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It was a half-baked concept to start with, but Dakota’s feedback attached to the image catches my attention.
Yeah, we might want to leave this one somewhere in 1999. Nothing attracts a modern girl to a wedding line like chasing down some loser who doesn’t really want to marry her. What if we sell a runaway bride instead? Turn the tables. That’s a little more interesting.
Her interview pops into my head. When Anna mentioned she’d be working on the wedding line, she went stiff as a board.
Call me a sucker for punishment.
I pick up my phone and fire off a text. Not a fan of men who skip out on their own weddings, huh?
I go back to reading and my phone dings sooner than expected.
We’re not friends. It’s after work hours. Why are you texting me?
My pulse slows. Another pang of that damnable guilt.
Answer the question, I demand, punching Send. I add, Please. I’m simply pinpointing where the original concept went wrong.
It’s insane what she does to me, even when she’s not in the same room.
I don’t think I’ve ever glared at those three swirling dots on the screen as she types. Her message arrives a few seconds later.
I mean, who *would* be thrilled to have a man leaving the altar? Why even propose to a woman if you’re not going to see it through? Better yet, with the time and expense that goes into getting married, how do you make it to the wedding day without knowing you don’t want this? Isn’t it kinda obvious?
There.
I’ve pissed her off again.
Texting probably won’t solve anything, so I call her instead.
I’m half expecting her to ignore me and let it go to voicemail, but she answers on the first ring.
“Can I help you?”
“Tell me one thing. Am I saying stupid shit again?”
I hear a muffled gasp.
“The only stupid shit is my boss calling me at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. Kind of ridiculous if you ask me, but hey, no one did.”
“My bad. I didn’t realize it was so late or that you had plans, Miss Poe. I’ve been going over drafts and lost track of time. Listen, if there’s something I need to know about your work on the wedding campaign—”
“Is there a problem with my work?” she asks, venom in her voice.
“Not at all. Your writing is fresh and the concepts are the sort of ass-kicking we’ve needed for a while. Still, I’m confused by the way you stormed out of the meeting today. I know I was harsh and I apologized for that. It occurred to me the wedding line might be too much if there’s some personal reason behind your aversion. Listen, if there’s another line you’d rather work on, I can make that happen. I can—”
“I’m sorry,” she interjects, soft but firm.
I wasn’t expecting that.
“I—I was supposed to be married about a year ago. It didn’t end well. End of story. Life goes on. I’ll get over it.” She pauses, drawing in a long breath before adding, “I’m already over it. Seriously. If the ring was worth anything, I would’ve sold it and taken a writing class.”
You’re not over a damn thing, I think to myself. The way you fled earlier today and reacted to my dumb ass tells the truth.
Even worse, I know that reaction.
It’s been years and it still doesn’t take much to bring back Regina, and finding her in bed with that pathetic, underhanded little fuck—
“Mr. Burns?” she asks softly.
“I’m still here.”
At least now I understand why she was so upset when I pointed out her missing ring like the goddamned lumbering bear I am.
“I appreciate your honesty and the additional context. Again, I regret saying what I did today. Love may be the trickiest business of all,” I tell her.
There’s a long pause before she says, “Oh, really? Is that why your mom was asking all the old ladies in the office if they had a daughter or niece they could set her son up with? She made it loud and clear she wants grandkids and her boy can’t seem to get the job done.”
I rock back in my chair, gritting my teeth.
What I wouldn’t give if I could get Ma to jet off to Maui, the Turks, or the Maldives like an ordinary retired woman in her sixties with all the money in the world to burn.
Anything to keep her and her big matchmaking mouth the fuck out of my office. You’d think that after the hell I went through, she might just accept my permanent bachelorhood.
“Burns? You still there or did Smithers tuck you in for the night?”
I bite back a smile. “For such a sharp writer and someone tired of Poe jokes, I expected better. You’re only the ten thousandth person to make a Simpsons crack with the name. Congratulations, I suppose.”
