Chapter 1 #3
“Yeah. I know. And I’ll be happy for you if you get it,” I’d said genuinely.
“Same,” he’d replied, though he couldn’t look me in the eyes when he said it. Instead, he went around and around, explaining how this job was his dream. How he’d always regret it if he put our relationship first over his career (not that I ever asked him to).
“I could…not apply,” I’d offered weakly.
The moment that came out of my mouth, I knew I’d lost myself entirely. I’d actually offered to sacrifice my dream job for him, after working my ass off to get scholarships for university and grad school.
He didn’t take the suggestion well, because me stepping aside would mean he “didn’t earn it.”
After that, things were awkward for a solid month. When he started sleeping on the couch and stopped sending me DMs and niche political memes throughout the day, I knew it was over as fast as it began.
We ended things mutually, amicably, high-fiving to “staying friends.” Both he and Laine helped me move out a week later, the day he got the job over me.
I never told Laine the gritty details, because airing all my grievances about him would have put her in the middle. Besides, it was easier to keep things civil.
“Laine, I’m very over him,” I assure. Even though seeing him still makes my stomach pinch. Not in an I miss him way. More of a he hurt me and never took accountability way.
Laine works down a swallow. “Actually, I’m glad you said that. Because I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something—”
“Look, I’m not bringing anyone back to my place tonight except a falafel shawarma platter with extra garlic sauce,” I cut in before she can lecture me.
“Okay, but will a falafel bring you to orgasm?” she asks.
I snort. “Close to it. I think you have too much faith in men. Hunter never got me there, and he had a year to figure it out.”
Her entire face creases, pained. “Hunter and I like each other.” It comes out so fast, I almost miss it.
In fact, I’m about to pull my phone out to preorder my shawarma for tonight when she snatches it and turns it face down on the table, like I’m a toddler with no impulse control.
“Did you hear me, Andi?”
I blink. “You and Hunter…like each other?” I repeat that approximately seven times before the meaning begins to sink in. “As in…more than friends? How—why didn’t you tell—”
Laine launches into a long-winded confession while I drift in and out of consciousness, only coming to when she casually mentions how Hunter’s original DM was actually meant to be for her.
He mistakenly got our names mixed up (ha ha, so funny, right?) and was surprised when I poked my head over the cubicle wall and took him up on coffee.
Here is where she stops to pledge that he “genuinely” fell for me, but that there was always something unspoken between them.
Of course, they only came to that realization “way after” we broke up.
I think my body is slipping into shock, because I can’t move, or swallow my drink.
I think I’m passing out, because in a blink, I’m lying in the booth, legs up in birth position (minus the stirrups).
Laine and Hunter (who swoops in out of nowhere) are above me, fanning me with napkins, asking if I’m okay and if I require medical assistance.
I manage to sit up with a violent cough, taking in the sight of them—my ex and my best friend—sitting side by side next to me, touching. Touching.
Realistically, the signs have been there for weeks, ever since we broke up.
Laine has been “busy” nearly every night and weekend, which I chalked up to us starting our new jobs and me getting lost in my writing.
But then last weekend happened. Laine told me she was too busy with work to hang out, only to post a shot of her fancy cocktail on social media hours later.
Five minutes later, Hunter posted a photo of the same drink, from the opposite angle.
Again, I chalked it up to the fact that the two of them now work at the Privy Council Office (PCO)—the department that supports the PM and Cabinet—together, while I was all the way at 24 Sussex—the PM’s official residence.
Naturally they were going to become closer after seeing each other at work daily.
I have to stop myself from going forehead into table. “So you two are…together? As in dating?”
They look at each other, barely containing their bliss, and nod simultaneously, as one. Hunter even takes her hand and squeezes it for emphasis.
Laine offers a weak smile. “I told Hunter I couldn’t make it official until I had your blessing. I figured, since you two broke things off so mutually and you no longer have feelings, that you’d be okay—”
“Yes, I’m okay with it. Of course I’m okay with it,” I say a little too quickly, mouth bone-dry.
Because of course I am. I have to be. It’s been three months, technically almost four, since things went awry.
It’s not like I’ve been brokenhearted over him.
So why does the sinking sensation in my gut feel like betrayal? Isn’t dating exes against girl code?
“We never expected it to happen,” Hunter continues, as though I’ve asked for a repeat of their origin story.
To my horror, he starts listing all the reasons they’re perfect for each other, as though I’m the hard-to-please De Niro–esque father-in-law with some sort of authority or say in the matter.
I sit there, red-faced, nodding aggressively, pretending to be completely and totally on board with this.
I have no choice in the matter. Laine is my best friend.
I have to support her, right? It would be selfish otherwise.
At one point I must zone out, because Laine pokes me in the rib. “Andi? You good?”
“Fantastic,” I say with more enthusiasm than I feel.
I don’t know if I’m happy, mad, or sad; all I know is I need to get the hell out of here.
Stat. “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe I should celebrate tonight.
Love is in the air, after all,” I say, butt-scooting out of the booth as fast as humanly possible (not very fast).
Laine punches the air, victorious. “That’s the spirit! Go get that celebratory peen. You deserve it.”
In my shock and delirium, I amble my way to the crowded bar, where I spot him. Bathroom guy. He’s still in conversation with his tattooed friend. I don’t know what comes over me. Maybe jealousy, a desperation to prove myself after Hunter and Laine. But I approach. Rapidly. Aggressively.
He sees me coming in hot before I can talk myself out of it, his lips parting in surprise.
In my limited experience, guys who look like him are usually the grunting, brooding-in-dark-corners types.
But there’s a lightness, a warmth to him that’s strangely comforting.
Kind of like holding your frozen, winter-kissed hands over a toasty outdoor bonfire.
It takes me off guard. So much so, I let out an ahh sound before saying hi, which comes out like, “Ahoy hoy.”
Jesus.
My greeting hangs in the air for a brutally long moment.
“Ahoy hoy?” he replies, unsure whether to laugh or not.
I decide to push through, not acknowledging it, even though I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live.
“I, uh—I realized I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Andi Zeigler.
” There’s a pause, like he’s waiting for me to continue.
Only, I don’t know what else to say about myself.
“And I’m, um, well—I don’t know what I’m doing or saying anymore, so I’m just going to leave now.
Bye!” I spin on my heel to make a run for the exit.
This was a terrible idea. Falafel platter, here I come!
A few strides away, a hand on my shoulder gently turns me back around. Bathroom guy is smiling at me and I don’t sense pity. He extends his other hand and says, “Nice to meet you, Andi. I’m Nolan Crosby,” without a beat, totally casual, as though I wasn’t fleeing him.
Nolan Crosby. It suits him.
“I don’t do this often,” I decide to inform, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious.
“Approach guys at bars?”
I shrug. “Ask guys to go home with me.”
His right brow flicks up. “Oh? I’m coming home with you?”
“No!” I scream. I’m much worse at this than I ever realized. With Hunter, it was easy, because he did most of the talking and charming. I barely had to say two words. “I mean, unless you want to?”
He watches me for a beat, and I’m certain he’s about to back away slowly, like that GIF of Homer Simpson vanishing into the bushes.
“I have food!” I add, for no good reason.
This must pique his curiosity, because his eyes brighten on the spot. “Food, huh? What kind of food?”
“Well, actually I’ll have to stop at the twenty-four-hour grocery on the way home.
I only have cherry tomatoes in my fridge,” I say, racking my brain to take inventory.
I might have some old olives from a solo charcuterie night weeks ago.
Do olives expire? “But I’ll make you something good. Like…pierogies.”
He tilts his head like he’s trying to assess whether I’m serious. Apparently he decides I am, because he says, “Sure, I could go for pierogies.”