Page 12 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“Sure.”
He at least attempted a polite smile as he angled his laptop for me to see. Leaning close, I got a whiff of his fresh scent and had to hold back a little sigh of contentment. Then I mentally whacked myself with a ruler over the knuckles for momentarily forgetting the task at hand—standing up to Frank, the office place bully.
Focus.
Without asking, I commandeered his laptop, scrolling down the document to where the team had discussed—
Aha!
There it was: the notes on the defined attributes. I eagerly scrolled until I got to the end of that section. Something in my stomach dropped.
Wait. No.
My eyes went back up to the start of that section, scanning for anything about the parameters we had agreed upon, but— “It’s not here,” I voiced, unable to save face by keeping the disbelief at bay.
Beck leaned in. “Let me help. Which part are you looking for?”
“The notes I gave you after our meeting last week.” I knew I’d written at least a page on all the details. My notes were missing entirely from the section, possibly the whole document. It had probably just been an oversight, but he hadn’t liked me since I got his sleeve wet, and now my notes were conveniently missing. It left a bitter taste in the back of my throat.
He scrolled for a bit but had to start from the beginning when he didn’t find what we searched for. “I don’t know.” He had the decency to sound remorseful. I’d give him that. “I thought I included them. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” Frank said, stretching back in his chair.
And it was. Nothing I could do about it now except wallow in both work and self-pity.
Back at my cube, I couldn’t concentrate, not with the meeting replaying in my mind. I rested my head on my desk, trying to climb out of my pity party, but I was wedged in. I took a few deep breaths but nearly gagged. The coconut scent had put my cubicle in a tropical fog, and while everyone else complimented the aroma, I found it less and less tolerable every day.
Coconut used to be one of my favorite scents, but the aroma therapy had backfired. Now, I’d never be able to smell coconut without thinking of work. I unplugged it, but the thought of sitting and waiting for the scent to dissipate made me nauseous.
I decided to take an early lunch instead, venturing to the steps on the walkway before finding a spot in the sunshine. March in Texas was a dream—that sweet in-between from a soppy winter to a hellishly hot and humid summer. This is what I need, I thought as I closed my eyes, chewing my chicken salad sandwich. Some sunshine. A break.
I pulled up Pinterest on my phone and started a new vacation board. I was going to do it: go on a vacation. Work wouldn’t stop me this time. I spent about ten minutes poring over tropical locations with white-sanded beaches. But then I stopped. Who would I go with? Hailey wouldn’t plan a vacation with me now. Not when I’d flaked on Florida and then lectured her over a life decision she’d been excited about.
It had been two weeks since our argument. We’d fought before, but this felt big. I could barely stand the thought of her living in a different state, let alone losing her to a stupid fight.
I pulled up our text message thread, suddenly frantic for contact.
Me: I miss you.
I sighed. She was probably snorkeling with Braxton or sailing, or maybe they took an overnight trip to Disney.
But then my phone pinged with a message from her.
Hailey: I miss you too, babe.
I racked my brain, trying to think of ways to get her to warm up to me.
Me: Send me a picture of you enjoying Florida. I need to live vicariously through you.
Hailey obliged, sending one of her in a wide-brimmed hat and a flowy coverup dress. Hot pink bikini straps peeked from her neckline. She was laughing as a turquoise wave crashed at the back of her knees.
Me: Looks like you are having the time of your life.
Me: I’m happy for you, Hailey.
I kept adding on, desperate to fill the space and silence between us.
Me: I’m really sorry about what I said before. I was having a bad day and your news just sent me over the edge.
