Chapter 4: Chapter Four

RAE

Now, it’s eight in the morning, Michael’s boner is poking my ass, and I’m muffling sobs into his memory foam pillow.

I think I came three times last night, but I don’t care. The only morning wood I want stabbing me belongs to Jake.

An image of his face lolling around Courtney’s flashes through my mind, and I have to bite my hand to keep a wail from escaping my lips. Just last week he said he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.

He lied, and I believed him.

I slide out from the heavy arm Michael threw across me when he rolled over in the middle of the night and collect my clothes, which are scattered across his room. I search high and low, near and far.

I check beneath the bed twice. They’re nowhere. My panties have disappeared, I’m crying in a stranger’s room, and I need to go home before he sees me.

I decide to cut my losses on the panties.

For once, I’m relieved that Elmwood Square’s apartment doors automatically lock whenever they’re closed. Usually, I hate our landlord.

Today, she’s my hero. I’m not trying to leave Michael susceptible to robbery, but I really don’t want to wake him up, either.

I take the stairs because everyone uses the elevator, and there’s only one person I can handle seeing right about now.

Zoe greets me with waffles, coffee, and sympathy. I have no interest in sympathy from anyone but Zoe because hers is anger, sass, and homicidal rage.

“Two things. I’m going to murder Jake. Also, who’d you fuck last night?” she asks casually, pouring gluten-free blueberry syrup on my gluten-filled waffles.

Zoe’s mom sent her a ton of gluten-free shit earlier this month when she went through a weird health kick. We threw most of it out on principle, but the syrup is really, really, really good.

I transform into a human tomato while answering her question. “He lives in 315.”

Because the universe hates me, someone knocks on the door. Considering we don’t get all that many guests and our apartment doesn’t deliver packages on Sundays, I have to assume it’s one of two people.

Jake, maybe—hopefully? Hopefully not?—because he has the code to enter our building without scanning. The other possibility is Michael making a delivery.

He doesn’t need a code because he lives here, which is less than ideal, given he’s seen me naked and all that jazz.

“Please answer it,” I hiss at Zoe.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s obviously for you.”

“Which is why I need you to answer it.”

She huffs, peeks through the peephole, and sighs. I wonder if the sigh means it’s Jake.

“Hey.” Nope, not Jake. This voice is deeper.

“Can I help you?” Zoe deadpans.

“Uh, is Rae here?”

Zoe stretches her arm across the doorframe. “No.”

“Does she live here? She said she lived in 415. I just needed to deliver something.”

“I’m her friend. I’ll give it to her.”

“Uh, sure.” He thrusts a paper bag into Zoe’s hands.

She closes the door before he can say anything else and holds the bag as far from her body as possible, as if it’s contaminated. To be fair, if what I think is in there is actually in there, it kind of is contaminated. ~Vom~.

“Do I even want to know?” she asks.

I shake my head and take the potential biohazard from her outstretched hand.

Yup. They’re in there. Pink, lacy, minimal fabric, overpriced. My panties. They aren’t alone. There’s also a note. Handwritten, which I guess makes sense.

Hand-delivery of underwear doesn’t necessitate the burden of finding a printer.

~Rae,~

~

I had an amazing time last night. Hope you did too.

I’d love to see you again. Can I order us in dinner tonight and confirm my spot on the exceptions list? Apartment 315, six o’clock. Text me or surprise me.

-M~

~

His number is written on the back. “Zoe, I need you to tell me what to do with my life,” I groan.

“At your service,” she replies like the best friend-slash-roommate she is.

I relay my predicament.

She also groans. “Okay. How good was last night on a scale of one to ten?”

I think about it for a moment. “Eight.”

She raises her perfectly plucked brows. “Damn. How emotionally fragile are you? One to ten, please.”

“Eleven.”

“Have dinner, fuck him, come back up, and watch movies with me. No spending the night.”

~Jake used to spend the night~. I wonder what he’s doing right now. Seeing other people, maybe. ~Oh, God~. What if he went home with someone last night too?

The thought is too much to handle. A steamroller of emotions hauls straight at me. I surrender, ducking into the fetal position and allowing my feelings to squeeze the life out of me like I’m a human tube of toothpaste.

I loved Jake. No, scratch that. I ~love~ Jake. Present tense. He was my perfect guy up until he made out with Courtney.

We spent hours cuddled up, enjoying each other’s company. We were at peace together. We never fought. We talked about literature and politics and moving to Denver.

I was comfortable around him, and I’m ~never~ comfortable around people. Zoe and Jake. That’s it. I’m not even all that comfortable around my family.

I gave him everything. I opened up. I told him my deepest secrets. I showed him who I am, who the real Rae Olson is, and he discarded me like I meant nothing.

My sobs don’t subside for hours.

***

An hour before I’m supposed to go to Michael’s, Zoe steps in front of the TV, blocking the scene in ~Titanic~ where the band plays as the ship goes down.

Kind of like how the music at Del Mar kept pulsing when my heart split in two, except nobody died.

“Rae, I love you, but your face looks like it got stung by a thousand bees,” Zoe says gently, hands on her hips. “I’m not letting you go to Michael’s like that.”

I frown, which stings. I don’t particularly want to see Michael again, but if Jake is balls deep in someone else, I need someone to do the same to me. “I have to,” I groan.

“Aren’t you starting somewhere new at work tomorrow? You really gotta get the swelling down before then, and you’re definitely going to cry again if you fuck Michael.”

She knows me too well. I hate it.

“Can you text him for me?” I ask, pouting so she has no choice but to give in to my cuteness.

“Give me your phone,” she sighs. Her fingers dance across the screen, and then she wrinkles her nose. “Damn, he’s forward. He wants to know what you’re doing Friday.”

I’m starting a new assignment at work next week, which means there’s a zero percent chance I socialize with anyone who doesn’t live in apartment 415 Friday evening.

As excited as I am for the project, new assignments require lots of social interaction, and nothing tires me out like interacting with humans who aren’t Zoe Bridges or Jake Dupont.

I stick out my hand for my phone.

Rae

I’m busy Friday, but I’m around the rest of the weekend.

Michael

I’m taking you out Saturday night. Wear something nice.

I bite my lip and show Zoe the screen. She shrugs. “I’d just agree to it, and if he doesn’t calm the fuck down, you can cancel later in the week. I don’t love how pushy he is, but maybe he’s just super into you.”

Rae

Sure, sounds good.

Michael

I’m counting down the days.😉

“I didn’t think adults were allowed to send winky faces,” I mutter.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure there’s an international statute against it,” Zoe agrees.

“I’m cutting you off sad movies after Jack dies.” I open my mouth to argue—~Charlie St. Cloud~ is queued up—but she shakes her head menacingly. “Don’t even try, Rachel.”

I flinch. When Zoe uses my full name, she means business.

“You should watch something funny to put you in a good mood for tomorrow,” she adds.

I wrinkle my nose. Whoever claimed that laughter is the best medicine has never experienced the catharsis of a good, old-fashioned cry.

“Aren’t you starting a fancy client tomorrow morning?” She crosses her arms. “You can’t walk into a suits meeting with puffy eyes. They’ll eat you alive.”

I let out an exasperated, huffy sigh. My best friend isn’t wrong, and I’m not happy about it.

I work for Jade Agency, a creative marketing firm that sends artsy consultants such as myself to clients who need help improving their brand strategies.

As one of four photographers on staff, my days consist of taking photos at client offices and editing them from home. It’s a pretty sweet gig.

The assignment starting tomorrow is at a venture capital firm, whatever that is.

The client hired me and my coworker Shawn to modernize their social media. According to our boss Caroline, they’re convinced millennials and Gen-Z don’t want to work for them because their online presence gives too-buttoned-up Gen-X financial institution vibes.

I can only hope their people aren’t heartless suit-wearers who bully contractors with puffy eyes.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Zoe concludes. “If you’re starting with a big client, then you need to prepare. It’s good. It’ll take your mind off things.

I shrug, slightly defensive on behalf of the strangers who hired me. “I’m sure they’re nice,” I mumble.

She pulls her phone from her back pocket, ready to fact-check me. “What’s the company called, again?”

“Quincy Ventures,” I answer.

“Ooh! Downtown office,” she exclaims, scrolling on her screen. “We can get i–”

Mid-word, the sentence dries up in Zoe’s mouth. My heart races, fluttering against my sternum, while she gapes at her phone with bulging eyes. To stun Zoe into silence, something has to be deeply amiss.

Five long, suspenseful seconds are too many for my fragile, anxious mind to handle. “What’s wrong?” I demand.

“We should watch a funny movie.” Zoe purses her lips. “Yeah. Definitely a—”

“Zoe! Tell me!”

She flashes a toothy grin, but her technique is ineffective. I have a generalized anxiety disorder. She can’t distract me from my worries, no matter how beautiful her pearly whites are.

“Zoe, what’s wrong?” I repeat.

“Nothing’s ~wrong~, exactly. Um… Totally unrelated question, what was the name of the guy you were talking to last night?”

“Michael,” I remind her, unnerved by her forgetfulness. She referred to Michael by name five minutes ago, not that he has anything to do with…

~Oh, God.~

“Tell me he doesn’t work there,” I croak.

Zoe nods, wincing. “Chief information officer,” she shares through gritted teeth.

“No,” I whimper.

~What did I do to deserve this?~

~Which higher power did I wrong?~

An almighty deity must be seeking vengeance on me. That’s the only rational explanation I can fathom as to why the rebound I slept with Saturday is an executive at the company where I’m starting on Monday.

I’m cursed; it’s as simple as that.

“Yeah.” Zoe releases a dramatic exhale. “The thing is, I didn’t mean Michael.”

I furrow my brow, confused.

“The other guy,” she clarifies.

A pair of enchanting, blue-green eyes appear in my imagination. I squeeze my eyelids shut, but my brain refuses to stop summoning memories. In the depths of my ears, I hear a roaring chuckle. I see the glint of his silver watch under bright club lights. I feel his hard chest against my fingertips.

“Lo…” I give up speaking his name halfway through, opting to suck in air for my starving lungs.

Luckily, Zoe’s vocal cords aren’t paralyzed by panic. In her clear, patient tone, she asks, “Logan?”

“Yes,” I wheeze.

“Logan Quincy?”

~Quincy~? As in, ~Quincy~ Ventures? They’re ~his~ ventures?

I gape at Zoe, still attempting to breathe like a fish out of water.

She smiles weakly. “He works there too. His family owns the company.”