The Virgin Society Collection

19. Paper Airplanes

19

PAPER AIRPLANES

Veronica

I wake early the next day to prep for the job hunt, drinking a chai at the kitchen table as I review my résumé. Then, I put the finishing touches on a killer cover letter that I’ll tailor for each publishing house.

I send it to my sister, along with a note: Can you take a look at this and let me know what to tweak ?

Her reply comes shockingly early. Yes. Also, I’m at Big Cup, writing with TJ! Stop by on your way to work. We have news!

That sounds promising. And a little distracting in a good way. A quick visit with my sister and her friend might take my mind off the jumping bean feeling inside me. Seeing Milo this morning will be weird, and I need an injection of normal to start the day.

After I finish getting ready for work, I cross Seventh Avenue, then pop into my sister’s favorite coffee shop. Hazel waves from a table, windmilling her arms like there’s a chance I’d miss her.

I sail over and give TJ a kiss on his scratchy cheek, then hug my sister. I flop onto the extra chair, feeling warm and fuzzy to see the pair, more so than usual. “How’s Meet Cute Again coming along?” I ask, since the two writing besties finally decided to co-write a book.

“Great since, shockingly, Hazel writes neurotic characters really well,” TJ deadpans.

“Pot. Kettle,” Hazel says to TJ.

He lifts his coffee cup in acknowledgment, takes a drink, then turns to me. “But I think it’s safe to say our book is going better than the time she tried to co-write with Axel Huxley.”

I snort-laugh. “Maybe because she doesn’t want to bang you, TJ.”

Hazel kicks me under the table. “I did not want to bang Axel,” she hisses.

As he sets his cup down, TJ fake coughs, muttering under his breath, “You did.”

I mime reining in a wild horse. “You wanted to ride him like a mustang, Hazel. Admit it.”

TJ lifts a hand to high-five me. “With no need for a saddle.”

I smack back and smack talk my sister some more. “Hazel wanted it bareback with her enemy.”

She huffs, flicking her red hair off her shoulder dramatically. “And to think I invited you here to help you, Veronica. Why do I want to help you again?”

“Because you love me,” I say, batting my eyelashes.

“Anyway,” Hazel says, then gestures to her writing partner, “TJ has good news and I wanted you to hear it from him.”

Ooh, another injection. Shoot me up with more sunshine. “This sounds fun,” I say to TJ.

“Last night, I had dinner with my editor, Amy. From Brooks & Bailey. She happened to mention they’re about to post an opening later this week for a young adult editor. She’s not handling the hiring, but if you want to reach out to Tiffany, you can tell her Amy Summers sent you by way of TJ Hardman,” he says with a pleased smile.

Gah. I love my people. “Teen books would be so fun. You’re the best,” I say, bursting with excitement. “It’s official.”

“And you're like the little sister I never had,” he says.

Hazel clears her throat. “And I’m your work wife, so wouldn’t that make Veronica your sister-in-law?”

He points his thumb at Hazel. “This is why she’s in charge of details in our books,” he says, then he turns the conversation back around. “And one more thing. Amelia—she’s a friend of my boyfriend—is a huge fan of your column and wants to get in touch with you about some kind of business opportunity. She’s in a band called Ten-Speed Rabbit, so maybe that’s the connection?” He shrugs.

“And what do you know? I’m a fan of ten-speed rabbits,” I add boldly—no blush here.

Hazel chuckles. “Own it, girl.”

“Absolutely,” TJ seconds. “Anyway, I don’t know what the gig is, but let me know if you want me to pass on your email to Amelia. I think her band might need help with social.”

Hazel’s green eyes light up as she turns to me. “I bet that’s it. You’re so good at interacting with column readers online, so maybe they want you to interact with fans?”

It’s true I might need another side hustle. The job at Bikes and Blooms ends in a month and a half when Iris returns. If it takes me longer than that to swing a new book gig, I might need another temporary gig. Or a handful of them.

“Of course you can share my email,” I say, then thank them and take off for work. In a few minutes, I’ll see Milo again.

I wish I’d written a column on walking into work the morning after you walked out in soaked panties.

When I arrive at the shop, I pause and stare at the green door from the street. Here I go.

I draw a fueling breath and head inside. Milo’s chatting with Zara at the bike counter, his back to the door, the dog sitting politely at his feet.

“And don’t forget, we have a new shipment of bike gloves coming in today,” he says. “I’m also expecting a special order of a derailleur for the new hybrid I’m building for a bike blogger. He chronicles all his bike adventures, the trips he goes on, the pictures he takes, and I want everything to be perfect for him. Can you text me when those arrive? The custom-build business is starting to take off.” He sounds so hopeful. I’ve never heard him talk about his custom bikes like that before.

“It sure is, and I’m glad you started it last year. So I’ll tell you about your bike part if you order me lunch again,” Zara says, a brilliant negotiator.

He chuckles softly. “Never stop being a comedian.”

“Oh, I was serious. I’d like a roast beet with pesto. Yes, I said beet, not beef, because beef is gross,” she says, then her eyes land on me. “Hey, V.”

“Beets sound tasty, Zara,” I say, smiling at her, but not for her.

Milo turns in slow motion, then his gaze locks with mine. His lips curve in a slight smile and a shiver whooshes down my body. I feel all loose and bendy, and I might melt right now. If he keeps looking at me like that, Zara is going to pick up on the fuck-me eyes.

I clear my throat.

“Hi . . . Milo,” I say with an unnatural pause. Where’s a dog water-shake when you need it? “Hey, Zara,” I say, trying again to sound like I have spoken words aloud before.

“How did everything go yesterday?” she asks as she tugs a box of energy bars closer to her on the counter.

Wait. With what? With Milo slamming me against the wall? “Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer.

“With Throw Me a Bone. Did your little dude like it?” Zara asks as she grabs bars from the box to stack in a display on the counter.

“Oh, he loved it,” I say, relieved. I push my purse strap up higher on my shoulder, just to keep busy.

“It wore him out,” Milo adds, with another knowing smile slung my way.

Zara stops sorting, hands freezing on the bars. She arches a brow Milo’s way. “How do you know?”

He clears his expression, clearly realizing his mistake. “Oh. Lucky guess,” he says with a casual shrug, recovering quickly. He nods to the door. “And on that note, I’m outta here today.”

Hold on. Did he just say he’s taking off?

“You’re . . . leaving?” I ask, like I’ve never heard of the concept of departures.

Trudy stares longingly up at him, and he rewards her with a pat on the head. “There’s a bike-to-work event in the park. I promised Chet I’d help. So we need to go,” he says, gesturing to his main squeeze.

He lifts her up, then pops her into her bike seat, and waves goodbye. In thirty seconds flat, he’s wheeling her out the door.

That’s it.

That’s just it?

I stare stupidly at the door for a few seconds too long. I wasn’t expecting a sailor’s kiss, but I sure as hell didn’t think he’d skedaddle like that. And I suppose what hurts too, is I thought he’d have mentioned privately to me that he had an off-site event.

But then, I don’t know what to expect from a work tryst.

Or any tryst, for that matter.

I roll my shoulders, trying to let go of my expectations. Time to get to work. I head to the flower side of the store, setting down my purse in a cabinet.

“Want me to add a sandwich for you when I order?” Zara calls out. “I’ve pretty much got him over the barrel with bike intel. He loves those custom bikes almost as much as he loves Trudy.”

There’s a story there, but I don’t want to pry. Except, I do want to pry. “Why’s that?” I ask casually as I tie on my apron.

“He thinks it’s what makes the shop stand out. He wasn’t sure if he should get into them, though, since it’s a lot of work and time, but I think someone gave him the kick in the pants a year ago and he’s been loving it ever since. Good thing. His bikes and his dog are all he needs,” she says, then dips behind the counter to hoist up another box.

Yup. His wheels and his wags.

That’s crystal clear.

“Thanks for the lunch offer, Zara. But I brought a salad,” I say, then I put my phone on silent.

For the next eight hours, I’ll focus on the job I have. Tonight at my apartment, I’ll pour all my attention into the jobs I want.

Men? Forget about them for now.

Work comes before coming.

All morning, I am lasered in on flowers and only flowers. Then, on the regal-looking blonde who strides into the shop, hair coiffed perfectly in her signature French twist.

“Blanche!” I call out, even though she’s heading straight for me.

I’m surprised at how excited I am to see my former boss. But I guess if you ever have to be fired, Blanche is the one you want firing you.

“Hi, Veronica,” she says warmly when she reaches the counter. One glance and I can tell there’s something different about her. I’m trying to put my finger on it, but there’s a looseness in her limbs, a comfort in her body.

Ohhh.

She’s getting some on the reg. Good for her. I’m tempted to say Life is better with Os, isn’t it?

Instead, I say, “So good to see you, Blanche.”

I’m also chomping at the bit to ask for all the tea. Like . . . has anyone breathed my name as the perpetrator, because I haven’t caught so much as a whiff of trouble online or around my column about my other identity? And please tell me it’s safe to swim in the publishing waters soon?

But best to ease into that too.

“I’m great, and I might be in the market for flowers. Any idea where I can get some?” she asks playfully, gesturing to the cases upon cases of gorgeous blooms we have.

“Gee, I have no idea. But thanks for coming to Bikes and Blooms. What are you looking for?”

“I need about a dozen bouquets. I’m hosting a big brunch this weekend for my She Lifts group. It’s for female executives in various industries who mentor other women,” she says.

“Ooh, that sounds like a great group.”

“It is. I’d be happy to connect you if you’d like,” she says.

I blink, surprised. I thought she’d try to distance herself from me. But then, that’s a matchstick reaction. And she’s never shown any indication that I’m persona non grata.

“Thanks. I’m all for networking,” I say, a perfect lead-in to asking for details. But I also want to do my actual job. “Let me help you with the flowers first. What would you like? Or can I recommend some?”

She shoots me a we’ve-got-a-secret smile. “I do love your recommendations. As for flowers, what about snapdragons? They’re so pretty.”

“I love snapdragons, but they aren’t a great summer flower. Maybe we could do some arrangements of dahlias and hydrangeas? They love the heat.”

“Mmm. I do too,” she says, purring. My, my, Blanche is like a whole new woman. Her skin is glowing too. I should market sex toys with its own day. Like Every Day. National Make Your Skin Glow Every Damn Day.

After I enter the details about the flowers and the delivery into the computer, I segue back to publishing. “So, did Darius get the promotion? He was a decent editor,” I say, though the cloying way he spoke to me the day I was fired rankles me still.

Blanche scoffs. “Oh no, honey. He wasn’t right for that job.”

My lips twitch but I rein in a grin. “Really?”

“Truly,” she confirms. “You were the best editor I’ve ever worked with. We haven’t filled the position yet since Darius left.”

My ears prick. “Where did he go?”

She waves a hand airily. “He went to Dunbar Loraine and took a job there working in non-fiction.”

I shudder. “I love all books, but I’m a fiction gal.”

“Same here,” she says conspiratorially. Then she scans the store, and with the coast evidently clear, she leans in. “And I wanted you to know, everyone seems to have moved on from the incident. No one’s talking about it, or you.” She taps the counter. “Knock on wood.”

My shoulders relax, and I let out a long exhale. “Do you think I can get a job in publishing again?”

“I think so. I hope so. And no one seems to have figured out you write The Virgin Club. ” But Blanche clearly has. I shouldn’t be surprised though. She’s a woman who does her research. “Has word gotten back to you?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Not a peep.”

“Good. And while I’m here, I need to get a special birthday gift for my sister.” Once more, she sweeps the store for spies. “In the same vein as the helper you suggested for me.”

I rub my palms. This is a job for a sexpert.

But before I can get more deets on my next superheroine assignment, the bell rings, and a new customer strolls in. “I’ll email you specifics,” Blanche chirps. “By the way, I tell all my girlfriends to read your column. They love it.”

“I’m so grateful for that.” Her visit is a shot of vitamin D on a cloudy day. “Thanks, Blanche.”

She leaves, and after I help a few more customers, I grab my phone from my pocket to tell Milo about the big order. He’ll be happy to hear that, and it’s the right thing to do. Clearly, he loves check-ins.

But when I click on my texts, there’s a message from him waiting for me, timestamped five minutes after he left this morning. My heart skips happily. Dammit. I half wish I didn’t have this reaction to him when I have no clue what he wants. I open his note and read. Hey! I didn’t want Zara to catch on. But can I call you tonight?

Ugh. Just tell me what you do want, Milo. Why can’t he be direct and say he’s dying to see me again?

I respond with a simple of course.

I say nothing about the big order. Maybe I’m being petty. I don’t care. I want plans. Not texts.

When I arrive home that night, there’s a package from Just for Her waiting for me in the mailroom. Weird. I didn’t order anything, but when I go into my apartment and rip it open—eagerly—I squeal.

We thought you might want to try our new Butterfly! Let us know what you think! Love your column!

Xoxo

Angelica, Lark, and Christine

(AKA, the gals at Just for Her)

I pump a fist, then show it off to my pets. “Look who just scored a free gift,” I say.

StudMuffin spins in a circle, although that just means he needs to pee. But I know he’s secretly excited for me. I take him out for a walk, and when I return, I focus on the job hunt, sending the email to Tiffany at TJ’s publishing house, then firing off emails to Peterson Books, Dunbar and Loraine, Reiss and Reardon, and my sister’s contacts at Lancaster Abel. I answer Blanche’s note, putting together a virtual gift basket of recommendations for her sister. Amelia hasn’t reached out yet, but there’s a note from Bellamy asking if I can interact with readers again, since they’re salivating for me .

Her words.

I laugh, then respond with happily , and pop over to The Dating Pool to answer questions. This is another shot of delicious adrenaline. I am in my element here, talking to other women.

Then, feeling energized, I grab my phone, and head to my balcony. I’ll brainstorm ideas for my next Virgin Club column tonight. I’ve gotten ahead of schedule since I wrote three columns last week, and Bellamy is stockpiling them to release each week. But thinking ahead will keep my mind exactly where it should be—on my career.

Interesting topics about dating and virginity could be . . . How to Break the News to Your Date, or Wear Whatever You Want, or Other Things You Could Be Doing Tonight.

I like the first one, and I bet Bellamy will too. As I open the email to suggest that topic, my gaze catches on a flash of white in the corner of my balcony. Is that a paper airplane?

Quickly, I bend down and grab it. It’s so intricate. It’s not a third-grader’s flying machine at all. It’s origami level, with delicately folded wings, like it was engineered to reach a certain altitude.

Maybe three stories up from the street?

My heart skitters. Hope flashes bright and hot as I turn it over. The name on the side says Miss Cute Devil Butt .

I gasp with excitement, then set a new speed record for unfolding. There’s a note on the inside.

Hi there. What are you up to tonight? Have I told you I make excellent sandwiches? If you want one, call me.