by Brynn North
Mom gave me a tight squeeze back as she reached for a champagne glass.
Later that night, I sank into the long-awaited Jacuzzi, relieved down to my toes.
Vi: Was it as bad as you predicted it to be?
Kat: Not after my little outburst.
Vi: you’re WHAT?
Kat: *your
Vi: Shut up and tell me what you said.
Kat: I’ll give full details tomorrow. Right now I need to stretch myself out in this Jacuzzi made for two and sleep like a starfish, the way a single woman in this romantic as hell room should.
Vi: It’s okay. Boston is here anyway, acting like a total downer for some reason. I have to bring him out to cheer him up, but you better give me ALL the deets tomorrow.
Boston? Acting depressed? As much as I knew I shouldn’t be excited over someone being upset, the idea he was moping around thrilled me a little, and I perked up despite tonight’s emotional drainage.
Later the next day, as I packed up my car to head back to the city, Mom and Dad surrounded me for hugs. I was genuinely going to miss them when I left.
“Come up more often now that you’re back in Minnesota.” Dad’s voice was a little gruff, a sure sign he was hiding his emotions.
“I’m not sure my body can physically handle being a guest at Love’s Retreat,” I teased. But I did want to come up more often, now that I had sorted things out, and my parents had assured me I wasn’t a colossal disappointment to them.
“And next time I call, I want to hear about that other man,” Mom whispered when it was her turn to hug me.
I jerked back, surprised. She had a knowing gleam in her eye.
“Vi’s brother, right? The one who keeps commenting and liking your posts? A man doesn’t do that for just anyone.” She lowered her voice even further to make sure my dad didn’t hear. “I looked at the other profiles he follows. No other single, dateable women.”
“Thank you, Ms. Cyber-stalker,” I said with an eye roll, but this time I smiled. Mom would always be Mom, cyberstalking, and looking out for my best interests.
25
I skittered around the office Monday morning trying to decide whether or not to avoid Boston. On one hand, I felt dreadfully awkward around him. But on the other hand, the last time I saw him in person my hand was literally on his dick, so a little ice-breaking could be a good thing. Deciding that the sooner the better, I went on a hunt for him around the office. But, he wasn’t at the coffee pot, nor his desk, so with a pit in my stomach that was mixed with regret and nerves, I headed to the conference room, trying to be the last one in.
Unfortunately, I realized I wasn't the only one with that idea when I ran straight into Boston at the door, spilling the contents of his open water bottle all over his shoes.
“Oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I spluttered. When I wanted to break the ice with Boston, I didn’t mean I literally wanted to spill ice all over him.
“It’s okay, really, it is.” He glanced down at me as I attempted to mop his leather shoes with the tiny napkin I had wrapped around my paper coffee cup. “They’ll dry.”
I hoped he had them sealed with leather protectant, otherwise, he was going to be sporting speckled shoes. They looked expensive.
“After you,” he said formally, holding open the door for me. We were the last two in, and everyone was staring after our scene near the door.
I hesitated for a moment before going in, selecting a seat at the end of the table with an open spot next to me. Instead of sitting in the empty seat, he crossed over to the far end of the table, the furthest he could get away from me. Well. If I had any question on how much he wanted to talk to me, I got my answer. My heart sank, and I started doodling circles over and over on my notepad, not hearing a word Kiara said. I stopped short when I realized I had doodled the letters “BG” in large letters, just like I had fifteen years ago. I quickly tore the piece of paper off the pad and crumpled it before anyone could see.
Thankfully, the meeting went by quickly, well, as quickly as a meeting like that could, anyway. Boston didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the room as he gathered up his papers and laptop slowly. I gathered up my own and bolted toward the door when I heard his voice.
“Katrina?” His voice was perfectly neutral. My heart skipped a beat.
“Yes?” I said in a voice two octaves higher than the answer required, wondering what he would say. Would he declare his hatred? His love? I couldn’t decide which would be harder to handle.
“Your next article. It’s due to me today. Can you get it to me by three?”
His voice, perfectly pleasant, crushed me. It was the type of voice you’d use with a total stranger, one where the interaction would quickly be forgotten. Not the type of voice you used with someone you called beautiful not that long ago. Not the tone you used with someone that you confessed having feelings for just over a week ago. This was the voice someone used when placing their taco order.
“Oh. Um. Yes,” I promised, backing out the door. I had been so distracted over our disastrous evening and lack of communication from him that I hadn’t written one word of it. I’d have to clear my entire morning schedule to have it done by three, and even then, the result would be a pretty crappy first draft. Well. That’s what he was there for, right? To edit it. May as well make him earn his paycheck.
I fled to my desk, where I promptly wasted a good hour looking at pictures of kittens on the internet instead of concentrating on what I actually needed to do. Finally, with superhuman effort, I closed my browser, and I started tapping at my keyboard. By 2:00 p.m., I came up with what I thought was a halfway decent first draft and clicked send.
Ha, take that, Boston, I crowed triumphantly to myself. Not only did I get it done, but I also got it done a whole hour early. Now, I just had to wait for his edits and do a little brushing up.
I didn’t have to wait long to hear his thoughts.
“What is this, Katrina?” Boston’s voice floated over my cube wall twenty minutes later. I turned toward his voice and saw he was holding a sheaf of papers. I looked closer and realized it was my article, printed out.
“My...article?” I asked, confused. I had emailed it to him. It had my name on it. Why was he asking me what it was?
He gave me a deep look. “You want to publish this?”
I didn’t like this tone and got defensive. “Is there something wrong with it?”
He strode over toward a conference room across the hall. “Let’s talk about it here,” he ordered, clearly not a question.
Gah. I’d rather meet with Kiara than him. Hell, I’d rather meet with a hundred Kiara’s than him right now, with that look on his face. Reluctantly, I got up, and with a great deal of stomping, threw myself in the chair across from him, arms folded across my chest. He closed the door behind me.
“Are you going to tell me all the sins I committed this week?” I demanded. Forget politeness. I tried to reach out over the last couple weeks, tried to act normal, and savage what friendship we had. All I got back were basic, run of the mill responses that proved he had no interest in being in my presence. The rejection hurt, though I would never admit it to him.
And I missed him more than I would admit to anyone. Even to myself. Just being in his presence now, knowing he would rather be anywhere but in this room, cut me deeply.
“Did you even read what you wrote?” He tossed the papers across the table from me and sat back, with one leg crossed over his knee.
“Of course I know what I wrote. I turned it in an hour ago, didn’t I?” I grabbed the papers and them against my chest defiantly.
“Take a second. Really read it. Is that the type of advice you want to give your followers? The ones that are now looking up to you as a role model?” The look on his face told me that anything but the answer no would be wrong.
I started to scan through what I had written, trying to read it from a reader’s perspective, not my own. Damn it. With growing dread, I realized Boston was a
bsolutely right.
This article was about fitness and working out, but instead of writing about how it helps clear the mind and keep you healthy, I had written about my experiences with aerial yoga, and how much it would impress people. I didn’t exactly say doing workouts would help you get your body, then your boyfriend, back, but I sure as hell implied it. Scanning even further, I realized the entire article sounded like I was encouraging people to change to become more exciting for someone else, not for themselves. Not one word was about improving your mentality. It was all about improving your image.
I had done it because I wanted to seem fun, healed from the breakup, and well, sassy.
At least a hundred readers had reached out to me via email or direct messages to tell me their own stories of heartbreak, or how much they felt encouraged by my authenticity, and I loved hearing how my story helped them, even a little. My readers were looking to me to see how to get out of the dumps, and I was too ashamed to have them figure out that I was in such a mental funk about yet another man. I wanted them to look up to me as someone who exuded strength. So instead of being true to myself, to my readers, I had half-assed this article and gave crappy advice that was quite the opposite of anyone who needed to heal should follow.
And it showed. I slapped the papers back down on the table without another word and studied my lap.
“I didn’t go through four years of journalism school and ten more years after that busting my ass trying to get assignments to play some two-bit armchair love psychologist, Kat.” Boston stood up and headed toward the door.
I was so upset by the advice I had attempted to hand out I didn’t even manage to take in even a little pleasure hearing him reverting back to my nickname.
“Please rewrite it - in a way that the magazine would be proud of - and turn it into me by tomorrow morning.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “And if I can make a suggestion? A life suggestion, not just an article suggestion . . .”
“Please do,” I said formally. I wasn’t sure I really wanted advice from him, at least now, but now was not the time to be rude.
He gave me a not-quite-condescending look. “Don’t change yourself to impress any readers. And especially don’t change yourself for any man. The right people will like you for you.”
With that, Boston was out the door.
Damn it, I thought as I crumpled up the papers in my hands. Boston was absolutely right, again. I had told everyone, including myself, that I was changing for me, but it was obvious I wasn’t. All along, I was trying to mold myself into someone Shane wanted me to be. Better looking. More fun. And once I realized I didn’t need that in my life, I tried to mold myself into something the world would see as a better version of myself, out of a feeling of obligation. To whom, I wasn’t quite sure. But I still wasn’t just accepting me for me. Hell, I didn’t even like aerial yoga. I just liked Shelley and telling people I went to aerial yoga. If it was up to me, I would work out by taking walks by the river with a podcast or something, but that didn’t make for interesting writing.
I wanted to cry but knew what I needed to do instead.
Kat: Emergency happy hour. The couch. I’ll stop for wine, you get the cookie dough.
Vi: I’m there.
26
“Wow,” was all Vi said after I had spent the last hour spilling my guts to her. “I did not see that coming.”
“Are you upset?” Vi’s expression was blank, and I didn’t know how to take it.
She paused and gathered her thoughts. “Well, I don’t love it,” she said finally. “I just didn’t see this coming.”
“Yeah, me neither,” I admitted. “I had such a hard time seeing he grew up that it hit me like a ton of bricks. Damn, Vi, your brother is smoking hot.”
She grimaced. “Can you not?”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll drop the whole thing right now. Your friendship is ten times more valuable to me than any man.” I meant it too. No matter how hard it would be.
“It’s not that,” she said, looking out at the window where a bird was perched on a nearby tree. I could tell she was trying to figure out what to say, so I let her. After a few minutes, she continued.
“It’s just that I love you. But I love Boston, too. He’s my brother and my other best friend. I don’t want to see him get hurt. I’m not sure you’re over Shane yet. And it's weird. No offense.”
I nodded. “I understand. But believe it or not, I am. I really am getting over Shane.” I picked at a loose thread on a pillow, finding it easy to talk to something filled with stuffing than look her in the eye right now. “I realized I was just in such shock about the breakup that I was desperate to get back to a feeling of normalcy when I really should have worked through the feelings and come out better on the other side. But Boston lights something up in me.” I stopped to whack Vi with the pillow when she started making a gagging noise. We both giggled, which helped break the tension, then I went on. “But it’s true! I know it sounds corny, like out of a rom-com movie, but he’s so fun that he helps me realize how much of a rut I was living in.”
I paused and giggled. “The weird part, I can’t help with though.”
We giggled again, then she studied me for a moment. I glanced at the clock. I better wrap this up, I only had ten more minutes until Dateline started and I lost her attention for the next hour.
“You’re serious? You want to do this?” she finally said, and I nodded.
“Well, as long as you promise me you aren’t going to hurt him, or ditch me for him, I guess I’ll shut up and let you do your thing. I’d rather have you as a sister in law, anyway, than some random woman.”
“Whoa. The man isn’t even talking to me right now. I’d hold off on ordering a bridesmaid dress if I were you.”
“So now what?”
“You’re his sister. Shouldn’t you be the one telling me how to handle this?”
She snorted. “Boston? He’ll do things his own way. And that will be that.”
I got up and paced around her all-white living room, then flipped through some of her sketches she had spread out on the coffee table.
“I like this one.” I held up a particularly good one of a kitchen with teal cupboards and a gray backsplash.
She snatched it out of my hands. “Quit trying to avoid the subject. Now, how are you going to seduce,” she grimaced at her next statement, “my brother?”
“I’m guessing showing up at his door with a trench coat on and nothing else won’t work,” I said, only half-jokingly, then sank back onto the couch. “I think I need to prove to him I’m moving on. That I learned my lesson.”
“That’s a start. But how?”
I reached for my phone. “First thing, I’m going to do this.” I opened up Instagram. Holding it in between us, I deleted my second profile, the one I created specifically so I could creep on Shane to see what he was up to. Vi gasped.
“Done. I don’t need that in my life,” I declared. “If he needs to reach out for something, he’ll have to do it the regular way. Not by me trying to live vicariously through pictures he posts for the world to see.”
“Then what?”
I squirmed. The next step would be harder to execute. “I have to talk to Boston. Tell him I’m sorry, and that I want another chance.”
“Good luck,” she said, watching as I pulled up his contact info.
“Thanks. I’m going to need all the luck I can get.”
“Oh yeah, Kat?”
“Yeah?” I glanced up from my phone.
“One last promise from you. Absolutely no sex talk stories about Boston. No matter how good it is.”
“No promises,” I joked, walking out of the room as she made another retching noise and reached for the remote control.
It took some coaxing, but I got Boston to promise to meet me the next morning with the promise of French pastries and coffee while we walked along the river, finally faking that I wanted to talk over my new, improved article I sent his wa
y last night.
“This better be worth it,” I grumbled to myself as I handed over my credit card for twenty bucks worth of fancy French coffees and kouign amanns. Then, the thought of those words caused me to smile. The last time I said them was for Shane’s birthday dinner disaster. Though it had only been four months ago, it was also a lifetime ago. I felt like a different person. Maybe I was a different person.
At the river, I handed the white paper bag over to Boston like some kind of peace offering. He took it and smiled, giving me a glimmer of hope.
“My favorite.”
“I know. I mean, I remembered you got me hot chocolate mix from there a few months ago, so I figured you liked the place.” I was rambling a bit, but it helped fill the awkwardness of the moment.
“Shall we walk?” He gestured to the stone path in front of us, and we walked in mostly silence for a few minutes.
Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer. “Boston, I just want to say-”
He stopped me. “Please. Don’t. I know what you’re going to say, and I don’t want to hear it.”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say,” I argued.
His face was skeptical. “So you’re not going to apologize, tell me you were wrong, and that you are over Shane and want a chance with me?”
Welp. Guess my ruse of wanting to talk over my article was as see-through as a piece of gauze. “Did Vi tell you this?” I demanded, feeling betrayed.
He looked shocked. “What does Vi know about us?”
“Everything, as of last night,” I admitted. “Well, most parts.” I didn’t tell her I grabbed his dick, but I was pretty sure she figured out that our kiss wasn’t exactly G-rated.
He took a sip of his coffee, choosing to ignore that. “So am I wrong? Is that what you dragged me out here on a Saturday morning to tell me? You truly wanted to talk about your article? You were so excited about the rewrite that you couldn’t wait till we got back into the office?”