Paige: No, you shouldn’t have started. You made him think we were once engaged! Engaged, Jordan!
I drop my phone into my purse before popping the car door open and walking into work. Another text comes in, but I can’t bring myself to look at it.
It’s been over two days since I last saw Jordan, and this morning, I finally answered his twenty-four text messages. Jordan’s not perfect, nor do I expect him to be, but Saturday was a low I never thought he would hit. Just when I find a guywho might actually help me get over my unrequited love, Jordan himself cuts in, ready and willing to sabotage.
After Ian and Jordan’s egos dueled it out on our double date, I had to explain to Ian that the only time Jordan and I planned a wedding was when Mrs. Delgado, Ji’s boss and our town's shameless local matchmaker, needed a “couple” to stand in at the last minute during a wedding photo shoot for her event planning business.
I didn’t explain to Ian how that photo shoot was my own personal form of torture as I stood across from Jordan and pretended to exchange rings with him. Nope. But I did explain that for most of the photo shoot, we were sitting around with nothing to do while everything was being prepped and staged around us. So, bored and restless, we passed the time by pointing out things we would or wouldn’t do differently if it were our weddings. Weddings. Plural. As in separate. Jordan conveniently seemed to have forgotten that.
Another ping sounds from my purse, but I know it’s Jordan, so I don’t look at it. The logical part of my brain tells me that avoidance is immature and I should face my problems head-on. But the illogical, more persuasive part of my brain demands we continue radio silence until he’s groveling on his knees.
While I’m in the process of imagining this, Zia comes into view. Yesterday, she was on phone calls or talking to people at her desk whenever I passed, allowing me to sneak past her unseen, but today, she’s completely unoccupied. I have the sudden urge to drop on my hands and knees and crawl past the receptionist’s desk unnoticed, but Zia spots me, so I approach her like a normal human.
“Hi, Paige,” Zia says, her glossy-orange lips parting with a smile. Her bright demeanor almost makes me forget the dejection I saw on her face at the end of our double date.
Jordan didn’t just play mind games with Ian that night—he hurt Zia as well. A large part of me feels secondhand embarrassment from my best friend’s behavior. I can see why being in the same vicinity as Ian might put Jordan on edge given their history, but to disregard Zia’s feelings completely? That wasn’t like him.
“Hi, Zia.” I smile back as I pick up the pace, heading to my cubicle.
“Wait,” she says.
Dang it.
I backtrack until I’m in front of her desk, which is full of multicolored sticky notes. She pulls a green note from the bunch. “Vanessa says she wants to see you in her office first thing this morning.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh.” I suddenly feel like I’ve been pulled over by a cop. I run through every possible work infraction I can think of but can’t recall a single thing that would result in me being called to my boss’s office. Vanessa is not a hands-on supervisor. She’s more like theI’ll see you in team meetings or when I clean out my untouched food from the refrigerator that happens to be next to your cubiclekind of boss.
I reach for the sticky note, careful not to rip it this time, but Zia keeps hold of it, forcing me to look up at her. Her initial smile vanishes as she leans toward me. “Just so you know, I wholeheartedly support you and Ian, even if Jordan and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”
My heart seems to pop out of my chest like a game of Perfection.Zia and Jordan aren’t together?I tell my tail-wagging inner Labrador to sit, stay, and obey. I can almost hear it whimper as I remind it that, single or not, Jordan does not want me as more than a friend.
But after his behavior on Saturday, maybe I’m okay with that.
I nod at Zia. “Thanks. And I’m sorry about Saturday.”
She shrugs, her classy smile back in place. “It’s okay. You might be over Jordan, but I don’t think he’s over you. I’d rather not be second in his mind.”
My eyebrows pinch together. Surely Jordan told her that the closet and wedding-planning incidents weren’t what he made them out to be, didn’t he? I am about to clarify this when Zia’s hand brushes the air. “And honestly, it doesn’t matter. Zack from IT asked me out yesterday.”
I smile back. “Ooo, he’s a cutie.”
“Mmm, and don’t I know it.”
We laugh, and my chest feels lighter, knowing Zia has already moved on. So maybe Meghan Markle is kind of cool.
Five minutes later, I sit in Vanessa’s office directly across from her. I can see a row of Iron Man medals hanging in a shadow box behind her head, and I wonder if this is a power play to make peons like me feel inferior, because it’s working.
“As you know, Jay got the copywriter position.” In true Vanessa fashion, she jumps right into the deep end. “But your work is very good, Paige, and you’re a talented writer, so we’d like to extend your internship with us another six months.”
“Oh,” I say, giving the lamest response possible, and I can tell by Vanessa’s narrowed eyes that she thinks so too. But lame or not, that’s the purest word to describe my feelings.
Just a few weeks ago, I’d hoped to stay with this company as a magical answer to all my problems. I wouldn't be unemployed. I would get more work experience. I would be able to stay with Missy and Ji longer—and yes, Jordan too. Even Ian is another reason to be ecstatic about this extension.
I force a smile onto my face, hoping it will springboard some kind of excitement within me, but it doesn't. Somehow, this unexpected opportunity feels like a step back when I’ve just started to move forward.
More vague, uninspired words come from my mouth. Then Vanessa informs me that I have until the end of my internship next month to make a decision. I thank her and spend the rest of the day experiencing an existential crisis in my cubicle.
By the time five o’clock hits, I shut down my computer and my brain, both of which are overheated and could do with a few hours of nothing. When I make it to the parking lot, I scooch into Dory just as my phone pings again—likely a text from Jordan. I should probably end his misery and text him back. I pull out my phone, but the notification on my screen isn’t from a text but from my personal email. The single-line notification alerts me that the email is from Rafi Batra.
