Twenty-Seven
I don’t see Shannon again all weekend. I have no idea what they did, or when they left, or what she told Dan about what happened at the dress shop.
I barely remember the walk home. There was so much adrenaline coursing through my system, I blindly marched a full eight blocks past the apartment before I noticed and turned back around.
It couldn’t last, of course. My agitation eventually gave way to a weighty despair. I hadn’t been the bigger person, like I promised Connor I would be. I don’t think I really even tried. Nor did I do anything to convince Shannon to shake off Demon Dan. I didn’t even show her New York City. There’s not a single measure by which her visit could be considered a success. It was a huge waste of time. And air miles.
I told Connor I’d text him updates about the rest of the weekend, but I don’t. Typing out that you had a showdown for the ages feels even more hideous than sayingit.
When I get to work on Monday morning, he’s already there and waiting with an easy smile. Tears sting the back of my eyes the second I seehim.
“How was the rest of the weekend?” he asks, his chair creaking on the recline.
I shuck off my jean jacket, avoiding hiseye.
“Good.”
“Did you manage to get through it without killing Dan?”
His voice is light, and teasing. I’m sure if I looked there’d be a twinkle in hiseye.
“I did.”
I sit, rolling forward to tuck myself in under my desk, finally looking at Connor, trying to project a sense of calm I don’t remotely feel.
His smile is frozen, a frown building between his eyes. “EverythingOK?”
“Why wouldn’t itbe?”
“Uh, I don’t know.” His tone changes from playful to uncertain.
I can’t do this rightnow.
“I’m going to get some breakfast,” I say, pushing back from my desk. “Want anything?”
He scratches his neck. “I’m good.”
“Cool,” I say, already turning away.
I know I’m being weird, but I can’t help it. Connor will see right through me with even ten seconds of interrogation, and I’m still too keyed up to even attempt to discuss what happened with Shannon without opening the floodgates on a messy, ugly cry. I don’t want to have to admit that I’m the one who started it. I’m already buried under the weight of my own shame.
—
I’m peeling off the wrapper of my second blueberry muffin of the day when I hear a familiar voice.
“Would you look who it is,” Carrie says, wandering over from the direction of the espressobar.
“Hey,” I say. Pathetically.
She slides into the chair across from me. “Someone’s cheerful this morning.”
That someone would be Carrie. She looks positively glowing, especially when you factor in it’s a Monday. I feel like a shriveled raisin.
“Where have you been? I phoned you Saturday.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she says, blowing on her mug. “I had a…date. Sortof.”
“Oh?”
