I nod and wave Wendy off as I drag air back into my lungs, blinking hard until my eyes are dry again. Around the table, faces turn toward me, disapproval pinched into their expressions, like I’ve just knocked over a stack of books in a library and refused to apologize.
Great. The last thing I want is to draw unnecessary attention to myself on day one. Choking to death in front of my idea-stealing, emotionally constipated ex-boyfriend isn’t exactly the professional first impression I was hoping to make.
Jake launches into the company’s history, voice smooth and practiced, but his words wash over me without sticking. My thoughts keep circling everything that’s happened since I moved back and makes it impossible to latch onto anything he’s saying.
My ex-boyfriend is my boss. How am I supposed to survive working under someone who didn’t just shatter my heart, but had the nerve, the audacity, to take my work and call it his own?
“...founded over thirty years ago by Judy Hawthorne,” Jake continues.
My skin prickles. My stomach twists. This is too uncomfortable. I should quit, right now, grab my new messenger bag and run before I’m in too deep.
“...known for its creative campaigns and commitment to client satisfaction...”
Why is he here, anyway? Back then, he used to groan and roll his eyes whenever I gushed about marketing theory or brand positioning, about any of the industry stuff that lit me up from the inside. Even a Super Bowl commercial couldn’t hold his attention without him complaining about consumerism.
But now?
Suddenly, the puzzle in my head completes itself. Was the breakup connected to the theft? To him taking my ideas and wearing them like they’d always been his? RainSafe in the hallway, framed with his name on it instead of mine. Was I played from the start, used for my creativity, then discarded the second he’d taken what he wanted?
The thought sickens me.
“…we expect the same level of dedication from all of you. Any questions?” Jake finishes.
The room remains silent as I stare down at the glossy tabletop, watching my warped reflection on its surface. Don’t look at him. Don’t.
Amanda advances a half step, the pen in her hand tapping the clipboard in a measured rhythm. “One last thing,” she says, voice flat but firm. “Office romances are strictly forbidden.” The pause that follows feels deliberate. “This rule comes directly from Judy herself.”
Her gaze lingers on Jake a second too long, and her lips curve into something that wants to be a smile but doesn’tquite commit. The look that passes between them crackles with familiarity.
Hmm. Is there something between them?
I give myself a mental shake, yanking my thoughts back into line. None of my business. He’s nobody to me now. Just a boss. Just a coworker. Just the person who holds my dream career in his hands.
With that casual grace I remember far too well, Jake slides into the chair beside me at the head of the table. I keep my posture steady, resisting the urge to lean away.
Really? Out of every seat at this absurdly long table, he had to choose the one right beside me, where his presence presses in like a weight, where it’s most unwelcome and hardest to ignore.
“All right,” he says, “let’s go around the table and introduce ourselves.” How can he just sit there and pretend like we have no history when I’m over here freaking out?
The introductions begin at the far end of the table with a balding man named Greg, who announces he’s been in digital media for fifteen years, and then the ritual rolls onward, voice after voice, inching closer to me. Then my phone buzzes in my bag.
I sneak a glance under the table—a text from an unknown number reads:Don’t tell anyone about our past. We don’t want people getting the wrong idea.
Jake? Because why wouldn’t it be. I deleted his number a long time ago, along with those late-night pictures of us at the pier.
I scoff under my breath. Does he actually think I still have feelings for him? Ha. Maybe I’d consider taking him back if he were the last man on planet Earth and the fate of the human race hinged on our procreation. And even then, I’d need time to think it over, to weigh the options, to suggest we explore cloning first. Or, I don’t know, let humanity go out with a little dignity.
“Sarah?” Jake’s voice snaps me back to reality.
I jolt in my seat, my body reacting before my brain catches up. My arm knocks against my Styrofoam cup, which sends coffee cascading out and splashing directly onto Jake’s lap.
Horror floods me so fast I can barely breathe. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” The words tumble out as I shove my hand into my bag for napkins, not thinking, not pausing, just reacting, and then I’m on my knees beside his chair like I’ve been summoned there by sheer panic. “I’ll get it out,” I mutter, and start dabbing at his pants with frantic little swipes, as if I can erase this moment the way I’m trying to erase the coffee stain.
“Sarah, stop,” Jake says, his voice strained, but I’m too busy trying to fix this catastrophe to heed his words.
“Sarah!” He grips my arms and pulls me to my feet, his touch firm through my blouse.
And then I look up.
