Page 2 of Drowning Erin

Present

I am stewing. I’ve stared at my computer for so long without action that it’s gone into sleep mode twice.

I know that Olivia—the only member of our college track team who was able to make running a career—is out training right now in the mountains north of Seattle. I’m tempted to call anyway, as if asking questions of her will somehow lessen my anxiety: Why is Brendan here when his entire family has moved away? Why can’t he move to Seattle instead?

I’m not going to call, of course. Brendan is her brother-in-law, and she’s his biggest fan. She finds my belligerence toward him mystifying, the same way Rob does. Everyone in the freaking world seems to think he’s impossible to dislike. I know better.

A file floats gently through the air, landing in front of me. I glance up to the top of my shared cubicle wall to find my officemate, Harper, staring down at me. “I just added something new to your Pinterest board,” she says. “The bouquet is calla lilies, tied with this orange ribbon that matches the sash on the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

Harper’s obsession with my future wedding never fails to amuse me, given her own disdain for commitment. “The sash on what bridesmaids’ dresses?” I ask. “We haven’t even set a date yet.”

She jumps down and comes around to my desk, moving several files to the floor before she sits on it. “Rob proposed over a year ago.”

I shrug. “He’s been busy, and I’ve got the faculty catalogue coming out. There just hasn’t been time.”

This all sounds so reasonable to me, but Harper groans loudly and bangs the back of her head against the carpeted cubicle wall.

“The faculty catalogue? Do you hear yourself? This isn’t Doctors Without Borders, Erin. You work in a college PR department at a job you hate.”

“I don’t hate my job.”

“Of course you do,” she says, rolling her eyes at our boss’s closed office door. “We all hate our jobs.”

She’s right, of course. Working for Timothy could ruin any job. He’s the worst combination of arrogance and stupidity, substituting marketing buzzwords for any actual knowledge. East Colorado University isn’t merely my employer—it’s also my alma mater, and the years I ran here with Olivia are some of my best memories, so putting out the right image of the university matters to me. What matters to Timothy, however, is Timothy. He can listen to himself talk for hours about nothing that will make us better at our jobs.

“I’ll look at the Pinterest board later,” I promise, rocking back in my chair and closing my eyes. Thinking about the wedding makes me feel overwhelmed, and I feel overwhelmed enough right now as it is. “I’m just a little stressed out today.”

“What’s up?”

I hesitate, reluctant to even admit it aloud. “Brendan’s coming over for dinner tonight.” I guess I still feel guilty. The guilt lasts for days when I have one of those dreams.

“Brendan? Insanely hot Brendan? I thought he lived in Europe or something.”

“He did,” I sigh. “Italy, then Spain, then somewhere else. And now I guess he’s home.”

Brendan moved away right after his brother and Olivia’s wedding, and it was a relief. Since then my life has been normal, devoid of all the highs and lows and drama. All I want, in the entire world, is for it to stay that way.

“Let me see his picture,” she says. Her eyes take on that distant look they get whenever she’s thinking about sex. Which is like 90 percent of the day.

I scowl. “Why would I have a picture of Brendan?”

“Come on. You must have a picture somewhere online. On Facebook? Look at Olivia’s page. I bet there are pics on there from the wedding.”

I’m guessing there are not. Olivia wasn’t even sure she wanted to get married in the first place. And posting photos of herself for the world to see is definitely not her style.

Reluctantly I open my computer, but I don’t go to Olivia’s page, I go to Dorothy’s. She—mother of the groom, and also mother of Brendan—is one of my favorite people. No one was happier to see Will and Olivia get married than she was, and I guarantee she’s posted every picture taken at that wedding somewhere.

I find them, buried under one million photos of her two grandchildren, and click on a picture of the four of us: Will and Olivia, me and Brendan. Harper makes this little groaning noise when she sees him, and even I swallow a little. Brendan has an impossibly perfect face: square jaw, straight nose, full lips, the palest blue eyes. I may hate him now, but I really can’t fault myself for the depth of the crush I once had.

“Holy shit,” she breathes. “If he’s home, you’ve definitely got to set me up.”

“Harper, I love you too much to expose you to that many STDs. Do you have any idea how many women he’s slept with?”

“What I hear you telling me is that he’s hot and experienced. Which isn’t a con in my book.” She peers more closely at the screen, looking at an old picture of me and Olivia during our college track days. “Look at you back then! I’d barely recognize you now.”

By the time I got to the wedding, I’d already broken my cheeseburger habit and started going to Pilates, but under Harper’s guidance, I’ve reluctantly undertaken all the other girl shit, like getting highlights and wearing makeup. “All the credit is yours.”

“And that,” she says, tapping Brendan’s form on my screen, “is how you can say thanks.”