Page 44 of Finding Mr. July

T he rainy season rolls in with a vengeance that week. We get mist, sprinkles, and roof-smattering showers. Sideways rain, open-sky downpours, and even five minutes of hail. The low, gray clouds loom as ominously over Seattle as the upcoming winner announcement looms over me.

I finally get the calendar printing under way that Wednesday, and online sales are great once they kick off after the weekend, but with less than a week left, there’s no way.

Letitia’s and Eric’s events were both raging successes.

While we won’t have final numbers until Friday, it would take a small miracle for me to beat either one of them.

I avoid the design side of the office since Jonathan ended things, and he doesn’t venture over this way either.

I still jump every time the door to the elevator vestibule opens, but it’s never him.

His absence lines my lungs with lead that weighs me to my chair and chokes my air supply.

I’m starting to think I’ll need to soak my laptop in rice for all the tears that have dripped into its keyboard.

Everyone else seems to think it’s because of the printer mix-up and my waning prospects of winning, and that’s fine.

I don’t need to add “dumped” to “loser” after my name.

“Any better today?” Rachel asks when we head downstairs to grab lunch.

“Nope.” I hold the door to the café around the corner for her.

“You could still win. The calendar is selling.”

“Eric sold out his Green Gala at a small fortune per envelope.”

Rachel falls silent. “Okay, but Ashley hardly got any participants in her Instagram contest.”

“You know that doesn’t matter.”

We grab our food and get a table in the corner.

“So what will you do?” she asks after swallowing her first bite.

I pick a leaf of lettuce from my wrap and examine it closely. The nonexistent plan B. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Definitely not staying here.”

Rachel lowers her sandwich to the table. “No?”

“My family is probably moving, I’ve nothing to fall back on professionally, and now with…” My voice breaks.

“Jonathan?” Rachel guesses.

I nod, and she hands me a wad of napkins.

“Fuck. I don’t know why I’m like this,” I say, dabbing at my cheeks. “It was supposed to be a bit of fun. It was fun. I never intended to fall in love with him.”

“Wait, what?” Rachel lowers her voice. “You’re in love with him?”

“As if you didn’t already know that.”

She sits back. “I really didn’t. You never said. I mean, I thought you looked closer than a fling, but you made it clear it was temporary.” She pauses as if replaying the past few weeks for clues. “Damn, Holly. Does he love you, too?”

“Doubt it. That goodbye came real easy for him.” Though he did make that passport appointment , my inner voice reminds me.

“Hmm.” Rachel’s forehead creases.

I’ve wiped my tears, and now I take a big bite of my chicken Caesar wrap. “What?” I ask, my mouth full.

“Maybe you should ask him.”

I cover my mouth so the crumbs won’t fly as I sputter, “Like, ‘Hey, Jonathan, do you love me?’”

“Yeah.”

“You’re high.” I swallow and have a swig of water. “I promise you that wouldn’t go over well. Besides, like I said, I’m not staying here anyway. Bad memories are piling up in this place. I need a fresh start. Now more than ever.”

Rachel sighs. “Fine, I get it. I still think you should talk to him, though.”

“To what end? So I can apologize for what I said? So he can apologize for what he did? The fact remains. Mistake or not, he made me lose this job like Chris made me lose the promotion. Oh, and my reputation.” I shake my head. “I truly have a terrible way of picking them.”

“But it’s not the same.” Rachel leans forward. “It sounds like this really was an accident. And a job is only a job. If you love him…”

“Please, can we not?”

Maybe it’s my still-damp eyes or the edge in my voice, but Rachel stops short of finishing her sentence.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’ll be a lot easier for everyone if I can avoid him completely until my time at GCL is over.

Clean breaks are less messy and all that.

I’ll be fine.” I fold my wrap into its paper and push it aside.

A sense of resolution comes over me. “No, I’ve got to start looking for something else. I can use you as a reference, right?”

Her expression softens. “Of course.” Her phone chirps, and she glances at it.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry. This isn’t how this was going to go.”

“I know.” She picks up her phone, her forehead wrinkling. “Um…”

“What?”

Face flushed, she looks up from her screen. “I…” Her mouth snaps closed as she looks at her message again. “This is going to sound super weird, and I promise it’s not my fault, but I think your brother just asked me out.” She holds the phone up for me to see.

So he finally did it.

“Obviously I’ll say no. I know how you feel about that. Or maybe it’s a wrong number situation?”

“It’s not.” I smile at my friend. “You should say yes.”

“I should?”

“If you want to. I’m done interfering. Promise.”

Her whole face lights up. “Really?”

“Really. You two are my favorite people. Have fun. Just remember he’s still planning on moving.” I push my chair back and stand. “But who knows—maybe it’s meant to be?” I shrug. “I’m heading up. See you in a bit?”

She nods. “Thank you. And for what it’s worth, I still think you’d make the best program liaison. No matter who wins the fundraiser.”

If only it was that easy.

My plan to avoid Jonathan works fine initially.

In addition to Rachel keeping me busy at GCL, I drive to Portland to get calendars from the printer, do door-to-door sales in the South Lake Union office buildings (with permission, of course), and sell at a local farmers market.

I also start perusing job boards around the country, which is less than encouraging.

The main problem I see when considering other jobs, nonprofit or not, is how to get past having to disclose my dishonorable ousting from Heckles & Romer.

At GCL, Rachel could vouch for me because she knew Manny, but without someone like that ushering me into the hiring pool, I’ll have to apply with my CV, and hard questions will inevitably be asked. Not to mention references requested.

I blame being preoccupied with my lack of options for what happens after work Thursday.

I’m meeting Rachel at yet another expo first thing in the morning, so I’m bringing our large display board home to have it ready, but when I get in the driver’s seat and turn the key, the car dings to let me know I’ve forgotten to close the trunk.

Grumbling about various inconveniences, I get out again and slam it shut, whipping around in a hurry as I do so.

And then I’m stuck. The side hem of my white, flowy knit sweater lodges firmly in the steel jaws of my car.

My first instinct is to yank, but when the fabric protests, I stop.

I like this top. The button to open the trunk is as unresponsive as always, and the key is, naturally, in the ignition out of reach.

“Damn it,” I yell, stomping my foot. This is the last thing I need.

I glance around me but see no one else nearby.

“Some help?” I call. Nothing.

I close my eyes and count to ten. Then I squat and start the extrication process. One sleeve, two sleeves, and then my head joins my limbs inside the sweater. From the outside, I must look like an egg with legs or maybe a freaky sheep cowering at the rear bumper of my car.

And that’s where I am when a voice says my name.

I freeze, still hidden inside my woolen cocoon. Through the knit strands, I can make out Jonathan’s shoes and legs. He’s standing not two yards away, and judging by his voice, this is as unexpected for him as it is for me.

“Hi?” I say, still not moving. Of all the ways I’ve imagined us breaking our silence, this was never on the menu.

I scan the immediate ground around me for an escape.

Stories of sinkholes have always terrified me, but if ever I was going to encounter one, now would be the time.

I picture an expanding fissure in the concrete, me vanishing within. Poof!

“What are you doing?” he asks as the ground betrays me with its unshakeable rigidity.

Merely knowing he’s looking at me makes my soul sing, and I much prefer the quiet. Or so I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night. “Um… taking off my sweater.”

“Do you need a hand?” He steps closer.

“No,” I hurry to say. I don’t think I can handle proximity with him right now.

He backs off.

Slowly, I tread my arms back into the sleeves and stand to plop my head through the neck hole.

And my God, if he isn’t the most gorgeous prospect-ruiner of all time.

He’s in his signature black jeans, but the gray cowl-neck sweater is new.

It makes him look infinitely huggable. The ten days we’ve spent apart has done nothing to quell his magnetic pull on me.

“I’m stuck,” I explain, gesturing to the hem. “Again. The keys are in the ignition.”

“Ah.” He goes to grab them. “Lucky I came by.”

“I’d almost broken free,” I say as he unlocks the trunk.

He hands me back the key. “Right.” Noise at the entrance of the garage makes him turn away and then put another few feet between us.

Gray sweater aside, this version of Jonathan is painfully familiar. Taciturn, curt, standoffish. He’s once again choosing to withhold his softer side from me, and it hurts more than I thought it would. Against better judgment, it makes me want to force the other side back out.

“But thanks,” I say, taking care to make it as friendly as I can. I venture to meet his gaze, but he looks away. Clearly, he doesn’t think this was lucky at all.

I make one more attempt. “I take it you’re not going to Thursday happy hour either?”

“What?” He blinks.

“Happy hour? I’d go, but I promised Jude I’d start sorting his attic. You know, in return for him posing for the… um… calendar.” The more I talk, the more his face closes up. Maybe it would have been better if I’d stayed hidden inside my sweater. Or at least not brought up the calendar.

“I’ve got to go,” he says. “Sir Leonard has been home alone all day.”

“How’s the old guy doi…?”

But Jonathan is already halfway to his car, and he’s not looking back.

I need to do the same. Eyes on the future.

As soon as the thought has come and gone, a notification pops up on my screen: Two new job matches for you! One is a poorly paid internship at a nonprofit based in Alaska and the other a receptionist job for Greenpeace in DC. I get in the car, reject both, and lean my head on the steering wheel.

“Something will come along,” I whisper.

Not necessarily because I believe it, but because it has to.