Work is okay, same old, same old. I shouldn’t complain. I was lucky to land this investment analyst job first thing out of college. I’m good at it. My colleagues are nice. My boss isn’t an asshole.
Everything’s awesome.
So I shouldn’t be checking out the door every five minutes for a certain girl’s voice and laughter.
/> I don’t even want to admit it to myself, but I was hoping that Brylee would come in and invite me for a drink again.
Why would she? I’ve brushed her off too many times.
I have my reasons.
Reasons she doesn’t know, and won’t ever know, if I have anything to say about it.
There’s a meeting in ten minutes. I’ve prepared everything. I’m ready.
That’s how my life is these days: ticking away like a clock, every activity planned and slotted in my schedule, every meal prepared with an eye toward health factors, every exercise selected for maximum benefits and minimum damage.
As it should be.
My mom wouldn’t have approved. She was all for fun and carpe diem.
She’s not here to tell me so. And that has to mean something, though I’m not sure exactly what. Would she have lived, had she done as I am doing? Would it have been enough?
I’ve been thinking a lot about that, lately. Her carpe diem. Did she live enough? Did she do all the things she wanted?
Am I? Doing the things I want?
Cursing, I grab my folder. I’ll be late for the meeting. Why the hell am I having these doubts now? Christ. I’ve made my decisions. I’m sticking to them.
Fuming at myself, folder in hand, I stride out of the little office I share with my colleague Dale and down the long corridor toward the meeting room.
Caitlyn, our receptionist, wiggles her fingers at me and strokes her neck.
Frowning, I turn away, clutching the folder harder. She’s new here. Doesn’t know I’m not in the game, not anymore. Not for a while now.
Then Joan steps out of her office and falls in step beside me. “May I join you?”
“You have.”
She smiles. “Meetings make me so thirsty. I was thinking of grabbing coffee later. They make these great cappuccinos down the street.”
“No, thanks.”
“Sure.”
She says nothing more as we take our seats around the big, round table and open our files. There’s a disappointed tilt to her mouth, but she’ll get over it.
Over me.
She’s an analyst, like me, and we went to school together. Slept together, too, a few times, and that was a mistake.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s a beautiful, elegant woman with a mind sharper than mine and a bright future ahead of her.
But she thinks we can pick up where we left off. That I’ll change my mind.
No chance in hell. And she doesn’t get it. Maybe she’s taken it personally. Or as a challenge, a mission to wear me down with subtle hints and suggestions.
I’m not getting involved with anyone. And that’s that.