had popped up. I immediately took a screen shot and sent it to Kevin. Then he called me.
“Kate, why are you sending me this?” he’d said.
“It looked nice,” I replied quickly, immediately regretting how quick my fingers could fly on my phonescreen.
“Does this have anything to do with Boone?” he had questioned.
“No!”
And even I knew my answer was too emphatic, too loud, too much of a lie.
It had most definitely been because of Boone. The chicken coop was nice but not as cozy as the one Boone had made his hens, and I hated that I knew that. That he cared that much. That he’d lit up their coop with so much love and then taken those lights and strung them around a Christmas tree just for me.
Another time, Facebook had obviously crawled into my subconscious and decided to take me directly to Boone’s online mug store through an ad, which then led to me losing hours of sleep as I looked at every listing. And then I may or may not have decided that was the opportune time to Google him.
I felt the Internet had become a sort of ghost of Christmas past, except it was Boone’s and not mine. Past articles about an award he’d won in California as a surgeon, about Becca’s car accident, and even one about how he graduated top of his class—his future bright and shiny.
And then, just like I’d been transported to his past, my uncaffeinated brain had decided to step into the role of Christmas future, but not the desolate future where I ended up alone—no, it had decided to have me marry Boone. To torture me with how it could have been great.
It doesn’t help that I’d accidentally stolen a pair of Boone’s wool socks and I’m wearing them every night. Wearing them feels like I am being swallowed whole byhis warmth. And I miss his warmth.
That’s why I was chugging coffee at work, trying to keep myself from doing irrational things, like friending Boone on Facebook or placing a massive handmade mug order.
Except uncaffeinated or caffeinated, all I could do was think about Boone. Although, at least caffeinated, I could get a few things done.
“I met someone.” I sigh.
Stephanie’s red lips spread in a smile. “Kate Everett met someone?”
I nod my head.
“Then why are you here?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips.
“Because I just don’t think it’ll work.”
“If you put half the effort into a relationship that you do into your career, I guarantee you that it will,” Stephanie says. “Besides, it’s not like you can really have a happily ever after with your computer.”
