Chapter 15
AURORA
It could not be clearer that Roman is excited to leave this office. He’s been walking around whistling all morning, a cheerful rendition of “If You’re Happy and You Know It.”
I didn’t see much of him last week, and I saw none of him over the weekend—which is fine.
Preferable, even. I’m making great progress on his house, and as per our agreement, he’s now paying me weekly.
This job won’t turn any major tides for me financially, but I breathe significantly easier when I see that little number go up in my bank account.
Because I’m trying to be thoughtful and non-scary, I waited until this morning to text Tyler again—in other words, until business hours rolled around.
I’m not sure he’s earned that courtesy, but the difference between Sunday night and Monday morning is minimal anyway.
So when I got to the office and sat down at my desk, I pulled out my phone and sent him a message asking how his job hunt was going.
He has not responded, which I choose to believe is because he’s busy polishing his résumé and cannot afford to be disturbed. So I set my phone aside and get to work.
Our ticket numbers are picking up, which is a huge relief. We’re lining up everything with our vendors, too, and working on the catering. But the entire time I’m sitting at my desk, a corner of my brain is also trying to wander down the hall to the makeshift office at the end.
It’s dumb, obviously. I don’t need to be thinking about Roman. I don’t need to be thinking about anything at all right now except for tablecloths and napkins. But my mind plays hooky all the same.
I tell myself it’s because I’m tired, and when I’m tired I can’t always focus.
It will be good for the new boss to get here, because she’s the one who will be here for the months Denice is on maternity leave, and she’s someone Denice helped choose.
That earns her my vote of confidence. Roman basically does nothing—he said so himself—and I’m skeptical of half the decisions he makes.
Even so…I can’t deny he’s charismatic, or that he makes this place a little less mundane.
And then, as though he knows I’m thinking about him—somehow I wouldn’t put it past him, either, because he’s arrogant enough—he appears.
He strolls past our block of desks, and it really is a stroll—a lazy, ambling walk, completely unhurried and unburdened. I’m not sure I’ve ever walked like that. When our eyes meet, a grin unfurls over his lips, a mischievous expression.
I narrow my eyes at him automatically, because he looks like he’s up to something, but all I get is a wink in return before he’s passed out of sight. The renewed sound of his whistling reaches me a second later—only now it’s “You’re So Vain” by Carly Simon.
The audacity. And why do I feel like laughing?
The feeling tries to bubble up in my chest, so I shove it down and stomp on it a few times for good measure. Then I turn my attention back to my computer screen and attempt better focus once again.
But the man just can’t leave things alone. My phone buzzes with an incoming text, and when I read it, I sigh.
Roman Drake
As heartbreaking as this will be for you, I’m once again unsure whether I’ll be around this afternoon when you come by. Let yourself in with the key.
And try to miss me when I’ve left Soul2Soul. Crying into your pillow would be appropriate.
Me
Dream on, Roman Drake.
As he warns me, he’s not home when I go to clean and organize later that day.
I finish the spare bedroom, because I started it last week but never got around to the closets or the vacuuming.
I’ve grown more comfortable in this house and my work here, especially since Roman has been gone lately, so I decide I’m going to start dressing more comfortably too—out go the jeans and in come the leggings.
Today’s Monday, and after Wednesday, he’s not even my superior at work anymore.
He’ll officially be gone, and Bonnie Lilledahl will start.
She came in and introduced herself earlier at the end of our workday, a middle-aged woman dressed in a pantsuit and flats, her expression no-nonsense but kind.
I can tell she’s efficient, too; we’ll get along well.
We will. I know we will. But as I wipe down the baseboards of Roman’s spare bedroom, I can’t help wondering what he’ll do when he’s gone—and if Bonnie Lilledahl will make the office as lively as it is when Roman is here.
I get the chance to find out what kind of boss Bonnie is earlier than expected. Roman is supposed to be in until Wednesday, but it’s only Tuesday when I arrive at work and find her there.
“She’s early,” I said under my breath when I passed Shelly in the hall, and Shelly said that Roman had to bow out a few days early. She didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask, but it’s been on my mind all day.
Roman just seems like someone who would go out with a bang rather than disappearing early and quietly.
Bonnie is fine, of course, like I suspected she would be. But she’s blander than Roman, and I’m distracted and off-kilter anyway, all the way up until Bart appears at my desk.
“We have a problem,” he says.
Because I’m irritable, I want to retort that the problem is his presence at my desk. The problem is his lopsided bowtie.
But that’s rude, and I’m just grumpy today, so I hold my tongue.
In truth, I’m pretty sure the problem he’s noticing is the same problem I’m noticing: that there has been a noticeable uptick in ticket sales over the last several days—since we began running our latest ads, really—and yet the numbers for participation in the date auction itself have remained low.
He could be here about the coffee filter in the break room or something to do with Mindy or anything else. But Bart is good at his job and very good at coordinating with me to keep our events running smoothly; he has been all along.
“The auction?” I say grudgingly.
He gives a short nod, and maybe he sees my eyes on the drooping bowtie at his neck, because he reaches up and fiddles with it. It helps a bit, but not much.
“We’ve sold about seventy-five percent of our tickets,” he says, “but we’re still short…hmm.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe seven to ten participants for the auction.”
I settle back in my chair, thinking. I don’t have one of the comfortable chairs like the one in Denice’s office or even the one Roman Drake had been using.
There’s nothing ergonomic about this slouched, lumpy contraption.
I shift in my seat a bit, trying to be subtle as I find a position that’s decent, but it doesn’t work, and I give up.
I feel like I’ve been giving up a lot lately, or maybe giving in.
I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m PMSing.
But I woke up this morning in my warm bed in my warm house with my amazing sisters, and all I felt was tired—tired of carrying burdens I can’t define.
I feel weighed down, and it’s getting harder and harder to stand back up every time I stumble—harder and harder to want to stand back up.
I’m being knocked down by ex-boyfriends and work and finances and my own heart.
But instead of rallying and moving forward anyway, all I can think is that a good day curled up in fetal position on the couch sounds perfect right about now.
That’s a red flag, because I am not a fetal position girl. I am a push-through-it girl.
So I gather what little strength I still have left and make myself focus on Bart, who really is presenting a valid problem.
“We could fall back on one of our original options,” I say, my voice tired.
But Bart shakes his head—like I dreaded he would. “The advertisement with the date auction highlighted is the one that’s converting the most. People are interested in this idea.”
“If they’re interested but not willing to participate, that’s not our problem.”
He just looks at me, and I sigh, smoothing my hand down my shirt.
“Sorry.” I don’t like the word, but I spit it out all the same. “Sorry. I know. Okay.”
Suck it up and figure out a solution, Aurora, I tell myself.
“We can’t make people participate,” I say.
“No,” Bart agrees. “So we need to come up with participants of our own, in case our numbers remain too low.” He pauses, scratching his chin. “We could get some of the girls from the Hooters in—”
“Bart,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
He grins, but the expression dies when I don’t laugh.
“Sorry. Okay. Well, what do we do, then? Provide an incentive? Fifteen percent off the next year’s subscription?”
“We could,” I say. “Run it by Bonnie and if she’s okay with it, let’s try that. But I think we should also have a plan in place in case that doesn’t pan out.” I hesitate, hating what I’m about to say next. “We may need to fill in some of the gaps ourselves.”
Bart sighs, and for a second he looks as tired as I feel. “All right. I’ll figure out what those numbers would look like and then check with her.”
“Keep me updated.”
Bart nods, turns on his heel, and walks away. I watch him until he’s rounded a corner and disappeared out of sight; only then do I allow myself to slouch.
It’s a slow day after that, and I can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing—the work is easy, but I’m bored.
A brief smile flits across my face when my mind turns to Roman’s grandmother’s house and the work I’m doing next. There’s a linen closet calling my name, and a pantry, too, full of spice racks and flour and sugar and all the things used for proper cooking and baking.
Who would have guessed Roman liked to cook? Not me. I guess he’s not such a frat boy after all, is he? I’d begun to suspect as much, but he keeps confirming that suspicion, usually when I least expect it.
I freeze suddenly, sitting up straight when I realize that my small smile has widened into something laughing and…fond? Grateful? Affectionate?