Page 1 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Faye

That extra shot of espresso was a terrible idea.

But when boredom takes over, there’s only one thing that’ll make the afternoon go by, and it’s coping via caffeine.

It’s one of the last Summer Fridays left this year, when the corporate overlords of Millionfish Enterprises allow us to leave at noon.

I’m sure everyone is probably out enjoying the muggy August afternoon.

Before Alexis left for the day, she asked that I stay and wait for a package from Sharper Image to be delivered.

Sometimes she sends me home with products to test for employee “gifts,” and she didn’t tell me what it is this time, but I’m sure it’s some kind of productivity-boosting gadget she heard about on a podcast. Back in November, they gave each of us one of those light therapy lamps that are meant to simulate natural sunlight after employees mentioned they were struggling with coming and going to the office when it’s dark.

I’ve become a seasoned pro at spending these Friday afternoons alone at the office, so I’ve already done the usual things I do to pass the time at work (besides my actual job).

I re-organized my inbox. I trimmed my split-ends with a dull pair of office scissors.

I watched Damon Salvatore fancams for thirty minutes straight.

Enter the emergency iced latte that’s now harassing my nervous system.

I’m pretty sure I can hear the vibrations of the blood circulating through my body, rumbling deep in my ears.

In my overactive imaginings, this sound is coming from the caffeine molecules whitewater rafting down my capillaries.

They’re even wearing little yellow helmets and calling out rowing commands to each other.

I know this isn’t how the body works, and I’m not completely sure what capillaries even are, but how cute would that be?

I should get up and walk around to dispel some of this misplaced energy. It’s time for the final phase of killing time, anyway: call best friend to complain while roaming around the fluorescent-lit hallways.

“Why don’t you just leave?” Rett asks. “Alexis will never know.”

“Trust me. She’ll detect my departure from the salon where she’s getting her hair done right now.” I wouldn’t put it past her to install invisible trip wires at all the exits, with alarms set to wail if I try to escape early.

“At least you didn’t drive her this time. I still can’t believe you took her to that weird spa last month.”

Alexis saw a viral video about a place that does LED light therapy facials, but they tie you down with lavender-infused straps and play wind chime simulations through a VR headset the entire time.

She was so excited to book a coveted appointment, how could I refuse to take her?

Her car was in the shop, and she needed to stimulate her collagen production.

“The waiting list for that place is insane. She would have had to wait five months if she missed it.”

“That is not your problem. That woman stresses you out so much it sounds like you’re having a hard time even talking right now.”

I don’t mention that this doesn't really have anything to do with an overbearing boss and is instead due to my bodily functions competing in rapid river races as we speak. I veer into the big conference room on this floor and sit down at the head of the giant glass-topped table.

“What are you doing this weekend?” she asks.

I turn my chair so I can look outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Our office building is in a corporate park, so there’s a small courtyard area with a few benches and tables set up between the buildings. I wonder who else is out there looking out the window waiting for their weekend to begin.

“Not sure. I’ll probably work on the quarterly marketing deck.

” Alexis has a big presentation on Tuesday that she’ll want to run through Monday afternoon.

Sure, I could have been working on that for the past two hours instead of dicking around an empty office building, but I do my best work during a nice Sunday night panic.

“Oh, and Andrew is coming by at some point to pick up his suitcase for his trip.”

The sigh she heaves could be heard from Mars. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Rett has been out of town for the last few weeks helping with family stuff going on back home.

She’s basically my only friend so I’ve definitely missed her, but I’m selfishly relieved she’s not here right now.

I have no doubt that the interrogation I’m about to endure is better experienced over the phone rather than in person.

Suddenly, I long for a leisurely afternoon spent color-coding Alexis’s calendar.

“Why do you still have your ex-boyfriend’s suitcase?”

“Well, I haven’t unpacked it yet.”I spin around a few times in the chair before realizing that I probably shouldn’t add motion sickness to the mix.

“Okay.” She clears her throat. Haughtily, somehow. “Follow up question. Why have you still not unpacked a suitcase when you’ve been in your new place for six months now?”

“I just haven’t gotten around to it.”Busy doing other things, like staring off into the abyss and contemplating a bleach job or cutting my own bangs.

Another sigh. “What are you doing that’s not work or ex-boyfriend related?”

My only response is a shrug that she can’t even hear through the phone.

“Faye.” I know this tone. It’s what I imagine a lecture from a parent about to give me a very important life lesson feels like.

I wouldn’t know, considering I spent most of my childhood being raised by a grandfather whose idea of parenting was limited to allowing me to watch horror movies I was way too young for and telling me that he didn’t care what I did as long as I didn’t get arrested.

This is hilarious to me now, because the most criminal-like activity I engaged in was stealing a pack of Skittles from the North Carolina Zoo’s gift shop on a school field trip in second grade.

“I haven’t said anything yet because I’ve been giving you time, but I’m worried.

You spend over forty hours a week working for a company that barely knows you exist. You are allowed to do something else for the measly forty-eight we’re given on the weekend.

I’m starting to think you like having to work late every day just so you won’t have to think about your life. ”

“Wow. Give it to me gently.”

“And one more thing. How are you going to move on if you’re still talking to Andrew all the time?”

Yep, I could be pondering the merits of green or yellow in the calendar for client meetings right now.

“First of all, that’s harsh. The company knows I exist.” I work for a pretty big software tech company and I’m not delusional enough to think the CEO knows who I am.

But at least the marketing team knows who takes the lunch orders and makes sure the conference room is set up for our Monday Morning Mind Merge.

Yes, it’s really called that. “Second of all, we don’t talk all the time.

We text maybe once a week, twice at the mo?—”

“That’s so weird,” she interrupts.

“We’re still friends, though.” Kind of. It’s not like we have deep heart-to-hearts or anything. Yesterday I asked him when he’d like to come by and get the suitcase. Last week I had to let him know that I saw the lemon biscotti out at Trader Joe’s. He loves those.

“How? Even if you want to be friends still, I figured he’d have more self-respect than that.”

“Jesus, Rett!”

“Sorry.” Her voice softens a little. “But it feels like a bit of a ‘having your cake and eating it too' situation. I know you want to stay friends with him, but do you worry he might have an inkling of hope that you’ll want to get back together?”

On some level I know she’s right, because she’s very succinctly verbalized what might be causing the incessant gnawing I’ve had in my gut ever since he asked me the single question that I had been mortifyingly unprepared to hear.

The question that most people would be waiting in blissful anticipation to be asked after being in a committed relationship for six years.

It’s a burning guilt that no number of Tums will fix that propels me to keep reaching out to him, like I need some kind of reassurance that he doesn’t hate me.

But what if he is holding out hope that we’ll get back together? I don’t want to be someone who keeps that hope alive, no matter how awful it feels to disappoint him. That damage has been done already.

I get up and draw a doodle of a big red heart on the dry erase board behind me. “Yeah, I don’t want him to think that.”

“It’s good he’s going out of town. In fact, I’d like to not so humbly suggest you don’t reach out to him while he’s gone.”

I’ve practically been walking on eggshells in my own life since the breakup.

It’s especially hard because I’m the bad guy in this scenario.

I’ve been nonstop plagued with visions of Andrew standing in front of a roaring fire, tossing our mementos into the flames, camera zooming in to show a slow motion shot of a single tear gliding down his angular cheek.

She continues, breaking me out of my reverie, “And you need to climb out of your hermit hole and have some fun.”

“Hermit hole is a little dramatic.” So what if I have a bundle of blankets and pillows arranged on my couch that I affectionately refer to as my nest? “It’s called being cozy.”

“Whatever. Want some help unpacking tonight?”

“Sure, are you coming back today? What about your grandma?”

“I’m almost to her house now. She’s got something she wants to talk to me about before she makes her exit . I told her she’s just moving to a nursing home, not stepping one foot in the grave.”

It makes me think of my own grandpa still living at home alone.

I visit him every Sunday and he has a nurse that comes by a couple of times a week to check in on him, but I wonder how sustainable that really is.

I’ve never even thought about broaching the subject of him moving out.

It’s got to be difficult to leave the place you’ve called home for over half your life.

“If there’s anything I can do to help just let me know.”

I hear a car door slam through the phone. “I’ll text you when I’m on the way over tonight. Please go home now.”

It’s 3:45, so I think I can safely make my escape. “Yes, ma’am. Tell Grandma Minnie I said hello.”

I make my way back to my desk, check my email one more time, and head for the elevator. After stepping inside, I lean my head against the back wall and close my eyes, letting the hum of the cables soothe me.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Andrew: Sorry I’ve had something come up tomorrow afternoon. Can I come by in the morning instead?Maybe around 10?

I don’t answer yet, choosing to continue my elevator meditation session for another moment. I feel the first twinges of a caffeine-comedown headache and want nothing more than to crawl into my definitely-not-a-hermit-hole and take a nap.

A small part of me wonders if Rett is right, and I use work as an excuse to avoid thinking about things. Sure, I’m tired and want to go home, but what’s waiting for me there? At least she’s coming over later and I won’t be spending yet another Friday night alone.

The elevator jerks to a stop on the third floor, or what everyone here refers to as “no man’s land” because it’s where the accounting and human resources offices are located.

I’ve never had a reason to go there, but I’ve always imagined a completely windowless space with a single, flickering light bulb dangling from a wire in the ceiling.

I bet some hapless accountant has spent the entire day sweating over the single spreadsheet keeping this company running, also not allowed to leave because of a boss that guilt trips them into working outside of usual hours.

I step aside to allow them to enter.

And when my brain catches up to my eyes and I see who is getting into the elevator with me, I become seriously worried that I might be hallucinating.

Because why else would Andrew’s college roommate and oldest friend, who lives in New York City, be casually entering the elevator of the company I work for in Raleigh, North Carolina?

His golden-brown eyes light up, crinkling with a grin. “Faye, hey! I was wondering when I was going to run into you.”