Chapter 2
2
Of course, I drop the box—full of hefty hardcovers—right onto his foot.
“Ouch,” Scott Daniels says.
Not yelps or exclaims . No, Scott simply observes the experience of my possessions falling onto his foot with the droll dispassion he’s reserved for every one of our interactions over the past year.
“Sorry,” I say, matching his enthusiasm.
He eyes me warily, like he doesn’t really believe I’m sorry. Which, yeah, I’m not. He’s Scott. He deserves it.
Ever since I knew publishing was a job, I’ve wanted to work in it. I networked and interviewed hard for the internship I managed to secure after college, which several years later led me to work in commercial fiction marketing for Parthenon. Now, I love every single part of my job—except for one arrogant, rude coworker.
Scott Daniels started in my department a year ago. While we work on different titles in different genres, we and the other marketers work closely on coordinated plans, allocation of department resources, and other joint efforts. I remember my excitement when he was introduced during the weekly interdepartmental meeting. A handsome man my age who loved literature? Was this the American Dream? Of course, I expected we would get along.
Until we didn’t.
The man regarding me with disinterested displeasure in our office lobby should be my type. Cute in a nerdy way. Muscular in an unshowy way, his nice shoulders visible in the stretch of his work shirts. Intelligent in an eager way, quick to endorse or expand on every one of our colleagues’ ideas except mine. A perfect Excel spreadsheet of a man.
Instead, after our first interaction, my professional relationship with Scott Daniels descended from strained to outright unpleasant. Every meeting, every discussion, neither one of us can help frowning, or pointedly contradicting the other, or deliberately putting our titles in competition for promotional opportunities. I am forced to deal with him every weekday, including work-from-home days, when he shadows my Outlook inbox like the worst demons let loose on Kethryn’s court.
“Nice box of personal possessions,” my demon remarks. “Either you’re planning to move into your cubicle more seriously or you just were dumped.”
I purse my lips. I hate how quickly he catches on. How effortlessly he pairs wry humor with hidden delight for my misfortune. Yes, I’m definitely going in the notebook. J. Worth dumped. Dropped heavy shit on my foot. Still a win.
Notebook worthy or not, I’m relieved that his question means he didn’t overhear my breakup. “That’s a personal question,” I return with Scott’s dismissiveness. It’s what we do. Return . Displeasure. Dismissal. Dislike . “We have no obligation to answer each other’s personal questions because we are only colleagues. And look,” I observe, “we’re in the lobby. Technically outside of work. I’m surprised you even want to talk to me.”
I give him a meaningful glare.
He doesn’t look embarrassed, because he’s not. “I do consider the lobby to be part of our professional sphere,” he replies.
“Elevators, sure, but we’re outside the card swipers,” I point out. “I think you’re in the clear.”
Scott genuinely considers my observation. I watch pros and cons, rebuttals and concessions neatly arrange themselves in his eyes the way they do in meetings or on dreaded team calls we have to join in Parthenon conference rooms. Pretending we’ve never met is the only way I endure them.
Finally, he nods once, conceding my point. Hooray, me .
Except, I can’t help myself. I remember his phrasing. “Why do you assume I was the dumpee?” I ask.
I’m really one for masochistic questions this fine Friday. Scott, of course, looks ready to indulge me. He pauses, regarding his favorite colleague, chin raised in the unconscious way he does, sunlight glinting off his glasses’ gray frames. “Because I know you,” he finally says.
Leaving me fuming. What was I expecting from Scott?
I notice, despite the early hour, Scott has his leather shoulder bag. If he’s going home early, the day has its silver linings. I put on a smile. “Have a great weekend, Scott,” I say.
“Actually, I’ll be out all week,” he informs me with reluctance, like the orderly imperative of work staffing is feuding with his hesitation to provide me information or welcome news.
Which it is. I don’t force my smile now. “A whole week,” I say. “What a treat for us both. Me because I’ll be free of you, and you because you’ll be…where?”
“A friend’s wedding,” he replies hastily.
“You have friends?”
Scott glares.
“Personal question, Jennifer,” he reminds me.
I don’t laugh. I would never give him the pleasure of knowing I find his reprise clever. Instead I purse my lips, defeating the urge, while Scott stoops down to pick up the box. I hurriedly pull it from his hands before he can examine the details of my Halloween costume, which was, shall we say, provocative .
I’m not fast enough. Scott’s eyes widen. Then they move to mine.
Wait , I order myself, controlling my reaction. Why should I be embarrassed in front of Scott? I would have to care about his opinion to be embarrassed.
“You want to ask, don’t you?” I say.
Scott says nothing, visibly warring with himself.
“Your colleague who you strongly dislike has a box of her possessions, and what’s that? It’s strappy and leathery? How interesting,” I continue. “What could it be? I wonder if she looks hot as hell in it. Alas, if only such a line of inquiry weren’t—what’s the word, again?” I exhale. “Oh yes. Personal .”
Scott’s frown deepens when I hit the final word with victorious venom. I grin.
“I’m not that curious,” he grumbles.
“You’re well within your rights to lie to me, of course,” I remind him sweetly. “Since we aren’t friends.”
Scott looks like he’s deliberately not agreeing with my assessment. “Have a great weekend, Jennifer,” he replies instead.
I smile. Knowing Scott won’t join me in any conference rooms or malinger in my inbox for the next nine days, I really will enjoy the weekend. Ending things with Jordan feels like a distant memory. Who cares! Not me. I’ve just defeated Scott Daniels at pointless verbal sparring.
Hoisting my personal effects, costume included, I return to the elevators. I ride the high of my perfect comeback up to the Parthenon offices, which were recently remodeled in comforting modern shades of glass and wood. I continue down my hallway, feeling more optimistic now. If a couple coworkers notice what I’m carrying? Whatever. It’s Friday.
The fragile magic doesn’t last long.
It’s worn off when I reach my desk. Instead, sentimentality and discouragement have set in.
I put the cardboard box down, noticing, under my costume and my hoodie, the Oklahoma keychain I got for Jordan early in our relationship on a whim in the airport on my way home from visiting my family. Whenever he noticed it and thought of me, I explained, he would remember how I spent the week thinking of him. I felt like if we got married one day, the keychain, the humble “first gift of our relationship,” would make good wedding-website material.
What a fool I was.
If hope is magic, I don’t know if I’m happy under its spell. I’m in the unfortunate habit of projecting more onto my relationships than they deserve.
Except, if I were to stop…well, I’m starting to fear I would have to give up dating altogether.
Hurting and frustrated, I shove the box’s painful reminders out of sight under my desk. Impossibly, I find myself wishing it were Monday , or even the dreaded Wednesday morning, when the momentum of work is its most stressful. I could stand to lose myself in deadlines or complicated correspondence right now.
Instead, I have only Friday’s lazy continuum. It’s 11:15 a.m., leaving me plenty of empty hours. I jog my computer on, then spend fifteen minutes halfheartedly reorganizing my desktop files.
When my phone’s vibration hums on my desk, I seize the source of welcome distraction.
It’s a photo from my friend Amelia, my former work wife, once my favorite Parthenon marketing coworker. Amelia Gupta, like me, loves Elytheum. It forged our friendship fast, in memes DM’ed during meetings and weekend readathons with cheesecake. She’s the Hazelheart to my Spindleshear, which is how we introduce ourselves at Elytheum events. It’s hilarious if you’re a fan.
In the dazzling morning, with the woods in the distance—North Carolina, I know—Amelia stands in a clearing, looking exhilarated. I notice handmade flags sewn in dark purple, wooden tables laden with scented candles and stage-prop swords. Yes, what surrounds Amelia is unmistakable.
The Elytheum Experience.
I’ve wanted to go since the Experience was announced. I pretty much worship everything Heather Winters has ever written. For the past decade, while Elytheum Courts has grown into one of publishing’s most popular, enduring successes, I’ve hung on to every word of the unfolding epic of warring fae and mortals in the dark, magical, Regency-meets-medieval realm of Elytheum—especially the forbidden love story of mortal Queen Kethryn and her fae paramour, Lord Valance.
I’m not alone. Far, far from it. While Elytheum flourished, I found other fans online, at events and festivals, and eventually in my job, where I’m fortunate if unsurprised to have coworkers who share my fantasy favorites. I wake up every morning with videos of fan theories and funny reenactments of events from the series, and I procrastinate with Instagram scrolls of fan art and character memes.
Which is why the Elytheum Experience is literally a dream made real. About a year ago, a few fans decided they wanted to organize an Elytheum “immersive experience,” complete with costumes, character actors, and scene-inspired events, held on Hollisboro’s campus for how perfectly the Gothic architecture reflects Elytheum’s darkly dramatic setting. For intellectual property reasons, the founders reached out for Heather Winters’s endorsement.
Not only did Winters endorse—she offered to fully fund the Experience, even working in close collaboration with the founders in developing original lore for the expansive immersion.
Original. Lore. The very words make me feel like I’ve just downed espresso with nine sugars.
Which, for the record, I would never do. Cinnamon dolce lattes only, please.
It was the ultimate move of gratitude and honor for her fans. The Elytheum Experience was official. Nine months ago, Amelia got the worst and happiest news. She interviewed for a developmental role with Winters’s IP—a coordinator position hired by Heather to manage and liaise with outside inquiries while the Elytheum brand expanded—and she got the job. We knew it was the right move for her professionally, but we cried her entire last day at Parthenon.
In her new role, Amelia was involved intimately with every step of the Experience’s planning. While she couldn’t divulge details, when the first Experience was scheduled, she could offer her dear friend a free invitation, which she did months ago.
Of course, I suggested to Jordan we go together. Of course, he produced the convenient excuse of his mother’s sixtieth birthday. He invited me to her celebratory brunch at his parents’ house in the suburbs. I knew it was important to him, and I was proud of the indication for our relationship, Jordan welcoming me into his family.
Guess I’m no longer invited to that! I have to remember to return the candle I got her—
Realization jolts into me. In my clumsy epiphany, my phone falls from my hand, noisily dropping onto my desk. I don’t care. New hope seizes my heart.
New magic.
I’m not with Jordan anymore. I don’t have to go to Linda Jenkins’s birthday brunch. There’s no reason I need to spend the weekend at home crying over her son, either.
Instead, I snatch back up my phone. With fast fingers, I fire off my reply to Amelia.
Any chance you still have a ticket for me?