Page 59 of Most Likely to Deny Love (Yearbook #2)

MIA

J ack had been gone for five days, seventeen hours, and approximately twenty-three minutes. Not that I was keeping track or anything. That would be pathetic.

I stared at his closed office door for the hundredth time that day, willing it to open and reveal him standing there with that half-smile that made my knees weak.

Intellectually, I understood that sometimes business trips came up suddenly. That sometimes places had bad cell service. That sometimes people got busy. But emotionally? Emotionally, I was a fucking wreck.

We’d spent Thanksgiving pretending to be engaged.

We’d slept together every night, woken up in each other’s arms every morning.

We’d made love in front of the fire like we were in some kind of romance novel.

And then he’d dropped me off at home with a kiss and a vague “We’ll talk when I get back” before vanishing into thin air.

What did that even mean? “We’ll talk when I get back.” Talk about what? Breaking off our fake engagement? Ending whatever this thing between us had become? My stomach twisted painfully at the thought.

With a frustrated groan, I dropped my head to my desk, my forehead thumping against a stack of reports that I’d been pretending to read for the past hour.

“Are you practicing for a role as a human gong, or just trying to give yourself a concussion?” Emily’s voice pulled me from my misery spiral.

I lifted my head to find her leaning against my doorframe, one eyebrow raised in that uniquely Emily way that managed to convey both concern and judgment simultaneously.

“Neither. Both. I don’t know.” I rubbed my forehead. “Did you need something?”

“Just checking if you’re alive. You’ve been staring at Jack’s door so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t burst into flames.”

“I have not.” The denial sounded weak even to my own ears.

Emily snorted. “Please. You’ve been looking like a sad puppy all week. Why don’t you just call him?”

“I don’t want to bother him. He’s obviously busy.”

“What about a text?”

“Same thing. I’m not going to be that pathetic.”

“Carrier pigeon? Smoke signals? Magic mirror?”

“Very funny.” I closed the report I’d been pretending to read. “I think I’m going to head home early. I can’t focus anyway.”

Emily’s face softened with understanding. “That sounds like a good idea. Want me to reschedule your 3:30 meeting?”

“Would you? Just say I had a migraine or something.”

“You got it. Want to grab dinner later? I was thinking of ordering from that Thai place you like.”

“Sure, whatever.” I grabbed my purse and jacket, eager to escape before anyone else noticed the emotional train wreck I’d become. “I’ll see you at home.”

The drive was a blur, my mind racing with scenarios ranging from mildly concerning (Jack had lost his phone) to wildly improbable (Jack had been kidnapped by corporate rivals).

By the time I pulled into my driveway, my head was pounding with genuine pain, making my earlier excuse to Emily uncomfortably close to the truth.

I was surprised to find Emily’s car already in the driveway. Apparently, she’d left right after me. Great. Now I’d have to make conversation when all I wanted was to curl up in bed with ice cream and pretend the world didn’t exist.

The moment I stepped through the door, the scent of freshly brewed coffee hit me. Emily appeared from the kitchen, two steaming mugs in hand.

“Figured you could use this,” she said, holding one out to me. “I added that fancy vanilla creamer you like.”

The simple kindness nearly broke me. “Thanks.” I took the mug, avoiding her eyes. “How did you beat me home?”

“I know all the shortcuts. Plus, you drive like a grandma.”

“I do not.”

“You literally stopped for a squirrel yesterday.”

“It was in the road!”

“It was thinking about maybe possibly considering the road at some point.”

Despite myself, I laughed. “Fine. Whatever.”

Emily followed me to the living room, dropping onto the couch beside me as I kicked off my shoes and tucked my legs underneath me.

“So,” she began, blowing on her coffee. “Want to talk about it?”

“About what?”

“About why you’re biting everyone’s head off and staring at your phone like it personally betrayed you.”

I scowled. “I’m not biting anyone’s head off.”

“You made Porter cry yesterday.”

“He always cries.”

“You told Rebecca that her hair looked like a squirrel had died on her head.”

“That was a legitimate observation. Have you seen her new highlights?”

Emily sighed. “Mia.”

“What?” I snapped, suddenly irrationally angry.

“What do you want me to say? That I’m upset because my fake fiancé slash boss slash whatever-the-fuck-he-is disappeared without a trace after the most intense weekend of my life?

That I’m terrified he’s realized this whole thing was a mistake?

That maybe he’s figured out I’m actually developing real feelings for him and now he’s running for the hills? ” My voice cracked on the last word.

Emily’s eyes widened. “Shit, Mia, I was just?—”

“Just what? Poking at me for fun? Well, congratulations. You found the sore spot. Happy now?” I stood up abruptly, sloshing coffee onto my hand. “Fuck! That’s hot.”

“Here, let me?—”

“I’ve got it.” I stormed toward the kitchen, furiously blinking back tears that had nothing to do with burnt fingers and everything to do with the hollow ache in my chest.

I ran cold water over my hand, staring blankly at the sink. The anger drained out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that made my shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry,” I said, not turning around. “I’m being a bitch.”

Emily appeared beside me, gently taking my hand to examine it. “Yeah, you are. But I get it.”

“Do you?” I finally looked at her, hating the wobble in my voice. “Because I don’t. I don’t get what’s happening to me at all.”

She gave me a sad smile. “I think you do, actually. You’ve fallen for him.”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, to my absolute horror, my eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, honey.” Emily pulled me into a hug, and I buried my face in her shoulder, trying desperately not to cry. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” I mumbled against her shirt. “He’s gone, Em. No calls, no texts, nothing. Just silence.”

“Jack doesn’t strike me as the ghosting type.”

“Well, what would you call this then?”

Before Emily could answer, the doorbell rang, making us both jump.

“Expecting someone?” she asked, releasing me from our hug.

I shook my head, wiping hastily at my eyes. “No.”

“Maybe it’s Girl Scouts. I could murder some Thin Mints right now.”

“It’s not cookie season.”

The doorbell rang again, more insistent this time.

“Well, someone’s eager,” Emily muttered. “Want me to get it?”

“No, I’ll go.” I took a deep breath, smoothing my hair and hoping my face didn’t scream ‘emotional breakdown in progress.’ “If it’s those religious people again, I’m telling them Satan is my homeboy and slamming the door.”

I padded to the front door, pulling it open with more force than necessary.

Instead of Girl Scouts or religious pamphlet distributors, I found a delivery driver holding what had to be the largest flower arrangement I’d ever seen.

Roses, lilies, and what looked like a dozen other types of flowers I couldn’t name exploded from an elegant vase, their combined scent hitting me like a perfumed tidal wave.

“Mia Harris?” the driver asked, consulting his clipboard.

“That’s me,” I answered, my voice faint.

“Sign here, please.” He held out the clipboard, which I signed mechanically, still staring at the massive bouquet. “Where would you like them?”

“Um, I can take them.” I reached for the vase, only to stagger slightly under its unexpected weight.

“Careful there. Let me set them down for you.”

The driver brushed past me, placing the flowers on the entryway table. He tipped his hat with a smile before disappearing back down the walkway, leaving me staring at the riot of colors and petals.

“Holy shit!” Emily’s voice came from behind me. “Did you rob a florist?”

I approached the bouquet cautiously, as if it might explode. Nestled among the blooms was a small envelope. With trembling fingers, I plucked it out and tore it open. Inside was a familiar yellow Post-it note, bearing a single line of text in Jack’s precise handwriting:

Some distances are worth crossing.

A small, strangled sound escaped my throat. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love, but it was something. Proof of life, at the very least. Proof that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he was thinking of me.

“Well?” Emily demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. “What does it say?”

I clutched the note to my chest, suddenly reluctant to share it. “It’s from Jack.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I figured that out from the flowers. What did he write?”

Instead of answering, I handed her the note, watching as her eyes scanned the single line.

“Some distances are worth crossing,” she read aloud, then looked up at me. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, reaching out to touch a velvety rose petal. “But I think... I think it means he’s coming back.”

Emily studied my face for a moment, then broke into a wide smile. “See? What did I tell you? Not the ghosting type.”

For the first time in five days, seventeen hours, and approximately fifty-two minutes, I felt the knot in my chest begin to loosen. The hollowness was still there, but alongside it now was something warm and bright. Something that felt dangerously like hope.