5. An EX-istential crisis
CHAPTER 5
AN EX-ISTENTIAL CRISIS
EMMA
S aturdays are sacred.
An hour of Ivy and me sweating our way through a weekly Pilates class, followed by an even longer gossip session over lattes.
But today? Today is special.
As of this morning (and half of this month’s salary), my parents are officially debt free, so Ivy and I have come to Mint. Sure, I could eat for a week on what the chicken piccata costs, and the combination of moss-myrtle-lime décor is making my eyes sore, but the food is so good that I can almost, almost , forgive the pretentious atmosphere.
“That’s ridiculous,” Ivy groans, stabbing her fork into her mesclun salad. “You’ve earned that job four times over.”
“I know.” I exhale out the frustration. I lay my napkin over my plate and thank the waiter who comes to collect it. “And don’t even get me started on Charlie.”
Months of hard work unrecognized, but apparently, it’s not Charlie’s fault because “boys will be boys.” The scream I want to let out could probably count as a renewable resource.
“At least he apologized.”
It’s true. Those are words I never thought I’d hear from him. Though I’m not sure how to feel about it. I should accept it, but the memory of being passed over still stings like an ice burn on the tip of my tongue.
A better person would forgive and forget.
But I’m not ready.
How can a simple apology make up for what he did?
Why does forgiveness feel more like a sacrifice than a blessing?
“You know, he and I started at the same time,” Ivy says. “No one has a bad word to say about him.”
“Of course they don’t. Apparently, I’m the only one he’s rude to.”
It’s dangerous to let Charlie get under my skin, but I can’t help it. He couldn’t even say sorry without insulting me. And when he brought up money, all I wanted was to hurt him back.
There’s no way Charlie could know how deep that cut runs. The whole point of giving up everything I had was to ensure no one found out how much trouble my parents were in.
To the rest of the world, I’m still the perfectly privileged daughter on a field trip to see how the 99 percent live.
Truth is, I love my job. I wouldn’t give it up for all the zeros in the world.
“Emma?”
I turn at the sound of the familiar voice, a thrill running through me.
Logan Williamson Cross.
Ex-boyfriend. Manager of special projects (a.k.a. fancy intern) at his dad’s firm. Can usually be found enjoying a meal at any one of the fine dining restaurants throughout the city. Currently standing in front of me, blond hair falling casually over his forehead and beckoning my fingers to tame it, looking just as good as he did when we split up three months ago.
Possibly better.
Fond hearts aren’t trouble for no reason. And mine thumps heavily as I take him in.
“Logan, wow. What a surprise.” Cue the polite hug and kiss. “You look great.” Memories of us tumble out of the closet I crammed them into, crashing into me with a force that makes my knees go weak.
There’s day-old scruff darkening his jaw. It’s a look I’ve never seen from Logan before. In the year we dated, he was meticulous about grooming. Even now, it’s clear it’s deliberate. It makes him more distinguished. A replica of his father.
Logan Senior must be delighted.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says.
Yes, what a complete coincidence that I in no way hoped for.
I duck my head. “I remember how much you love it.”
He leans in and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Let me guess, you had the piccata.”
“Guilty as charged,” I admit, pleased he remembered. “It’s too good to pass up.”
Logan appraises me, his expression intent. “Some things are.”
My skin heats. Oh, how I’ve missed this. “How was Europe?”
He shrugs, casual. “The same. Ate too much pasta, drank too much wine…”
“Raised your father’s blood pressure by not working enough,” I finish for him and am delighted when he laughs.
There’s been a lonely ache in my life since he broke it off, and while I’ve tried to ignore it, it’s the reason I picked this place for lunch. Seeing him again and making him smile only makes it more obvious I’ve missed him.
Is it too much to hope he misses me too?
“How are you?” he asks. “Your folks are all right?”
“I’m good,” I say, breezing past the second question. I never told Logan the truth about my parents’ financial state, and I still feel guilty about it. “At least as good as I can be before the ‘event season’ starts.”
He smiles knowingly. Our parents have been friends for over a decade and have worked together on my parents’ foundation, hosting every party under the sun. “I’m sorry I missed the garden party last month. It was always more enjoyable with you. Although Mom mentions the upcoming fundraiser every chance she gets.”
“Will you come this year? My parents would love to see you.” Please say yes. “So would I.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Just studies me.
My breathing picks up as I wait. In the year we were together, it was easy to read him, but now I can only wonder… and hope.
God, if he gives me the standard “let’s catch up soon” line—otherwise known as the polite way of saying “I hate you and never want to see you again”—I might melt into the carpet out of humiliation.
His eyes fill with a mix of sympathy and pity. I’m suddenly sure he’s about to let me down gently, and after this week, I can’t stand to hear it.
“Besides, it’ll be good to show our parents that we’ve both moved on,” I rush out, and before I know it, I’m adding, “Especially now that I’m seeing someone.”
Oh, hello. There is the hungry look I remember.
“That’s news,” he says in a neutral voice, but my pulse is skipping. Maybe I shouldn’t have lied, but the proof is there. He hasn’t forgotten us either.
I might stand a chance of getting him back.
“It’s early, but it’s going well. Really well.”
“I’m glad.” But the strain in his smile says otherwise. “I guess I’ll see you soon, then. You really do look good.”
As he kisses my cheek, I’m enveloped in his thick, woodsy aftershave. I breathe deeply, as though there might be a way to hold a piece of him when he leaves, some faint connection to tide me over until I can get him back.
When he turns to leave, I force myself not to watch him go.
Ivy clears her throat. “Have you been hiding a boyfriend I don’t know about?”
“Yes,” I say, sliding back into my seat. “I let him out Tuesdays and Thursdays. It keeps him from getting stale.”
Ivy tosses her head back and laughs. “Logan didn’t look very happy about it.”
My gaze drifts to the door, but all that’s left of him is the tingling where his lips brushed my cheek. “He didn’t, did he?”
And like all good document controllers, Ivy has an acute attention for detail. “You still miss him.”
I turn back to her and sink a little in my seat. “Is that ridiculous? It’s been three months since we ended things.”
I’ve been afraid to admit it. Gutsy and glamorous, she’s the greatest friend I’ve ever had. I can’t stand the idea of disappointing her.
Ivy sets a hand flat on the table and leans forward. “How you feel is not ridiculous. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
What a precious gem of a human. “I know, and I love you for that.”
“He did seem genuinely happy to see you.”
Hope springs up inside me. “Do you think so?” I really want to believe her. We left things unfinished, ending with a maybe later that I wasn’t sure would ever come. But now… “I was supposed to use this time to work things out, and I’m no closer to an answer.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. If he really cares about you, it won’t matter to him that you can’t?—”
“It matters to me,” I say. I want him back, but I can’t handle disappointing us both a second time. “Whatever is stalling me in the bedroom needs to be fixed. If I can do that before the fundraiser, then we stand a chance at making it work.”
“If you’re sure,” Ivy says.
I am. I’ve never been more certain of anything.
All problems have solutions, even intimate ones. When Logan and I were together, I hoped all I needed was time, but the issue grew like mold, invisible to the eye until it was too late.
Now I’m determined.
If I’m going to get Logan back, I need to solve this. And as monumental as it feels, it’ll be a hell of a lot easier than the Charlie-sized obstacle I have.