Page 116 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“Colchester Mountain project,” I say, grabbing my work iPad. “Gotta go.”

I walk out of my office and do my best to pretend that there’s not a trickle of sweat dripping down my back.

* * *

Wednesday morning,I’m minding my own business at work when a calendar invite pops up on my screen. I’m not even done reading the first one when another pops up.

They’re both for Thursday, a week from tomorrow, and I’m shot through with panic before I even finish reading them.

The first: 4pm, a meeting with Evan, Gregory, and Rachelle Lipscomb, the head of human resources at B&L. Fuck.

The second: from Evan, who’s sitting five feet away, for 7pm, same day, La Cabaña Mexican Restaurant.

I take some deep breaths and accept the first meeting, because what else am I supposed to do? Even if everything about it screams you’re getting laid off in a week and the anxiety is already making me dizzy.

I close my eyes and try to breathe and focus on… something else, but I’m also trying to panic-breathe quietly enough that Evan can’t hear me, and he keeps making little noises that remind me of his existence and the fact that he’s probably responsible for me losing my goddamn job and I want to explode and crawl out of my skin.

A few minutes later I open my eyes and make myself look at the second invitation. To dinner. After this meeting of doom.

“Did you mean to send me a calendar invite to dinner?” I ask.

“It’s to go over any questions you might have,” he says. I feel like my skin is too small for my ribcage, a sickly, shimmering feeling.

“At dinner,” I say, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.

“Oh good, you can read,” he says.

I do not throw my stapler at his head.

“Am I getting overtime for this?” I ask my monitor, because I still haven’t bothered to look at him.

“You’re salaried, you don’t get overtime,” he says.

“No, then.”

There’s a faint creak as he turns around in his chair, then pauses.

“I also wanted to talk,” he finally says, and somewhere, distantly, I know I should be happy. That he might be taking me out to dinner to beg for me to come back, or apologize, or at least acknowledge how shitty he was. I take a deep breath and also turn around in my chair, finally facing him.

“We could talk now,” I point out.

“I’d rather do it over dinner and not in the office.”

He’s leaning back in his chair, legs wide, twirling a pen between two fingers.

“About what?”

“I’d like to clear the air,” he says. “You’ve spent weeks angry with me and I’d like to help you resolve that before I leave.”

I freeze, because if I don’t I might do something I really regret. Like throw my stapler. Or my chair. Or my whole desk, because I’m pretty sure right now I’ve got the rage-strength to do it.

I don’t want to resolve my anger at Evan. I want him to leave. I want my anger to fade away with lots of time and plenty of distance.

“Maybe we could work through whatever part I’ve played in your anger issues,” he goes on, like he’s not in danger of a keyboard to the face. I swallow hard.

“Having to CC you on every email might have something to do with it,” I point out.

“That’s necessary.”