Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins
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“So … we’ll just play it by ear and reevaluate in, what … six months?”
The fire popped. Mark looked down at his plate and began breaking a cracker into pieces. “To be honest, I can’t even look that far ahead. I really wish I could, but … well, I can’t ask you to wait around until I can make a commitment.”
“No, no! I don’t mind waiting!” Oh, the humanity! Mrs. Obama said. “I mean … Mark, this whole time in Santa Fe, it was …” My voice broke a little. “It was so … special.”
“It really was,” he acknowledged, then added in a terrible Bogart impression, “We’ll always have Santa Fe.”
Oh, God. That sounded horribly final! Desperate, I stammered and blathered, hoping to change his mind. “I—I just feel like we have … something … we have this incredible bond, and I …”
All of a sudden, I understood the phrase hopelessly in love. Michelle’s voice was kind in my head. You’re not supposed to have to convince him, hon. I ignored her. “I just don’t think we should … I don’t think we should throw away what we feel for each other, Mark.”
How I hated saying those words … and yet, I had to. I had to beg, even as I detested myself for being so … weak. So helpless. So willing to throw out dignity, so ready to trade that for whatever scraps Mark could give me. But dignity was thrown out just the same. “Please, Mark.”
“Uh … well,” Mark said slowly, crushing his cracker fragments into crumbs. “Callie, you’re just fantastic, and I really wish I was in a different place in my life right now. But I’m not.” He gave me a James Dean sort of look, lowered head and sheepish grin. “We’ll be okay, right? We’re friends still, I hope. I mean, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. I cooked for you.”
Don’t stay. Have some self-respect and walk out of here.
I swallowed. “No, of course we’re still friends, Mark,” I said. “Of course!”
“Great,” Mark said, setting aside his plate of crackers and cheese. “I knew you’d understand, Callie. Thank God you’re not one of those hysterical women who can’t handle being alone, right?” He grinned. “I’m starving. Wanna eat?”
“You bet,” I said. I found myself standing and following him to the dining room table. For the next hour, Mark chatted about his parents and their cruise to Norway, a couple of clients, the unfairness of the Yankees winning yet another World Series. The entire time, I murmured and nodded and even ate my damn dinner as my mind whirled. How the hell … Did I just … agree? Somehow, I’d just signed on the dotted line to accept this situation … this un-situation, more like it. Mark had cleverly orchestrated this so there was no scene, no real breakup, no crying … nope, we just sat down and ate, back to colleagues and coworkers. He handled it well, I had to admit.
By the time I got home that night, I’d convinced myself that Mark had been sincere. Timing … a perfectly acceptable answer! Everything he said … true! Mark was right! I did deserve it all! For the next little while, Betty Boop and I held out hope. Tried to be perky and waited for Mark to notice me again and be ready and in a place in his life where he could give me what I deserved. But the days slid past, and my lifelong optimism eroded bit by bit, until even I couldn’t deny the truth. He didn’t want me.
I should’ve hated him, but that was impossible. First of all, I loved him (the devil’s in the details, right?). He was funny and talented and a great boss, loved his work and valued his employees. He’d send me goofy e-mails or links to odd news stories, sometimes texted me during a meeting with a comment about a client, called me at home if something occurred to him. When he complimented me on my work, I’d feel such a rush of pride and joy … joy that faded to a chalky residue moments after he left.
Those three days in Santa Fe had been so perfect that I just couldn’t get past them. I should’ve called Annie, gotten drunk on chocolate liqueur candies, made lists of why I hated Mark. But I didn’t. I was my father’s girl, and if I could’ve gone back in time, I would’ve endured that flight all over again, just to have those happiest moments back again, when I’d had all I ever wanted.
CHAPTER SIX
ON MONDAY, I HAD A date to meet Doug336 for lunch. We’d taken our relationship to the next level … that is, we’d exchanged a few e-mails, allowed each other to view a photo, checked out each other’s Facebook pages, the usual cyber rituals that masqueraded as human interaction these days. Annie was very confident. “You need to get out there,” she said, as if she knew all about heartbreak from the six hours she and Jack had been apart during eleventh grade. “This will help. You’ll see. Mark will be a distant memory any day now.”
It was possible, I thought, picking out my clothes even more carefully than usual. Not only was I meeting the guy who might be The One—it was Muriel’s first day of work at Green Mountain Media. The very thought had my stomach cramping.
“No, no,” I instructed my reflection. “It’s all good. And you look very cute.” I definitely needed some positive affirmation today, needed to look the part of Young Professional Cool Creative Director. Today’s choice was an adorable, sunshiny yellow dress paired with killer red heels. Red-and-orange beaded necklace, orange suede bag.
Damien watched as I struggled through the office door with a tray of scones. “Can you help me out here, Damien?” I said.
“I’m busy,” he returned, evidenced by the single sheet of paper he held.
“You’re such a putz,” I growled, finally making it into the lobby. “No scones for you.”
“I’m on a diet,” he said, then lowered his voice. “She’s here.”
I paused. “Okay. Great! Super.”
Damien pulled a face—half sympathy, half disgust—and sat down at his desk.
Green Mountain Media was shaped like a triangle. Damien’s domain was the foyer, a large, sunny space filled with framed prints of our work, several large ficus trees and a couch and coffee table across from Damien’s glass-topped desk. Next came the art department, an open, cheerfully cluttered space featuring large-screen Macs, printers, scanners and miles of cable and cords. Here Pete and Leila reigned, speaking in their computer-geek acronyms. As the triangle narrowed, there was the conference room, then Karen’s office, which was large and dark due to the perpetually drawn blinds (we suspected Karen was part vampire, as she hated mornings and sunshine). Across from Karen was Fleur’s office. As creative director, I got a bigger office, closer to the apex where Mark held court in the point of the triangle. Now, the previously empty office directly across from me held our newest employee. Muriel.
As I approached, my heart tightened. Mark was leaning in Muriel’s doorway. “Hey, Callie,” he said, smiling as if this were a normal day.
“Morning, boss,” I said, reassured that my voice sounded normal. I paused, the tray of scones growing heavier. My purse slipped off my shoulder. “Hi, Muriel. Welcome.”
She stood next to Mark, one bony hip tilted out. “Hello,” she said, giving me a quick once-over. Her nostrils twitched. “How are you, Calliope?”
“Great!” I answered. “How about you? Getting organized?”
“Already done.”
Muriel was beautiful, I couldn’t deny that. Her hair was black, pulled back into a severe twist, revealing her narrow, ice-queen face. Glittering pale gray eyes, white, white skin with two fiery spots of pink glowing on her cheeks, as if she were burning from fever. She wore a very fitted black suit—Armani maybe, sleek and vicious—and a black silk shirt. Couldn’t have been more than a size two, and I instantly felt quite large and very soft. “Well. I should put these scones—”
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
I glanced