“No.”
“Bugger.”
I shoot him a sideways scowl, then momentarily excuse myself to step away to help a newcomer.
When I return to him, he says, “I watched an entire American football game last Sunday by myself, but it’s not the same without your expertise. Since you’re going to be in town, after all, is there any chance you’d like some company watching Sunday’s match?”
My face falls. “Oh. Um… Well, I might not watch.”
“That’s not on. You have to watch.”
“I don’t have to. It’s too hard.”
“Jet’s counting on your support.”
“He doesn’t have to know. I’ll catch the highlights later.” I rock on my burning toes. “You know, I’m trying to be a good sport about the whole thing, but watching is something I’m not sure I can stand.”
“Because you get jealous of those large, sweaty men jumping on top of your boyfriend?”
In spite of my sadness, I laugh. “Yes. That’s it, exactly.”
“He’s a strapping lad. He’ll be fine.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him in a side hug. “Come on, be a sport. If nothing else, it’ll be a chance for the two of us to catch up. We haven’t talked in an age.”
I sigh at the highly effective guilt trip. “Fine. It’s the late game, since it’s on the west coast. Three o’clock kick-off.”
“At Jet’s house? With my favorite imported ales?”
I push him away from me but laugh. “Okay.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you then. I’d better be heading back to the exciting world of hair art, for now.”
“Thanks for stopping by. Grab a cookie on your way out.”
“Biscuits?” He cranes his neck to see across the tent, toward the small refreshments table, where Catherine Zeta-Jones beckons in her double-breasted chef’s jacket. “Ooh, matron. Well, I say.”
He slinks off in the direction of the food, and I step up to the latest potential job seeker who looks overwhelmed.
I’m high. High on something I’ve so rarely experienced in my life that I don’t recognize it at first: success. I understand how some people might become addicted to this and want to keep doing things to experience it over and over again. They might even choose professions in which striving for victory is a regular—even weekly—occurrence.
After Becca, Rory, and I finish cleaning up everything but the giant tent that will be dismantled and carried off by the rental company tomorrow, the sun peeks out, just in time to set. I shake a good-natured fist in its sinking direction as I toss the last of the bedraggled standies (see ya, Erin Brockovich and firefighter Joaquin Phoenix) into the cardboard recycling dumpster behind the office. Then, whistling, I turn toward the parking lot, vaguely aware of but not caring about the blisters on my feet. Soon, I’ll be home, and I can soak in a hot bath.
After I call Jet to apologize for being so terrible to him this morning.
The poor guy was trying to make me feel better, and I bit his head off. How did I like it the couple of times he did that to me while he was recovering from his hand injury? Not at all. But I gave it right back to him today without considering that. I didn’t have physical pain to blame for my irascibility. I can’t claim I was worried about my job, either, like he’s been.
Today’s elaborate plan went above and beyond what it would have taken to secure my position at The Career Center. I pushed the limits to show off, and once I committed to the plan, I was willing to do anything to avoid defeat and save face. Like forcing a pass to escape a sack on a trick play gone bad. But the only thing risking injury was my pride. Thanks to some quick scrambling, I avoided that. Now it’s time to admit my part in the busted play, apologize to my teammate, and learn from the experience.
I’m rehearsing in my head what I’m going to say to Jet when I call him, as I round the corner of the building, expecting my car to be the only one left in the lot. But it has company, in the form of a much prettier friend who makes her look dirty, rundown, and old. Leaning against the red Corvette, holding a massive bouquet of gerbera daisies, is exactly the man I want to see.
We break into grins at the same time. I’d run to him if I could do it without limping and whimpering. Instead, I settle for the slower walk that hides my pain. It looks cooler, anyway.
The setting sun glints off the windshields of the cars and the cellophane around the flowers. I blink at the brilliance that eventually disappears as I draw nearer to the objects.
“Hey, Beautiful,” Jet says, then flinches and corrects, “I mean, Smart Girl.”
I laugh and deliver a peck to his smooth cheek while receiving the flowers. “Nice save. But I like your traditional greeting.”
“You didn’t this morning.”
“I didn’t like anything this morning. This morning sucked. I sucked.” Looking down at the brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges in the blooms in my arms, I say, “Thanks for these. They’re gorgeous and just my style.” I set them on the hood of my car so I can hug him without anything crackling or smooshing between us.
He wraps his arms around me and squeezes so tightly, I worry I might pass out. After a few seconds, his grip loosens enough that I can breathe again, but he doesn’t let me go. Near my ear, he says quietly, “I do love you for your mind, too, you know.”
My index finger swirls in the back of his hair. “Okay.”
He pulls his head back slightly to look down into my face. “I do. This morning, you made me feel like a real jerk. Like, guys aren’t allowed to tell the women they love they’re hot or sexy or any of that anymore, because that means we don’t value you as people. But if we never told
