Chapter 25
“What day is it?” I asked Sloane as I dragged myself into the kitchen a few mornings later.
She was pouring coffee, dressed for work, but Miles was sitting at the table.
I had thought it was Monday, but Miles usually only stayed over on the weekends.
Her work clothes said that wasn’t the case this time, though.
I hadn’t worn work clothes in over a week and it felt weird. I kind of missed it.
She laughed but then looked at my face. “Oh, you’re serious. It’s Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?” I looked at Miles. “It can’t be.”
“It is,” he said.
“Since your internal calendar is obviously messed up,” Sloane said, “I need to remind you that I’ll be out of town starting Thursday for that film festival.”
“That’s this weekend already?”
“Yes.”
I slid around the counter to where she’d been standing and pulled a mug off the mug tree.
“Where has Oliver been?” Miles asked.
“Yeah,” Sloane agreed. “He seemed a bit standoffish on Saturday. Did something happen?”
I hesitated with Miles in the room.
“I’ll tell him later anyway,” she said.
“Fine, Friday night I told him that we should just have sex and get it out of our systems. I think it hurt his feelings.” I’d been analyzing how he’d been on Saturday too, and the fact that we hadn’t hung out since. That was the only logical conclusion I’d come to.
“You did not!” she all but screamed in my direction. “Why?”
“I don’t know! Because we should.”
She lowered her brow. “Are you still trying to pretend he’s wrong for you?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Sloane. My life is a mess and maybe now isn’t a good time to start something,” I said, thinking about what Audrey had advised.
“I’m pretty sure Oliver agrees, anyway. The more he hangs out with me, the more he’s learning I’m not right for him. I’m too chaotic, too complicated.”
“Is that what he said?” she asked.
He had said he thought he was complicating my life even more. Which implied he thought it was complicated to begin with. And he’d read those drunken texts I’d sent to my sister.
“Didn’t he learn your last name for the first time on Friday?” Miles said, before I could respond. “He probably googled you while sitting on the couch and definitely thinks you’re complicated.”
Sloane backhanded him across the chest. “Wrong answer.”
“Oh,” he said. “I mean, you’re not complicated… but your sister’s kind of out there, and for a guy who’s all but invisible online that kind of notoriety might scare…”
Again, Sloane leveled him with a look.
“What I meant is, life is complicated and finding a person to navigate the rocky path with makes it feel much smoother,” he said in a singsongy voice.
I took a sip of coffee that burned my tongue. I sucked in some air, then said, “Thanks for the wisdom, Miles. And I’ll let my sister know you’re a huge fan.”
Sloane squeezed my arm. “Sorry to leave you in the middle of this crisis, but I have to get to work.”
“It is Tuesday, after all,” I said.
She kissed my cheek. “Have a good day, honey.”
“Thanks, dear.” She left the apartment with Miles. I listened as the lock clicked into place. I took my cup of coffee to the couch, then stared at my phone for a moment before googling my name.
The top hit was my sister’s channel even though I’d never been on it.
The next one was my Instagram page. I clicked on the link and scrolled my page, wondering what Oliver would’ve found had he decided to look me up after going home.
I smiled as memories accompanied the pictures: going to the beach with my friends, my nephews opening Christmas presents, my mom blowing out candles on a cake.
I kept going further and further into my history when an old picture of Rob came flitting across the screen.
Just Rob, standing outside the agency, pointing at the sign.
I clenched my teeth and hit the trash button, deleting it.
Great, I really wasn’t making a guy who’d been cheated on twice feel safe.
I breathed out a sigh. Whatever. He was the one who’d declared us friends.
It wasn’t my job to make him feel safe. “We’re friends,” I said, as if my brain needed it to be spoken out loud to believe it.
Why did that word taste so bad in my mouth?
I swiped out of the app and over to my email, checking it once again, like I had been doing obsessively since I published my website on Saturday. Three days and it was still empty.
My other obsession was posting on social media. At first, I’d been super careful about composing the perfect pitch. But since so few people were seeing my posts (based on the likes and reposts), now I just wrote whatever came into my head.
Are you an author looking for a literary agent for your romance novel? Consider someone who is fighting it out in the current dating pool on a quest to find her true love. Me. That’s me. #amwriting #litagent #amquerying
I added my website and pressed the publish button.
Doubt spread through every inch of my body.
I had thought maybe the clients I shared with Rob would reach out since I wasn’t allowed to reach out to them.
But they hadn’t. Maybe they didn’t know I’d left.
He certainly wouldn’t tell them. If they happened to see my posts, they would know.
But what if they didn’t? What if nobody saw them?
What if I never got a client? What if I never even got a single email?
Kari’s words— Call me in several years when you’ve gotten your feet wet —pounded through my head.
I had to get out of my head. Laundry. It needed to be done. The sweats I’d been wearing for the last several days could attest to that.
There was a note on the washer full of wet clothes that read: Text me if the cycle is done and you need this. It was followed by a phone number. Since it was the only washer not running at the moment in our apartment’s laundry room, I texted the number.
Your clothes are done , I sent, then sat down to wait on one of the three chairs next to the folding table with my basket full of clothes. On my phone, I navigated to my inbox again. Empty.
I opened the book I had brought. It had never taken me so long to finish a book in my life and it wasn’t Lord Leopold’s fault.
He was as rakish as they came. I read a few lines before my phone buzzed me away from the page.
It was a GIF in our group chat from Cheryl.
I hearted it and then started to put my phone away when I saw Oliver’s name below Cheryl’s.
I clicked on his name and read through our last couple days of texts.
Sunday:
Me: Good morning.
Oliver: Where is the ‘beautiful’ that’s supposed to follow that?
Me: Oh, oops, I must not have highlighted the whole message to paste.
Later:
Oliver: I’m beginning to think I should be offended by the golden retriever thing.
Me: I love golden retrievers.
Oliver: And here I thought you weren’t a dog person.
Me: I said I liked some dogs!
Oliver: I think what you said is that some dogs like you.
Me: You’re right. I did say that. I guess it’s still true.
Oliver: Yes, I am offended.
Monday:
Me: When can I see you again?
Oliver: I have plans with my mom this evening for her birthday, but if you must see me, I have a website you can check out. It’s called Hart Lit.
Me: Wait, is that you?! I thought it was some random guy in some random location.
Oliver: It is.
Me: Tell your mom happy birthday from me.
Oliver: Will do. Should I let her listen to your drunken voicemail as well?
Me: You’re dead to me.
Our exchanges seemed normal. But he hadn’t texted a good morning today.
In fact, he hadn’t initiated conversation at all over the last two days.
That was a bad sign. A sense of panic welled up in me.
I didn’t want to be ghosted by Oliver. I didn’t even want to be haunted by him.
The thought scared me because I sensed that was exactly what he was doing.
There was no response from wet-clothes person.
I tossed Lord Leopold onto the folding table.
Touching other people’s clothes, clean or not, gave me the ick, but I grabbed the communal basket and set it on the floor in front of the washer.
It was a man, I established very quickly as I pulled out wet T-shirts and athletic shorts and long socks.
He wore boxer briefs. Colorful ones. I moved them over, using as little of my thumb and pointer finger as possible, pinching the very corner of the red material.
“Excuse me?” came a deep voice from behind me.
I whirled around, underwear still in hand, to see a guy standing in the doorway.
He was handsome. Dark hair and dark eyes.
He wore a tank and swim trunks. He was even holding a book, like he’d been reading out by the pool while he was waiting for his laundry. “I was coming,” he said.
“An on my way text is all it would’ve taken,” I said, flinging his underwear into the basket.
“You gave me five minutes.” He stepped forward, threw his book next to mine on the table, and joined me at the washer. Our books collided. He was reading Jane Austen.
My eyes went wide, but still I said, “I should’ve given you no minutes.”
“I got this,” he said when I reached into the washer for another article of clothing.
I raised my hands and took a step back, then picked up my basket, waiting for him to finish.
“I’m sorry,” he breathed out.
“What?”
“I would be annoyed if someone left their clothes too.”
His words defused the anger that had obviously been pouring off me. “Yeah… thanks. It’s okay.”
My phone chimed with an email notification. I balanced my basket on my hip and dug out my phone. The word query , bold and bright, seemed to shine at me from the subject line of my inbox. My cheeks felt numb and my chest felt like it was going to explode. My first potential client. “Oh my god.”
“Is everything okay?” Laundry Man asked.
“What? Oh, yes. I just… Are you done?” I shoved my phone into my pocket and pointed to the washer.
“Yes,” he said, moving to the dryer across the aisle.
I dumped my clothes into the washing machine as fast as possible, sloppily poured my detergent, and shut the lid. It slammed in my haste and I startled. “Sorry.” I pushed the normal wash cycle button and rushed for the door, empty basket in hand.
“Hey,” Laundry Man called from behind me. I turned. “Is this your book?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” I tried to grab it from him but he held on.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m Aaron.”
I laughed a little. Wasn’t that the name I had assigned to Oliver on our first date?
“Is that funny?” Aaron asked.
“Oh, no, it just reminded me of something. Hi, nice to meet you. I have to go.”
“Can I text you sometime?”
I stopped cold.
“I mean,” he said with a shy smile, “you were holding my underwear when we met. How can I not ask?”
“Oh,” I said. He was right, that was a pretty epic meet-cute.
But I found I didn’t care. There was only one person I wanted to see right now, be with, tell my query news to.
I wanted Oliver, and not just because he made me feel like I was full of molten lava every time we were together.
But because he was funny and thoughtful and sweet.
“No, I’m sorry. You’re cute but I have a… a someone.”
“Good luck to you and your someone,” he said.
I made it back to my apartment in record time, then pulled out my phone, ready to call Oliver and profess my like to him. But when I tapped the screen, my email box was still open, my very first query waiting there. I’d almost forgotten.
I looked around the living room. Where did I want to be when I read it?
This was the moment I’d picture for years.
By my bookshelves? No, my room was a mess right now.
On the balcony with the slight breeze blowing through my hair?
Not everything has to be a scene out of a book— the voice in my head was Audrey’s.
I sat on the couch and pulled up the email.
Dear Ms. Hart , it started. I smiled at those words.
I saw your website and knew you would be perfect for my adult romance.
“Thank you, shirtless Oliver,” I whispered.
Imagine a world where there is only one man.
“Oof. I don’t know if I want to.”
He is only good for one thing. We all know what that is.
“His sperm?” I guessed.
But he falls in love and can’t bring himself to be with anyone but her. He would give up the entire future population for his one true love.
“Are there are no sperm banks in this world? Or cups? Or turkey basters?”
How will humanity survive? Is love worth everything?
There were a couple more lines about how long the book was and what genre it fell into best and then a little about the author.
I sighed and closed my email. It wasn’t the worst query I’d ever read.
That counted for something. And it was the first one ever specifically addressed to me.
That was a milestone. My eyes fell on the mug I’d left on the coffee table that morning still half-full, crusty coffee around the rim.
I should’ve read the email on the balcony.
I checked the time on my phone. Ten thirty A.M. Oliver’s gym time.
That was the one good thing about having such a regimented schedule: I knew where to find him.
I’d gotten my first query solely based off the website that wouldn’t have existed without him.
I owed the man a coffee. Was I fabricating an excuse to see him? Absolutely.