Chapter 5
Abby
Inever really understood the phrase “someone walked over your grave.” It always sounded like one of those old-timey dialogues people used to sound poetic, even if it didn’t actually mean much, just words without weight.
But now? Now I get it. Because the second I see Victoria, my boss, arm in arm with Marcus, my ex-fiancé; the man who left me on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life, it doesn’t feel like someone walked over my grave.
It feels like a semi-truck barreled through it, reversed and parked there for good measure.
Around me, keyboards are clacking, someone’s Spotify is leaking from too-loud earbuds and the scent of burnt toast is lingering from the break room.
Meanwhile, I’m internally combusting. My entire body erupts in goosebumps.
A hot, queasy wave rolls through me like my insides are threatening to revolt in spectacular fashion.
I certifiably ponder whether I’d have enough time to projectile vomit directly onto my keyboard, or if I should aim for the trash can.
The office, normally spacious and flooded with natural light, starts to shrink around me like a collapsing circus tent and the AC, which is usually set to arctic tundra, suddenly feels like someone cranked it to hellfire on steroids.
My throat tightens. It’s that awful combination of hard to swallow and somehow like I’ve been chewing on gravel.
I glance at Jonathan. Even he looks rattled and this is a man who thrives on havoc and has probably stared down both an IRS audit and a live scorpion without flinching.
Most of this office was invited to my wedding.
They know who Marcus is. Which means, any second now, the whispers will start.
Along with the sympathetic stares and the “Are you okay?” head tilts that make me want to crawl under my desk and live there forever.
I hate being the center of attention. Especially when it’s because my personal life has turned into the office’s favorite soap opera.
Then the memory of last night hits me. Me grabbing Jonathan like we were a couple. Me saying we were a couple. Jonathan taking a jab at Marcus for leaving me at the altar. The kiss and then… another kiss. My brain is already a tangled mess and now someone’s throwing fireworks into it.
Jonathan steps out of my office to head toward Victoria and for a split second I think about following him.
But instead, I pivot like I’m dodging a life-or-death situation and rush straight to the bathroom.
My heels click like gunshots against the tile floor, echoing louder than they should.
The hallway feels endless, lined with those abstract corporate paintings that look like someone gave a toddler finger paint and a deadline.
Victoria’s voice drifts down the way, cheerful and businesslike. She’s too busy introducing Marcus to notice my abrupt exit, thank the heavens. She tells everyone to grab their things and meet in the conference room.
The conference room used to be one of my favorite places in the office.
It was where I pitched big clients, made even bigger wins and got those glowy, this-is-why-we-hired-you looks from execs when I nailed their campaign vision.
It’s massive too, decked out with plush leather chairs that lean all the way back like you’re about to take a first-class nap, a coffee bar with snacks and that magical infuser that always makes the room smell faintly of lavender and lemon.
Best of all? The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, giving you a view of the city so beautiful it almost makes work emails feel poetic.
Those fluffy memories will now be tainted. Now that Marcus will be in there and with him, all the eyes, all the whispers, all the pity.
I push into the bathroom and make a dash for the sinks, gripping the porcelain like it might anchor me to Earth.
The bathroom smells of hydrangeas, while the overhead light flickers just once and the white tile floor is cold even through my shoes.
I swear the soap dispenser is judging me.
I lean forward, trying to breathe through it, trying to brace for the emotional sucker punch that’s clearly coming.
I lift my eyes to the mirror. My strained, pale reflection stares back and I watch as the sadness creeps in, watch it gather behind my eyes like a swell that hasn’t quite broken yet.
No. No crying. I am a professional. I have worked too hard to fall apart in a freaking office bathroom.
It’s been almost four years since Marcus stranded me at the bridal suite like a rejected return.
That is more than enough time to move on.
Pull. It. Together. I say it out loud, hoping the mantra sticks to my brain like bubblegum.
A paper towel from the dispenser flutters to the floor, like even it’s given up on me.
I stare down at it for a second, weirdly tempted to follow its lead.
Just as I’m bracing for the floodgates to open and wash away what’s left of my dignity, the bathroom door slams open like it’s been kicked by a dramatic soap opera star.
Jonathan bursts in, into the women’s bathroom.
“What the hell?!” I shout, flinging my hands in the air. “This is a whole new level of insane, even for you.”
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” he pants, completely unbothered by my yelling as he paces across the tile floor like he’s plotting an escape route.
“I’ve got a plan.” He pauses mid-step and glances around.
“Oh. Huh. I’ve never been in the women’s bathroom before.
” Then, like we’re in the middle of a Better Homes & Bathrooms tour, he adds.
“You guys get fresh-cut flowers in here? That’s awesome. ”
I slap my hands together. “Jonathan. Focus.”
He snaps out of his bathroom admiration. “Right. Okay. Marcus thinks we’re a couple, yeah?”
I wince. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“Then we’re still a couple,” he says simply.
“What? No. Why?” I incoherently spit out.
“To save you from public humiliation and to stick it to him,” he replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “This way, you still look like you’ve moved on.”
“I can’t ask you to do that,” I say, waving my hands. “Besides, what will the office think?”
“No one has to know.” He shrugs. “Marcus isn’t going to say anything. He’ll drop in, make his rounds, pretend to care and leave in three days. That’s what these bigwig silent-partner types do.”
I stare at him, chewing it over. Then turn to the mirror. I smooth my hair. Wipe the eyeliner smudge from under my eye, trying to make sense of the absolute circus that is my life, complete with fire juggling, emotional acrobatics and zero safety nets.
“Wait,” I say, squinting at him through the mirror. “Why are you actually helping me?” My tone is suspicious enough that I might as well be holding a flashlight under his chin and asking where he buried the body.
He smirks. “Because I want your parking spot for six months. And first brew choice in the break room for a year.”
I whip around. “You devil.”
He knows exactly how much I love being the first one to choose the coffee in the break room and that parking spot is legendary.
Anita left it to me before she retired. She’d worked here since the dawn of time or at least since the Founding Fathers of Marketing started this company.
She told me once she saw a lot of herself in me.
Never married, no kids and last I heard, owned three cats.
So… not totally a compliment. But still, she meant well.
“You’ve been trying to steal my parking space for years,” I snap.
“Exactly,” he says, practically glowing with enthusiasm. “But also…” He pauses, like he’s debating whether or not to say the rest, then finally adds, “What that guy did to you was messed up. And I don’t like his haircut, so… he deserves this.”
Wow. Never thought I’d see the day Jonathan Slack and I became…
what? Accomplices? Friends? Either way, I’m weirdly grateful.
For once, he’s not throwing me under the bus.
He’s jumping on it with me and just maybe, helping me make my ex regret ever running out on me.
Marcus may never regret leaving me… But that doesn’t mean I can’t give it the ol’ college try.
“So…” Jonathan says.
I hold out my hand. “Deal.”
He smirks, pushes it away. “Come on. Lovers hug.”
Before I can object, he pulls me into his arms. He smells… infuriatingly good. Like sandalwood and spice and man.
I push off him with an eye roll.
“They kiss, too,” he adds with a wink.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I quip, hitting his arm.
We walk toward the door. I pause and take one deep, grounding breath.
Jonathan glances at me, grinning. “Come on. Let’s make this walking midlife crisis hate his life.”
He opens the door for me, our footsteps hit against the tile, like we’re stepping onto a stage instead of back into corporate reality, ready to sell the performance of a lifetime as my brain circles the drain, screaming: What the hell did I just get myself into?
The hallway’s too bright, too loud, too everything and I already regret whatever pact I just made with Satan in slacks.