Much Ado About You(4)

“I was going to tell you at lunch on Saturday, but I thought you needed this news now.”

“I’m so happy for you!” Those words weren’t a lie. I wanted only happiness for Greer. But I felt conflicted about her news. “Well, I’m gonna hit the hay. I’ll let you know about tomorrow. And we’ll still do Saturday lunch, right? To celebrate your news. Tell Andre I said congrats.”

“I will, babe. And yes, Saturday, definitely. To celebrate both our news.”

We hung up.

Striding over to my bed, I flopped down on my back and stared up at my cracked ceiling. I could hear the murmur of my upstairs neighbor’s TV.

Greer was pregnant.

If I was honest with myself, I was scared I was about to be left behind.

My phone buzzed again, and my heart beat at triple speed at the sight of the Snapchat symbol.

I opened it up.

AARON T

I’m sorry. I’m not ready for something serious after all and I know that’s what you want. Sorry I was a dick about it. You deserve better. Hope you find what you’re looking for.

Fresh tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know if he was telling the truth, but I would be honest one last time.


ME

I’m sorry too.

Sorry for the last four weeks of wasted emotional energy.

When the status remained as delivered, I tapped on his profile and noted I could no longer see his Snapchat points. He’d deleted me from his friends list.

Well, that was final.

Despairing, I lay in the dark trying to figure out if I was sad over facing another romantic disappointment or if my pride was merely hurt.

Maybe both.

“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself. “Things will pick up tomorrow.”





Two


There you are, Evie.” My editor, Patrick, lifted his hand and curled his fingers, gesturing me to follow him.

My boss had jolted me out of concentration mode. Outside of work hours, I offered freelance editing services to self-published authors to supplement my income, and one of my clients was a crime writer. An old friend of mine from Northwestern worked with the FBI, and I’d emailed him three days ago with facts I needed checked. The author had gotten her info online, and I just wanted to make sure it was correct. I’d received my friend’s response minutes after coming into the office. Fascinated with the information he’d sent me, I’d forgotten I was at work.

Patrick’s sudden appearance caused giddiness to fill me, swamping the melancholy that lingered. I strode through the open-plan office, smiling at my colleagues as I made my way toward Patrick’s office. My desk sat in front of the glass cube that housed his space.

Picking up speed, I hurried to follow him inside.

“Close the door.”

Despite everyone being able to see what was going on in the office, once that door closed, the cube was soundproof. It was pretty cool. I glanced around. Patrick’s desk sat near the bank of windows that looked down over East Washington Street downtown.

Boxes containing my boss’s belongings filled the space.

I’d worked for Patrick for ten years. He was a good enough boss. Thanked me for my work. Seemed to appreciate me. However, we’d had our differences over the years, mostly because he’d never championed me the three times an editor job opened up at the magazine.

Now he was retiring, and as I was his loyal, long-standing editorial assistant, everyone at the magazine predicted that I would get his job.

“You’ve packed up really early,” I observed. “The job is still yours for six weeks.”

Patrick nodded distractedly. “Evie, take a seat.”

Not liking his tone, I slowly lowered onto the seat in front of his desk. “Is everything okay?”

Come to think of it, when was the last time Patrick beat me into work? I usually arrived at least fifteen minutes earlier than him every day.

“Evie . . . you know I think you’re a great assistant. And you’ll make a damn good editor one day . . . but the higher-ups have decided to hire an experienced editor. Young guy, twenty-five, certified as an editor, been working at a small press for two years. He’s coming in next Monday so I can show him the ropes.”

It was like the floor fell out from beneath my feet. “Wait . . . what?”

My boss frowned. “Gary Slater. He’s going to be your new boss.”

Was the room spinning?

Or was that just the anger building inside me so much that my body couldn’t handle it? “More experience? Certified?” I stood up on shaking legs. Not only had I been editing here for seven years, Patrick knew I was a freelance editor too. Experienced? “I’m certified. You know I am.” Although I’d come into the job with an English degree, I’d gotten into the editing program at the Graham School at the University of Chicago and worked my ass off after hours to get certified. “This guy is twenty-five. I’ve been doing this job for ten years, and they want to make this barely-out-of-college kid my boss?”

“Evie, lower your voice,” Patrick scolded.

I struggled to calm down. “Is this a joke?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“And you.” I curled my lip in utter disappointment. “Did you even fight for me on this?”

Patrick sighed. “Of course I did. I told them you had enough experience, but they want someone who’s been editing.”