Page 49 of Keep Paris

I say, “ARF.” I raise my eyebrows and she throws her arms in the air and we dance.

We sit back down and Sophie says, “So you had an expiration date.”

“What?”

“It’s the date when they hit that point and you let the almost relationship expire.”

I nod. She’s clever, but I don’t want to talk about my string of tepid husband-material dud dates. Dudes who will most definitely fertilize a lawn in the future. Or own a lot of wrenches and know what to do with them, even if they can’t find a clit.

I turn it on her, “Says the woman who is an all-you-can-eat buffet.”

“Yes, but you know after the asshole I was married, this is my reward for divorcing. This pilates body was meant to fuck twenty- and thirty-year-olds well into my eighties.”

She grabs our coffee mugs, and I flump down in my chair. Then she crosses the room and puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You can’t stay hung up on a thing that happened to you ages ago. No man or woman is ever worth this much brain space.”

“He is. I mean, was. I’ve told you it all before. Blah, blah, blah. Danny is my unhealthy standard and until I get that deep-in-my-soul ache and flutter, they’ll all be Three-date Tates.”

“That doesn’t even sound like a hopeful romantic.”

“I have this job and I’m going to get the better job. I get to crush my rival.” Whoa. Did my adrenaline just surge at the thought of Hayden? No. That’s a terrible idea. I cannot crush on my rival. I will not allow myself to be sexually attracted to a voice. It’s just another way of not actually dating anyone. Masturbate to him, ok, sure. It’s great fodder, but like him, hell no.

I put two fingers to the pulse in my throat and make sure my heart rate is normal. I flip my wrist to see my Apple Watch telling me that it is, indeed, racing. I’ll harness this reaction and redirect it towards loathing.

Sophie is standing with one hand on her hip, mugs in the other, wearing a quizzical look. “What the fuck was that all about?” Then mimes me calming down and checking my watch.

I clap and hold my hands together, then point at her. “Game time focus.”

“Then why are you flushed?”

I feel my overheated cheeks betraying my purpose. I might need to take the morning off to retreat to my bedroom with batteries and work this out of my system.

“It’s nothing but pure rage.”

“Good. Funnel it.”

* * *

The art looks killer and my words are flowing. This pitch is going to shut down all other “rounds.” There’s no way they don’t give us the job immediately. It’s been a couple of days of sheer focus and freedom from the Boston mafioso. Three-Date Tate was useful for something, he scared off Hayden. That is a good thing. Clear minds all around.

The truce was the best idea. And in a weird, warped way, I trust him. It’s an alliance and an honor thing. I’m more relaxed at work and I have a shit-ton of extra time because I’m not scheming. I’m a little bored but nothing a new hobby can’t fix. Perhaps, I’ll knit.

I’m staring at the door when our Admin director, the one that handles everything but the creative stuff, Chet, fills the doorframe. He always talks as if we’re all in a 1940’s newsroom. He even wears a vest most days. I imagine if they’d let him, he’d chomp on a stub of a cigar and call us all “Scoop.” He smooths his vest, then tugs it into place, as if it will cover his hips or middle-aged beer belly if he pulls hard enough.

“What’s up, Chet?”

He points at me, and his face is a bit red and hard. “Miller. Your keister. Conference Room. NOW.” He jerks his chin. I’d take offense if it was anyone else. But he refers to everyone the same way. He’s an equal opportunity keister labeler. And his tone of voice never shifts.

I could be in trouble or getting praised, it all sounds the same from him. It took me two years not to take things personally, triggered by my upbringing. I used to take everything personally and didn’t want to disappoint him. I was raised to never question, but now I know differently.

A picture of Kris and me in front of the house where I grew up catches my eye. My parents moved to a town an hour away when I went to college. I’m pretty sure it was out of spite and to put me far from Kris, who my father thought was a bad influence. But after she died, I stepped up my life. Pushing back on all the boundaries she taught me to challenge.

Right before my dad passed away, I let loose, raging against the narrow gilded cage he tried to keep me in. I called him a gaslighting bully. Then he scolded me for an hour. He disapproved of every decision I made on my own: career, college, love life, friend group, even exercising at a gym. His philosophy was only the lazy needed to pay to sweat around other people. He never stopped trying to control me, either behind the scenes or by shame. I’m sure I sent him to his final beyond pissed off.

After his hospital bed lecture, I kissed him on the forehead and walked out the door, grateful I’d become my own person. And I’ve never regretted a second since.

People stare as I follow Chet. I shrug as I pass, but everyone is pale faced and one girl has her hand over her mouth. WTF. These people work for me. I don’t like to be kept in the dark. This shit stops as soon as I’m done with whatever Chet needs.