Page 9 of Not Safe for Work

“Maybe you’ll meet someone interesting,” Molly says as she eyes up the sexy red dress I’m holding. It was much too expensive, but the color is perfect against my light brown skin, and the cut makes my boobs look amazing. I couldn’t resist. I’m not sure if I’ll need it, but I’m hoping a reason presents itself.

“I’m supposed to be there for work,” I say as I carefully roll it into a tight bundle and place it in the suitcase.

Molly rolls her eyes, “Oh yeah, that dress definitely screams ‘work.’” We both giggle before her expression turns sly. “That dress has nothing to do with your obsession with Rafe, does it?”

She says it so casually that there isn’t anything casual about it.

I pause my packing to shoot laser beams with my eyes. “I’m not obsessed with Rafe.”

I’m totally obsessed with Rafe, but not in the way Molly is implying.

No, my obsession was forged in the hellfires of acrimony. My obsession is purely professional, and I operate on the premise of keeping an eye on your enemies. I should embroider that on a pillow or tattoo it on the inside of my thigh. “As soon as we land in Maui, I’m ditching his ass. Rafe Gallagher isn’t ruining this trip for me.”

“Mm-hmm,” Molly says, not looking at me as she flips through a magazine, avoiding my gaze.

“Even if I didn’t loathe him, he has a girlfriend.”

“Except he doesn’t,” she says, looking up. “I know you keep trying to convince yourself of that, but there is no way they’re still dating.”

I know she’s probably right, and my stomach responds with this weird spinning thing I don’t like.

So, I scoff as I slide open my underwear drawer. “It doesn’t matter. You know I don’t date at the office.”

Molly sighs, and I avoid looking at her, knowing I’m about to be scolded. “Everyone isn’t Leo, Tris. Stop projecting what he did on every man you meet.”

Finally, I meet her gaze, clutching a fistful of silky thongs.

Leo.

The reason I flamed out at my first job with Sustain—the one I actually wanted.

Two charismatic brothers owned the company—they were both brilliant and gorgeous, and Leo took an interest in me during my first few months. Starry-eyed and flattered by his attention, I leaned into it. He had that whole tortured artist vibe, even if he got his start by puzzling out water quality calculations. He was in his thirties and too old for me, and I already knew he would probably break my heart, so I started dating him.

It lasted a year, though I didn’t see him often, considering he split his time between Chicago and LA. But he had a way of making me feel special, and so I fell in love with him, too.

Then I found out he had another girlfriend on the other side of the country. All the signs had been there, but I ignored them, overwhelmed by his focus (when I had it) and an extreme lack of youthful judgment.

When I confronted him, he didn’t take it well. He thought I was overreacting, which tells you everything you need to know about him right there. I broke it off, and I was sure he would fire me.

Instead, he did me one better and shared a private photo of me with his brother. Before I knew it, everyone in the office had enjoyed an eyeful of me in my underwear, and I had no choice but to quit, enter the witness protection program, and change my name to Susan.

Molly is the only person outside those days who knows the entire story.

“I… know,” I say, responding to her comment, though even I hear the lack of conviction in it.

“A vacation fling is exactly what you need,” she insists.

We’ve had this conversation before. Many times.

And I’m grateful that she cares enough to worry.

But she also doesn’t get how dark those days were for me.

After I left Sustain, it became clear everyone in the “environment scene” is a hypocritical gossip, and no one else would hire me. Leo knew everyone and essentially had me blacklisted. I’ll never forget an interview in which the firm’s partners claimed they couldn’t hire someone with my image problems—as if wearing underwear is a crime and I wasn’t the victim of a gross breach of trust. I could practically see the word whore written in speech bubbles hanging over their heads.

“Why do you think I bought the dress?” I ask, hoping to assuage her concerns.

I know she’s right, and I do want to move past it, but much like my career, my love life has also gone stale and dry.