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“Found it,” he says, deflated.
Staring at his face, something clicks inside of me. Maybe it’s the last shred of compassion I still have left in me, rattling around inside my heart like spare change. “Sorry.” I face the balcony again. “I’m … not really myself lately.”
He doesn’t respond for a moment. Then I hear his feet shuffle as he moves to the door. It opens. He stops again. “Whoever broke your heart,” he says, “must’ve been one outstanding guy. I hope you find someone like that again.”
The door closes behind him.
And just like that, my peace returns. I down the rest of my glass, and another night comes to an end.
One outstanding guy, he said.
I smirk and shake my head.
The next time I open my eyes, it’s morning, and long stripes of sunlight are the only companions in my bed.
I throw a comb through my hair. The man in the mirror stares back at me. He looks like someone I used to know, but can’t quite place his name. He lets his stubble grow out now, rugged and reckless. His face is more chiseled and brawny than I remember, too. That’s probably due to his annoyingly persistent and aggressive workout and diet regimen, which shows all over his toned body. His shoulders are bigger and more broad. His stomach is flatter, too. His arms are always pumped.
His eyes are sharp with confidence.
He takes shit from no one.
I admire that guy in the mirror.
Today when I stroll through the doors of Bold Brands Marketing Firm, I go straight to the coffee. For some reason, Juan moves out of the way as I pour myself a cup. After a second of hesitation, he asks how I’m doing. I answer with a grunt. He says something else about the weather and makes a joke, but I ignore it as I stir my cup with a tiny stick.
Until he says, “She’s back.”
My stirring stops. I know exactly who he’s talking about. Still, I ask: “Who?”
“She was reassigned to our team again. To, uh … help with the new fitness campaign, I guess.” He shuffles his feet. “I just thought you’d like to know. Heads-up or whatever.” He cradles his cup and departs the room, leaving me be.
She’s back.
I resume stirring my cup, but contemplatively now.
When I head to our main workroom, I spot her at the round table right away. She looks the same. Not a single change to even be mentioned. The others are greeting her and welcoming her back after her number of months working at the sister building, teasing her about being gone for so long. There’s only one empty seat available at the table—the one right next to her. As I approach, an unmistakable tension fills the air, slowly suffocating the joyous chatter until all that’s left is an eerie, uncertain silence. I take my seat, then slurp a sip of coffee, paying the silence no mind.
“Hello, Rome,” she greets me stiffly.
“Prisha,” I greet her back, then set my cup on the table in front of me.
Eyes shift around the room, unsure what to say.
Everyone knows the situation. It’s no secret how our friendship crumbled a year ago after I made a new best friend at the gym. I don’t want to blame Prisha completely, but she kept nagging me, criticizing my life choices, judging me when I started lifting instead of just dwelling on the treadmills, then threw a tantrum when I stopped going to Jesse’s altogether after finding a better gym elsewhere. Then she stopped inviting me over for game nights, we got into a fight over nothing, she was relocated to another building across town for the past few months, and that was that.
Now she’s back.
I hate having to act civil.
And over my morning coffee, too.
Mr. Milton cuts all of the ice when he saunters into the room rather abruptly and tosses a stack of folders into the center of the round table. “Hm. I don’t know why I even bother,” he drawls, eyelids half open, a mug in his other hand, “but the campaign the other team developed doesn’t cut it. The copy is boring and uninspired. The photos they used are sophomoric and done-before. There are so many damned holes in their notes, I could strain pasta through it.” He sighs and leans against the table. “You guys need to put your big brains together and do better than this garbage. A fitness business is paying Bold Brands big bucks to broaden their clientele, they’re giving us one more chance, and we still haven’t delivered. I want edgy. I want strong. I want smart. Amateur hour is over.”
At once, everyone in the room starts engaging, throwing their ideas onto the table, discussing, and brainstorming. But nothing they say even remotely inspires a look of approval from Mr. Milton, who just listens on with the same bored expression, like the man is running on an hour’s sleep.
