Page 43 of Finding Mr. July

Day of second printer deadline

W hy do you look like you’re about to break into song at any moment?” Rachel points a pencil at me during a slump in foot traffic at the business expo we’re attending Monday morning. “It’s not like our booth is pulling crowds.”

She’s right. It’s been slow going today. Only a dozen people have stopped by, and it’s nearing lunchtime. Not like the Chamber of Commerce event in June where we didn’t sit down all day.

“I’m happy to be done with the calendar. And”—I lower my voice—“I had a really great weekend.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, so that’s why. Good for you.”

Two suits walk up to ask about GCL, and I take this one while Rachel hangs back. I go over our goals, our vision, our successes, and send the potential new investors off with our materials.

“That was good,” Rachel says. “I think my work here is done. You’re ready to fly, little bird.”

“As long as the calendar sells.”

“It will.”

“That reminds me—I want to call the printer to verify lead time again and that they’re sending me a hard copy for approval. Do you mind if I step out for a bit?”

She tells me to go ahead, so I find a corner in the hotel lobby and settle into a low armchair.

As I unlock my phone, it opens to the last message I sent to Jonathan at 7:30 this morning: Everything go ok with the edits?

There’s no response, and no read receipt.

It’s a little odd, but then again, I haven’t checked my phone since then either. Mondays are always busy.

I pull up my contact at the printer and dial. He answers after three beeps. After the normal pleasantries, I get right to it.

“So five days puts us at Friday. Will I have a copy to sign off on by then so we can start directing people to the sales platform immediately? If everything looks good, I plan on picking up the boxes I’m hand-selling Friday afternoon.”

There’s a brief pause on the line. “Okay, but… Hold on a second.” The line goes quiet for a long minute before he comes back. “As I thought.” He clears his throat. “We don’t have your files, so you’ve been bumped from the schedule.”

His words take a moment to register. “What do you mean you don’t have my files?”

“We gave you an extension, and you were supposed to send them over by eight a.m. today.”

“Yes, I know that.” I stand up and face the windows, my hand going to my forehead. “You should have them. He was sending them over.”

“He?”

“My photographer. Oh!” A thought strikes. “M-maybe since they would have come from Jonathan Summers, not me, they got caught in a filter or something.”

“I don’t think—”

“Can you please check?”

He sighs. “Sure. Hang on.”

While he’s gone, I type out another message to Jonathan. Issue with the printer. You did send in the files, right? My stomach is feeling more and more liquid by the moment.

“Nope, sorry. We’ve got nothing.”

Fuck. “Okay, well…” My brain races, trying to unscramble the mess to create a next step. “I’m not at the office at the moment, but I can head over there, get the files, and send them within the hour.”

“Unfortunately, that wouldn’t really make a difference. We’re running other print jobs already, so the earliest I could get to yours is… Let’s see… Oh, we have an opening Wednesday. With lead time that would then mean Monday the twenty-fourth.”

“But that’s too late!” My stomach roils beneath my hand. I think I’m going to be sick.

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. Let me know what you decide.” He hangs up.

The lobby spins around me, and I’m not getting enough air.

Monday, Monday, Monday , echoes in my head.

He may as well have said Christmas. I’ll miss selling at both a big open-air market and a bookstore event.

I bend over and stick my head between my knees as I squeeze my eyes shut.

My eyes burn, and my lungs sting, but at least the nausea recedes.

What am I going to do? I’m fucked. If I don’t have a product, the rules of the contest say I can’t start selling, and if I can’t start selling, I won’t raise any money. I won’t win.

I need to see Jonathan. Now.

I jog back to Rachel and give her the CliffsNotes version of what’s going on.

“Yes, you go,” she says. “I’ve got this covered.”

I give her a quick hug and then I dash to my car. I’m almost to the office when a text from Jonathan comes through: Yes, I sent the stuff. What’s going on?

A momentary ripple of relief skirts through me before I remember that it doesn’t matter. Regardless of what Jonathan says, the printer doesn’t have the files.

Since I can’t text him back while driving, I’m forced to sit on all my questions until I get to work.

I slam the car door shut with too much force, stab the elevator button a half dozen more times than necessary, and ignore Letitia’s cheerful “Hey” in the vestibule.

All I can think of is getting to Jonathan and figuring this out.

He’s at his laptop, typing furiously when I enter his office, and thankfully he’s alone. Jacques’s chair is empty.

“The printer never got the files,” I say, skipping my hellos. “I’m freaking out.”

He finishes typing and scoots his chair back. “I know. I’m emailing with him. I…” He scrubs a hand over his face and sighs.

The fact that he’s not approaching me, not trying to reassure me makes my chest constrict. “You did send it, right? This is an error on their end?” Please tell me it’s the printer’s fault.

“I thought I did.”

My mouth falls open. “You thought you did. What’s that supposed to mean?”

He finally meets my eyes. “Hear me out, okay. It’s not a big deal. I’m fixing it.” He gestures to his computer.

Clearly, the printer hasn’t painted him the whole picture yet. “There is no ‘fixing it,’” I say. “The presses are tied up with other projects until Wednesday at the earliest. That means I lose. Please tell me you didn’t make me lose.”

His jaws clench. “I sent the files. Or I set it to upload before I went to bed. My fucking internet—it must have failed to send.”

“You didn’t check?” My voice makes someone walking past the office turn and look. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“I would have, but Sir Leonard kept needing to go outside with an upset stomach all night, and then I overslept and had to rush to an, um… an appointment before work so in the midst of that, it must have slipped my mind.”

“It slipped…” I pace away from him a step while collecting myself but then spin back around. “It should have been the only thing on your mind!”

His features darken. “Because it’s the only thing on your mind?”

“Yes! Because you promised. How could you…? What am I…? What the fuck, Jonathan? I have worked so hard.”

“We,” he says, voice clipped. “ We have worked so hard. It was a simple mistake, and for what it’s worth, I am very sorry.”

I scoff. “Yeah, it’s not worth much.” I know I sound cruel, but how else can I make him understand the full impact this will have on my life?

He presses his lips together and closes his laptop.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m sorry your dog was sick, but how did you not check it this morning?”

“Like I said, I was late for an appointment.”

“But this was it. You knew how important this was.” My eyes are starting to sting. How on earth did I let feelings for a coworker screw me over again? “I thought you… we… but clearly I was wrong, or this would have never—”

“It was a passport appointment,” he says, interrupting me. “Mine expired, and I need one to start contesting the no-fly status.” He gets up and takes a step toward me but stops. “I wanted to do it for you.”

Somewhere in what he’s saying I recognize the true sentiment, but of all the misguided efforts…

Because of him there is no need for travel.

A fresh wave of anger rolls over me. A fresh need to lash out, to hurt.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” It takes every ounce of self-control not to allow the boiling ugliness inside to overflow into name-calling and blame.

I want to rage at him, but who am I kidding?

I’m the one who put myself in this situation, knowing better.

I take a deep breath. “Whatever, it’s my bad.

I shouldn’t have let my guard down. Big mistake.

Lesson learned. Fuck.” I sigh. I can’t do this anymore.

He stares at me a long moment. “That’s how you feel? We’re a mistake?”

No , I want to yell. No, no, no. But instead, I gesture around the room. “It’s not exactly a success, is it?”

I watch him shut down. His shoulders first, rolling in, and then his fingers curving into his palms, neck slumping, jaw clenching.

He angles his face away from me and clears his throat. “Then I’ll make this easier for both of us. We’re done. No more need for you to worry about me fucking up your life in any way.” He sits back down and turns his back to me. “Goodbye and good luck.”

I stare at his hunched figure for a beat, and then I flee before the tears can come in earnest. I don’t know where to go or what to do; all I know is that I need to get away.

Not only have I lost my chance at winning the fundraiser contest today, but I’ve also lost the man who may well be the love of my life.