Chapter 5
PAIGE
Whoever came up with the term “bundle of nerves” has obviously never experienced nerves before. A bundle suggests something contained, and my nerves are anything but that right now. They’re bouncing around inside me like a legion of gremlins that have just been given free rein to gnaw on my nervous system.
“Where is my phone?” Panicking, I upend a couch cushion in the living room, but seeing nothing but a few pretzels and a paperclip, I do the same to the rest of the cushions. No phone.
I get down on my stomach and stretch my arm into the void under our couch, pulling it back out with a few months’ worth of dust and an index card marked with a bunch of rectangles and some numbers scribbled at the bottom. It looks like Ji's writing.
“You ready to go?” Ji peers over the couch and eyes me in my tan power suit, now adorned with the ghosts of dust bunnies past. “What are you looking for?”
“Here.” I pass her the index card as I get to my feet and brush off my suit.
She looks at it. “It’s the seating chart from Mr. and Mrs. Kellan’s fiftieth anniversary. This was a year ago.”
How she could recall that from a few scribbled shapes and numbers is beyond me. But Ji is the J.Lo of wedding planning and event planning—any planning, really—so attention to detail is literally her job.
“Have you seen my phone?” I dash into our kitchen and frisk the countertops and table for the second time that morning. I already feel bad Ji has to drive me to work today since Dory is still getting fixed—now my missing-phone debacle will probably make Ji late to work.
When I look under a water pitcher, Ji grabs me by the arm. “Okay, breathe.” She makes exaggerated breathing noises as if to demonstrate. “Let me just give your phone a call.”
I nod and wait as Ji calls my phone. As I expected, her call goes straight to my voicemail.
“Okay, your phone must be dead.” Ji puts her phone in her purse. “When was the last time you used it?”
I stop to give Ji my full attention and notice she is wearing the charcoal version of my pantsuit. We’re a Dolly Parton short of a 9 to 5 music video, but that’s what you get when you go in on a BOGO sale with one of your closest friends.
I zone in, trying to break past my nerves and think clearly. “I had it on my date last night when I called Jordan.”
“And you and I talked after he picked you up. Then what?” Ji asks.
“Then I put my phone in his cup holder… or maybe I brought it home and put it on the table.” I put a hand on my forehead, and once again, I mentally retrace my steps from the night before. Jordan picked me up from the date. Ji called. Then I put my phone into… “My purse! I put it in my purse after I talked to you. Then I left my purse in Jordan’s car. It’s in Jordan’s car.”
Ji instantly pulls out her phone. “I’m texting Jordan to let him know he has your phone.”
“Thanks, Ji. You are a lifesaver.” I run a hand down my suit, smoothing out a wrinkle. “Now I just need to get to work to see if I’ll have a full-time job come next month.”
Ji drops her phone back into her bag before pinning me in place with a knowing look. “About that. Whatever happened to sending in your application to Z3 Group?”
My body freezes. I hadn’t told anyone about the job posting at Z3 yet. Just three days before, I got an email from their automated email list with several job postings—and one of them was a copywriter position.
“I saw you filling out the application on your laptop,” she says. “I thought you would have applied the minute you finished it.”
I rearrange my hair so that my already-limp curls flow down my left shoulder instead of my right, avoiding Ji’s stare. It's the same stare she's used on me since kindergarten, the one that makes me think she has a clear view into my soul. Ji sees everything. “Well, I was going to submit it,” I say, “but I really think I should try getting more experience in the copywriting field before applying. More experience would give me a leg up.”
“It might. But there's a job opening at Z3 now. Who knows when that will happen again? You talked to them last year and knocked it out of the park when you met with the creative director. He said all you needed was a solid internship before applying. You have that now. You should just apply and see what happens.”
I nod, not quite knowing how to respond, but Ji continues before I have a chance.
“Or is that the problem, you want to see what happens…not with your job…but with Jordan.”
“No. That’s not it. We’re just friends.” I try to make my words sound as nonchalant as possible, but they come out wobbly and uncertain. Because that’s how I feel—uncertain. About Jordan, my internship, Z3, everything.
The minute I saw the Z3 application, I filled it out and attached my updated résumé. But when my mouse hovered over that submit button, I froze. My mind flooded with thoughts of not what but who I would leave behind if I applied to and somehow got the job at Z3. Reconnecting with Jordan in these past few months has restored a missing piece inside me. Being with him gives me the kind of excitement that is only matched by the feeling I’d gotten when walking through the doors of Z3 for the first time.
I spent the last seventy-two hours driving myself to the brink of insanity trying to figure out the right next step. In the end, I chose not to apply to Z3. I’ve worked so hard at my current internship these past months, and I have a decent shot at being promoted today. Why give it all up now? Why not gain more experience and apply to Z3 later when I’ve got more to contribute to the company and its pool of creative geniuses? And if in the process of gaining experience I get to spend more time with Jordan… then so be it.
Ji raises one eyebrow as if she’s reading my every thought. Curse her crystal ball of a brain. I rush to counteract the argument I know is brewing inside her. “Staying with my current job is a business strategy. A resume padder.” I can tell Ji's not convinced, so I cut to the epicenter of her argument. “I’m not going to fall for Jordan again.”
Missy saunters into the kitchen in her heatless curlers and furry pink slippers. “Honey, you’re more in love with that boy than an ant in a picnic basket,” she says in her rich Southern accent. She grabs her overnight oats from the fridge before sitting primly on a bar stool like the former pageant queen she is.
Ji hops up on a stool next to Missy, making it two against one.
I blow out a breath and put my hands on my hips. Any future argument I have is futile. Not only are Ji and Missy my best girl friends, but we all live under the same Victorian-style roof. Hiding my feelings for Jordan is a luxury I can’t afford.
Ji sighs, a look of sympathy crossing her face. “We love Jordan. You know that. But we also love you .”
“It’s fine that you’re best friends,” Missy adds. “No one is trying to take that from you guys.” She picks up where Ji left off a little too easily. I have a feeling they’ve rehearsed this.
“We just don’t want him to stop you from moving forward with your life, Paige,” Ji says.
What they mean is If Jordan hasn’t professed his love for you in seven years, it’s not going to happen, so move on.
And they’re right. Sure, there have been moments when I thought I sensed something more between me and Jordan, like at the Pine Lakes Christmas Festival six months ago. But that’s just the nature of best friendships between men and women. Sometimes the lines get blurred. Sometimes you think you see something more when there isn’t. But it’s been seven years, and I have nothing but a buddy badge to show for it.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I date other people. I’m not waiting around for him.”
Both Ji’s eyebrows rise this time. She’s not buying it. And quite frankly, neither am I.
Fortunately for me, my gremlins are back, reminding me that the clock is ticking.
“Can we put a pin in this conversation? I have to find my heels.” I give them an innocent smile before scampering off to my room and into my closet. I try to channel Sherlock and figure out the location of my only pair of heels, but no dice. My comfy-casual style doesn’t lend itself to wearing heels all that often—in fact, I’m pretty sure I haven’t worn those puppies since college graduation.
I grow more frantic, digging into my closet and shoving shoe after shoe into a pile behind me. Where are they? I look at my watch. Thirty-five minutes till I’m supposed to be at work. I can’t be late. But I also can’t wear my dingy flats or off-brand Birkenstocks. Not when today is the day.
In less than an hour, I could be the newest full-time employee at the Wonderman & Fleck Advertising Agency, which means I need to look the part. I get down on my hands and knees and dig harder. “Come on, heels. Where are you?”
“I’ve got you covered.” Missy comes into my room, and she might as well be Glinda the Good Witch because she’s got a pair of sparkly heels in her hands that look like they’re about to solve all my problems. She holds them out to me, but when I realize which pair she’s picked, I hesitate to take them.
“Your Lucky Louis? I can’t, Missy.”
She places the Louis Vuittons on the ground in front of me. “You can, and you will. If these heels can help me win a Miss Tennessee State title, they can help you become a copywriter. They’re magical.”
Bless this Southern belle. I stand and drop the old tennis shoes I’m holding before placing my feet inside the luxury footwear. If my feet could talk, they would be oohing and ahhing. “You’re the best, Missy.”
“I know.” She smiles, and I swear sunbeams radiate from her golden hair, heatless curlers and all. “Now, shoulders back.”
Missy’s a pageant coach and also volunteers for the Miss Colorado State Organization, so I expected nothing less than to be instructed on proper posture. However, her expression grows serious, and she puts her hands on both my shoulders. “Listen to me. You are smart, you are talented, and you are going to wipe the floor with your competitor’s butt.”
Missy’s heels make a satisfying click-click-click against the tiled floors at work, and I can almost hear her affirmations in rhythm with her shoes. You are smart. Click. You are talented. Click. And you are going to wipe the floor with your competitor’s butt. Click. Click.
The magic of the shoes radiate through my feet and up my body, giving me the confidence boost I need. In just a few minutes, I will become the next full-time copywriter for Wonderman & Fleck.
I straighten my tan blazer just as a melodic voice calls my name, and I pivot to see Zia, the friendly receptionist who moved here several months ago, waving at me.
“Hey, Paige,” she says. “I have a message for you.”
I walk to her desk. Zia's bright-pink lips lift in a smile, and it’s very apparent why this company made her the first face you see when you walk into the office. She looks like Meghan Markle with a designer wardrobe to match, but her lipstick choices in particular always make my jaw drop. They’re bright and beautiful and probably have names like Coral Cabana or Fiesta del Fuego. They’re the kind of lipstick colors 99.9 percent of the human race can’t pull off, but she can. She’s that stunning. If she weren’t so nice, I would probably hate her.
“You look beautiful, Paige,” Zia says, smiling. “Are you presenting today?”
I wish. One day, I’ll be an advertising executive who gets to present to clients, but for now, I’m happy taking baby steps toward that goal. “No.” I lean in. “But I have the big promotional meeting.”
“Oh, that’s right. I think I heard Jay mention that.”
Jay. Jay is my competitor, and according to Missy, I should be wiping the floor with his butt. The confidence of earlier seems to dim momentarily as a new wave of nerves breaks through me. Jay is two years older than me and has been an intern with Wonderman & Fleck for an entire year.
My toes curl in the heels, and I channel the Lucky Louis mojo. Jay may be established, but my writing is what’s been chosen for our last two campaigns. Mine. Not his.
I. Can. Do. This.
“Here it is.” Zia pulls one of six sticky notes off her desk. “Someone named Jordan called and said he’ll drop off your phone as soon as he can.” She squints at the writing. “And he also said, ‘Break a leg, Devons. StubHub and I are betting on you.’”
I smile, remembering his comment about Andy-Randy and my rhyming genius.
“Aw.” Zia puts a hand over her heart. “How sweet. Is he your boyfriend?”
Yes. Yes, he is. I want to say it, but of course I can’t. “No, just my friend.”
“Oh.” Zia looks a little too pleased by that statement.
I take the sticky note from her hand. Okay, I rip the sticky note from her hand. I have one half of the message, and Zia has the other. She arches a perfectly micro-bladed eyebrow at me.
“Sorry, I’m so nervous.” I laugh a little too much, trying to overcompensate for my weirdly savage moment. Then, I pivot on Missy’s heels and rush toward my meeting.
A long black table stretches across the glass-walled conference room. Jen, my cubicle neighbor, sits beside me, setting her Starbucks cup on the table. She’s the last person in before our boss, Vanessa, enters the room.
Vanessa’s six-foot-one frame is usually daunting enough, but today, she might as well be the Iron Giant with all the intimidation she’s packing. My fate rests squarely in those long fingers of hers.
When I look down at the table, I spy Jay, who smirks at me. He’s confident. Too confident. Suddenly, his confidence is playing chicken with mine. I’m about a second away from clicking my heels together three times and asking for a one-way ticket home.
Vanessa sits at the head of the table. “I’m not one for delaying news, so I’ll get right to the point,” she says.
The air in my lungs seems to vanish. Already? She’s announcing the promotion now? I sit up straighter and paste on a smile that says, I just want what’s best for the company.
“After deliberating between our candidates,” Vanessa says, “we’ve decided that Jay Mullins will be our newest copywriter and Angeline Jackson will become our new senior art director. Congratulations, Jay and Angeline.”
My co-workers begin a round of applause as my heart deflates. I didn’t get the job. An unpleasant heat courses through my veins. I didn’t get the job. The sting of rejection hits hard—I feel like I just got the wind knocked out of me.
Jen elbows me, and I immediately start clapping, but the intensity of my claps must be mirroring my pounding heartbeat because a few people glance in my direction. Their faces contain an array of pitying expressions.
I tone my claps down a notch and force a smile of congratulations at Jay, who’s about as puffed up as a male peacock at mating season.
Once the applause dies down, Vanessa wastes no time. Suddenly, we’re talking about new clients coming down the pipeline and the success of old campaigns. I keep eyeing the mini fridge in the corner. I could really use an ice-cold blast to the face right now—anything to stave off the heat from my cheeks and the burning behind my eyes. I grip the arms of my chair, my nails digging into the soft material. I cannot cry in front of my co-workers. I cannot cry.
I look up at the clock. It’s only ten minutes into the meeting, but I don’t think I can hold on much longer.
Then I see him—Jordan with two thin boxes in his hands and my purse on top. In an instant, it’s like someone has thrown open the windows and let the sunshine in. Jordan is here. I might be tempted to run to him if I wasn’t in a meeting with my boss. Instead, I smile at him through the glass-paneled walls of the conference room.
His eyebrows pinch together, and he mouths, “Are you okay?”
I scan the room with my peripherals. Everyone else seems riveted on the screen, which is displaying the next product we’ll be marketing for a company called StarTech. I look back at Jordan, giving him a slight shrug.
The defeated look on his face tells me he knows I didn’t get the job. I can tell he has more he wants to say, but since our communication method at the moment is one step above Morse code, he raises the boxes in his hands and mouths, “I’ll be at your desk.”
While the backs of my eyes are still burning, I manage to rein in the tears. Jordan is here, and when Jordan is around, things don’t seem so terrible. I send him a subtle thumbs-up.
That’s when it happens.
Zia scurries around the corner and slams right into Jordan. The folder in her hand bursts open on impact, and the pink papers inside flutter around them like cherry blossoms in spring. Zia wobbles on her designer heels, and Jordan transfers the boxes to one hand while wrapping his arm around Zia’s waist to steady her.
Zia grabs his arm. Her long lashes flutter once, twice—no, three times—before she gazes into Jordan’s eyes. They both smile simultaneously.
Nausea roils in my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. If I thought losing a promotion was bad, that was nothing compared to watching the man you love have a Hallmark-worthy meet-cute with another woman.
Time seems to pass in slow motion after that. I watch as Jordan helps Zia pick up her papers. Their hands accidentally brush a time or two. Jordan makes Zia laugh. Zia pulls out her phone. Jordan enters his number.
I fight the urge to clamp my hand over my eyes, but for some twisted reason, I can’t bring myself to stop watching. Moth, meet the flame. Flame, meet the moth.
Zia calls his number, and Jordan answers his phone as if they’re not standing two feet apart from one another. They continue what looks like a sickeningly flirty conversation over their phones until Zia motions to the file she holds and gives him a wistful goodbye wave.
Why, Meghan Markle? Why?
I feel like I just crawled through all nine circles of Dante’s Inferno . I can’t imagine a more acute torture than this. An ugly gurgle makes its way out of my mouth.
“Paige, did you have a comment?” Vanessa asks.
Suddenly, all eyes are on me.
“No.” I shake my head vehemently while keeping my chin down and any fresh tears away from prying eyes.
“Then go ahead and press the speaker button on the center console, and we’ll get StarTech on the line.”
I rise hastily and push the buttons on the speaker in the center of the table, then I move to sit down as quickly as possible before tears drip onto its surface. But my swivel chair has different plans. True to its nature, said chair must have swiveled as I stood up, because when I sit down, I sit directly onto the arm of the chair and lose my balance. And when I reach for something to hold onto, I end up grabbing Jen’s cup.
I go down, head over Lucky Louis heels, as a cup full of Starbucks comes splashing down on me.