Her Intern

by Anne Marsh

  Still, I send a happy birthday card (singing, of course) when Calla launches and I badger everyone I know into buying a lifetime supply of tampons. Four weeks after Lola left me standing in the lobby, I give up and call for reinforcements.

  “I need the nearest bookstore with a romance section.” I’ve just busted into Max’s house. The breaking-in part is easy as I know the door code (the course number for our first computer science class), but the begging part will be trickier.

  Max sits there for a few seconds, trying to dissect my face. Or my plea. Perhaps he’s just enjoying his big-ass leather couch and doesn’t feel like moving, even if it is just his tongue. We’re wasting time and I fight the urge to hop from foot to foot. I’ll look like a toddler who has to pee and I’ve already sacrificed all my dignity.

  Finally, Max deigns to speak. “Do I look like Google Maps to you? And maybe you could try knocking before entering? What if I was naked?”

  “Or with a girl,” Jack suggests helpfully, popping his head up from the other side of the couch. He has bedhead. “Because then you’d have to choose between making revenge porn and forever having the image of your friend’s naked, thrusting ass stuck in your head.”

  Max waves his arms expansively. “She could be on top. He could be looking at my girlfriend’s ass.”

  “Can we focus on me here?” I snap my fingers. “I have a problem and I need to fix it.”

  “If it involves your dick, you need the self-help section.” Max sounds as if he’s trying not to laugh.

  Clocking my best friends won’t help—even if it temporarily makes me feel better.

  “Yes, tell us, Dev, what you’d be looking for in said romance section.” Jack grins expectantly at me.

  “I fucked things up with Lola, okay?” I stride over to the window and stare outside. The waves aren’t great today.

  “Walk us through it,” Jack prompts. “Give us the use case.”

  “She found out I wasn’t an intern. I found out who stole my code. The person who shared this information with us was a hookup I met through your app.” I glare at Max. “And that former hookup outed me to Lola at a very public intern networking lunch.”

  “So Lola now feels stupid, humiliated and angry.” Jack ticks his talking points off on his fingers.

  “Yes. I need to fix that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I made a mistake. Because I miss her. Because—”

  The ocean outside the window is no help, the selfish bastard.

  “She fired me,” I admit to the window. “She’s pissed off and humiliated and she’s not talking to me or responding to my texts. I have to get her back but I’ve ruined everything.”

  Max groans. “Then you either want the communication section or the travel section—the right gift can erase bad memories.”

  I turn and meet Max’s eyes. “I need romance.”

  Max frowns. I can practically see the input/output error occurring. “Why?”

  “Because I love her but I don’t know how to tell her that. I don’t blame her for walking away from me, but there has to be a way to convince her to come back, right? So I just have to figure out the best way to grovel until she forgives me.”

  Max’s frown deepens. “Why romance books?”

  “Have you read those things?” Seriously, this is a genius plan—all I have to do is find the one Lola will like best. “They’re like recipes for how to grovel and be romantic and sweep a lady off her feet. They’re perfect.”

  Jack looks doubtful. “They’re fantasies.”

  “Exactly.” I point at him triumphantly. “They’re the best ever cheat codes to getting inside a woman’s head. Plus, Lola loves fantasies. And romance novels. You wouldn’t believe the shit she thinks up.”

  Jack coughs into his fist. “TMI.”

  “Whatever. I just need to get her attention so she’ll listen to me.”

  “Which you plan on doing by cribbing from a bunch of romance novel heroes.” Max sounds skeptical but he wrote an algorithm that picks your best sexual match. He’s hardly a believer in true love.

  “You own a houseful of books. I know you’re feeding your addiction. Just tell me where to find a good bookstore.”

  Max always knows exactly where every bookstore—new, used or otherwise—is. He always has a book stashed somewhere close by. Plus, he reads anything. Package inserts, instruction manuals, in-flight magazines—he’s happy if it has words.

  “Bookstore. Now.” I snap my fingers.

  “Bossy, isn’t he?”

  I don’t have time for this. I’m mad at myself. I screwed up my relationship with Lola, and I have to fix this. Now. Or yesterday. Even better, if I could roll back time to the night we first met, I’d play it smarter. I had a chance to seal the deal and I blew it. But if I can’t win her back, what’s the point?

  “Eleven point two miles,” Max volunteers.

  Jack rolls his eyes. “Or raid Hazel’s stash.”

  We end up at Hazel’s place after all. The local big-box bookstore has slashed its romance section and pickings are slim. According to Max, there’s an all-romance indie bookstore in Los Angeles with the best name ever that sounds perfect, but Max calculates it would take us five hours and eighteen minutes to drive the three hundred thirty-nine miles.

  Hazel lives halfway up a mountain, so it’s almost forty-five minutes before I’m pounding on her door. Jack texted her to give her a heads-up that we were coming as Hazel dislikes unannounced drop-ins. He also strongly suggested that we come bearing doughnuts, which is why the trip took forty-five minutes rather than thirty-eight.

  I shove the box of doughnuts at Hazel when she opens her front door. “Take me to your books.”

  “You screwed up. Big-time.” Jack has clearly shared my unhappy news with her.

  “I did.”

  “And now Lola isn’t talking to you. I don’t blame her. I can’t fix this for you, even if I wanted to. I liked her.”

  “Me, too,” I admit.

  “Okay.” She waves for us to follow her. “So how far are you prepared to go? What have you tried so far?”

  “Flowers, gifts, all the usual stuff. I went to Hallmark and they have cards for this. I bought one.”

  “For future reference, handmade is better. Handmade and it sucks? Gold.”

  “You think I should do that?” I’m sure there’s a YouTube video on handmade cards that say I know I was a dick, but I’d like to be your dick.

  “I think you have to figure out what Lola really wants and give her that.” She pads down the hall. “Step into my lair. You definitely need expert help.”

  Apparently Hazel keeps her romance novels in her bedroom, which I try not to think about. Everything is gray, silver and fluffy—except for the three large black bookcases with glass doors and tiny crystal knobs. Those shelves are bursting with books.

  She gestures toward the bookcases. “Dukes and lords on the left. Werewolves and vampires in the middle. Rock stars, small-town heroes and dirty billionaires on the right.”

  I might be out of my league, but somehow I need to become Mr. Romance. I press Jack and Max into service as my reading wingmen, although I’m not sure how much help they’re going to be since Max promptly gets sucked into a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey and Jack takes a nap on Hazel’s bed.

  I could buy a Scottish castle, if that’s what would make Lola happy. And I could definitely pull a Fifty Shades number, although from what Max shares, the hero seems to need a good therapist. I know these are fiction, not fact. But they’re also fantasies and dreams—and Lola deserves all the dreams.

  But it’s not enough.

  The castles and titles are fun but they’re just a really good security system. It’s about how the hero makes the heroine feel safe, safe enough to be herself with him, safe enough to trust herself with
him. It’s not about winning Lola—because she’s not a game. She doesn’t come with rules and she’s not a playing piece I can move around the board of life until I score. Winning is fun, but playing together is even better.

  I do some more thinking as I wander out back with my phone. The reception sucks up here since Hazel’s surrounded by the world’s biggest, densest trees. I have just enough signal to send a text. I drop into one of the cherry-red Adirondack chairs ringing a firepit, take a deep breath and start typing. The First Ten Reasons I Love Lola. Because ten isn’t enough and I can’t pick and choose my reasons.

  I love that you punctuate all your texts like Merriam-Webster. Or a granny.

  I love that you own fifteen pairs of yoga pants but never do yoga.

  I love that you have a freckle in your right ear.

  I love that you always have a million questions and can never just say yes.

  I love that you believe there’s a book for everything. Or an explanatory YouTube video. FWIW, I’ve learned you’re right.

  I love that you believe in sniffing books.

  I love that you laugh even when you don’t get the joke.

  I love that you count everything.

  I love that when I’m with you all my plans go out the window.

  I love that I want to be a better person when I’m with you, but that it’s okay if I fail.

  I love that you’re counting my reasons.

  And they’re not ten.

  Or enough.

  But I love you.

  And then I hit Send.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lola

  THE GOOD THING about being the founder of a start-up is that there’s no time to feel sorry for myself, not if I don’t want to fail epically. I can’t take time off work and hide out in bed, drowning my sorrows with pecan bourbon ice cream and retail therapy. I have work to do. And as much as I resent the fact that our Series A funding is entirely due to Dev, I won’t put my pride over Calla’s future. I take the money because bootstrapping isn’t feasible anymore. I’ve already maxed out my own credit limits and emptied my bank account.

  I know I need to make some life changes, though. It’s not enough to throw myself into Calla, so I make a list of the things I’ve always fantasized about doing. No, not that kind of fantasy (although no one in her right mind would say no if a royal prince came knocking). Maple helps me write it. I start with a list of the places I want to see rather than boxes to check on my tourist bingo card. The Farallon Islands for whales and great white sharks. Snorkeling at Monterey Bay. Definitely, the saltwater taffy at Monterey Bay (probably twice). A beach that’s nothing but miles and miles of sand dunes. Driftwood collecting. It turns out that getting out of the office and out of San Francisco helps me clear my head.

  Dev won’t go quietly into that good night, however—he comes by my studio apartment and by Calla. He’s respectful—I’ll give him that—and goes away when I refuse to answer the door or to see him. Still, I watch him through the window because even though he’s not who I thought he was, it still hurts. I’m like that stupid, heartbroken girl in all the music videos who presses her fingers against the glass as the dream boy walks away. I could call him back, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough not to fall into his arms. And I can’t do the just-sex thing anymore, or live on the scraps of a relationship. If I can’t have all of Dev, then I need to let him go. For my own sake.

  So I do. One memory, one day at a time. Beach walks, wharf walks, ice cream runs—I do them again, by myself, as if I’m testing for sore spots. Does this hurt? What about here? I do hang on to the ties, however. They’re souvenirs I’m not ready to let go of yet. I should get drunk and burn them all, or hand them over to Goodwill, or just toss them in the nearest dumpster. But I don’t. And honestly, perhaps my first clue that we didn’t have a genuine relationship should have been the lack of stuff. Dev didn’t leave things at my place; he didn’t need the drawer in the bathroom, we didn’t acquire couple crap, we didn’t do presents. It seems like it should be so easy to erase him since he left so few marks, but it’s hard.

  “You should date.” Maple announces this one night as if it’s a novel conclusion and it’s never occurred to me to try. “Someone better. An upgrade.”

  She whips out her phone and starts swiping through pictures. “Or girls. Perhaps you should switch things up and try batting for the home team?”

  I’m not sure she’s got that metaphor exactly right, but I snort. “I’m good.”

  “Too good.” She nods with mock solemnity. “Maybe you should try a bad boy?”

  Bad boys are certainly Maple’s area of expertise. Her current boyfriend, Madd (yes, he claims that’s his real name), is undoubtedly hot, and is either the best or worst of the bad boy breed. He’s been able to slide through life with a wink, a smile and a judicious use of charm. I’ve managed to avoid actively bad-mouthing him, but as far as I can tell, his appeal is entirely visual.

  After Maple leaves, I poke through the Billionaire Bachelors app, trying to imagine Max creating this. He’s a good-looking guy with a great body, but he’s also a bit of a nerd. I have no idea how he’s managed to reduce dating to math, but I suspect he may have overlooked something.

  A scratching noise catches my attention. God, I hope it’s not rats. Or mice. Or whatever vermin my landlord claimed absolutely could not be in our building—but was. When I get up to check, however, there’s a piece of fancy paper half stuck under my front door.

  Come out to the fire escape.

  The handwriting’s bold, a dark, impatient scrawl on the blue paper. And I stupidly tear up because now I realize that I’ve never actually seen Dev’s handwriting. Which is fortunately followed by indignation. People don’t go sitting around on fire escapes in San Francisco. For starters, the fire marshal would have something to say. Second, those are fire escapes. Not fire choices or fire really-plush-places-to-hang-out. They’re basically metal Tinkertoys and only an honest-to-God actual fire would send me down one.

  Another piece of paper materializes under the door.

  Please.

  A third piece of paper promptly follows that one.

  I’ll make it up to you.

  Okay. That one I can’t let go. I scribble indeterminate referent on the note and slide it back.

  I look out the peephole. Just to make sure it’s Dev and not some weird stalker who just wants to pass notes to me. And totally not because I sort of want to see him. No one is supposed to be able to get inside the building unless that person is a resident, but Dev is a smart guy. I’m sure he’s found more than one loophole. Or hacked the security code.

  Dev is sitting in the middle of my hallway. He looks tired, his hair ruffled, and he’s not wearing a tie. He’s sitting there on the floor as if he owns the world, but something in his eyes makes me think he’s not happy.

  “Open the door,” he says.

  How stupid does he think I am? I’ve never been a screamer, but I’m tempted now. Maybe if I yell the words, they’ll actually penetrate his big, amazing, completely stupid brain.

  I look down at Nellie. “We should move. I bet we could totally run Calla from Antarctica.”

  Instead, I go over to the window and look out. At the fire escape. It’s full of books. Stacks and stacks of books bristling with rainbow-colored sticky notes. I have to hand it to Dev—this wasn’t what I was expecting.

  But I’m not interested.

  At all.

  I check the peephole, but he’s gone. A few minutes later, while I’m still dithering, there’s a knock on the window that looks onto the fire escape. Of course there is.

  I go back over to the window. “I’m not letting you in.”

  Dev flattens a palm against the window. He’s wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt that shows off his ink. I realize I’ve never asked him the story behind his tattoos, how
he got them or when. Or why. From the look on his face, he might even tell me.

  “Open the window,” he demands.

  “Can’t.” I think I’m smiling. “It’s broken.”

  His eyes narrow, assessing the window. “Unlock it.”

  Whatever. I’ve tried multiple times to unstick that window and failed. I flip the lock.

  Forty seconds later, the damned thing slides open and Dev swings his legs over the sill. He sits there, big hands on his thighs, looking at me.

  “Are you waiting for an invitation to come in?”

  “Yes.” He gives me a look I can’t interpret. “I’m waiting for you.”

  He reaches behind him and grabs a stack of books that he hands to me. And then another and another. Werewolves and Scottish lairds, firemen and small-town heroes. Dirty businessmen, dukes and a dragon shifter.

  “I marked my favorite scenes,” Dev says.

  “The ones where the hero grovels? And admits he was wrong?”

  “I was wrong,” he says. “I should have set you straight the minute I realized who you thought I was. I was wrong to let you think you were just a hookup. I was wrong about a lot of things.”

  I set the books down and pluck the topmost one off the stack. My chest burns. “So you brought me a duke?”

  Dev looks at the book in my hand and frowns. He steps toward me, reaching for me, pulling me into his arms. “I brought you me.”

  I open the book. He’s marked the last chapter, the one where everything finally works out and the hero and the heroine get their happy ending. He’s done the same in the next book and the next book after that.

  “Why the books?”

  “I was going to borrow from them.” He frowns. “Pick the biggest, best, most effective grand gesture of them all.”