Page 12 of Strum Me

“I’m sorry! Fuck.” he curses, staring down at his feet for a moment.

I take the pause to compose myself. Get it together, Emily. And get out of here.

His gaze moves up to meet mine again. Golden specks. Golden specks in his eyes. That look hurt. Hurt by me.

A twinge happens somewhere. Somewhere I thought couldn’t twinge anymore.

“It…it’s fine,” I offer.

He takes it. A smile.

“I’ve gotta go. Nice seeing you around, Brad.”

“Butter. Don’t go. Let’s go grab a coffee. It’s been—”

“Eight years, Brad. Eight.”

“I know.”

No, you don’t know. You might figure it out from looking at a calendar. But you don’t know. You haven’t counted the days, the months, the birthdays.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ve gotta go.”

“Give me your number then,” he insists, and I wonder why he’s even bothering.

“No.”

“Or take mine.”

“No point, I’ll just throw it away.”

“Emily.”

“Just… just let me go, Brad. Forget we saw each other today and let’s just start the clock again.”

I don’t know what he responds to that, because I’m gone.

***

Phil wants to see you.

I moan. I’ve barely been back in the office for two minutes before our receptionist dings me on our intraoffice messenger.

Why?

Give you two guesses.

I don’t even need one.

Nice knowing you. Don’t steal the stapler on the way out. I know how you’ve been eyeing it.

Your sympathy knows no bounds.

Sure it does. Office stationery just isn’t within those bounds. He’s in his office, anyway.

Yeah, yeah, I’m going.

I push myself away from the desk with a resigned sigh. I knew this meeting was coming. He was not going to be happy about my question at the Rock Chamber Boys press conference. Their manager was a good friend of his and he was not going to have enjoyed having his star music journalist attacking the band.