FLIRTING WITH 40

mine, and the condescension in her tone has me gripping my pen so tight my fingers ache.
There is an uncomfortable silence as others shift in their seats, and all I can do is nod in appreciation that she put my idea on the list.
And then I sit there and listen as every other person pitches ideas that lack substance or really even creativity.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” Heather finally says with a faux fist pump, probably tiring of hearing her own voice. Then again, maybe not. “Blakely, stay a sec, will you?”
Oh, joy.
“Sure. Not a problem.” I plaster a smile on my face and sit back in the seat I just stood from, my laptop and notebook still pressed against my chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Moving forward, if you can’t stop showing me up at our creative meetings, then I’ll have to have you sit them out.”
“I’m sorry . . .” I shake my head. “Show you up?”
“Yes. We all know you’ve been here forever. I don’t need you bringing it up constantly in front of all the new people I’ve hired. Frankly, it makes you look dated, and when I’m the one constantly trying to fight for you, it makes it that much harder to do.”
Fight for me? Does she think I buy her bullshit when I’m incessantly afraid to turn my back to her?
My pause is simply to make sure I have a lock on my cool before I speak. I need this job. I love this job. I’ve weathered incompetent bosses before. I can do it this time too.
Or so I hope.
“Experience doesn’t make me dated. My knowledge of how certain marketing campaigns and sales affect the Glam brand, which I know inside and out, should be looked upon as an added value.”
She purses her lips as she stands there, arms crossed over her chest, disdain written all over her face.
“I’m not sure how we got off on the wrong foot,” I say as I rise from my seat again and make my way toward the door where my boss of a whole four months is standing. I guess it’s up to me to be the mature one in the room. “But somehow we did. I love my job, and the last thing I want to do is show up anyone—least of all you. Besides, if I get the promotion, we’ll be sharing this responsibility so it behooves us to iron out these wrinkles.”
Our eyes hold as the silence stretches, and my palms grow clammy at the disdain etched in the lines of her face. Why does she make me nervous?
Because I’ve spent my whole career working toward the vice president of marketing position, and now that it’s just within reach, she’s the only one who can take it away from me.
“Perhaps it’s something we can work on at the team bonding retreat.” Her smile is quick and holds even less warmth. “I look forward to seeing you and your . . . husband?” She waves a hand in my direction. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re divorced. It’s okay if you come single. We have a few who are. We can modify some of the challenges so you aren’t alone the whole time.”
You condescending cow.
“My boyfriend will be there.” My answer is too fast, and I inwardly cringe at how pseudo desperate it sounds.
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes. Boyfriend.”
I offer a catty smile and then silently freak out the entire time I walk the length of the glass walls that house the conference room, knowing she’s staring at me.
I have no idea how in the hell I’m going to pull a boyfriend out of my ass for the retreat.
Maybe Kelsie was right. Maybe I’m sabotaging myself so that I have no other option but not to go.
It doesn’t help that, three hours after the fact, I’m still preoccupied by my lie. When I leave my office, hobo bag under one arm and cell phone held up to my ear, I cross the street completely distracted.
So distracted that, when I look up, I stop dead in my tracks the second I see them.
The person behind me bumps smack-dab into me, and a car that wants to use the turn lane I’m standing in honks its horn. It doesn’t matter, though, because all I see is them.
Paul is standing ten feet in front of me, looking as handsome as he ever did. His skin is tan, his hair is a little bit longer, and his typical white button-up shirt that I could never get him to veer from is gone. It’s been replaced by a silver one with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the collar unbuttoned some. He looks relaxed, and the grin spreading across his lips tells me he’s happy. I can’t remember the last time I made him look like that.
A pang hits me low in the gut. It doesn’t matter how much I hate him because I once loved him. I once adored him. I moved across the country and away from my family to start a life with him. I once put my dreams on hold—kids, the white picket fence, the whole Norman Rockwell existence—for him and his career aspirations.
All to be left with nothing.
So does it hurt to see him from afar? Hell yeah it does.
When he reaches to his left, all those pangs turn to a hand-trembling anger as he hooks his hand around the waist of the woman walking toward him. He pulls her into him and kisses her way too long. It’s the kind of public display of affection that makes anyone watching uncomfortable but also screams of intimacy and still-new love.
But I can’t move. I can’t look away. And when she steps back, I’m stunned by the sight of her. It’s the first time I’ve seen his new fiancée, and all I can think of is how much she looks like me . . . the me from twenty years ago.
As if Paul senses me the same as I sensed him, his eyes find mine.