Page 3 of Not in Love

“Yes. But if Kline changes hands—”

“As long as the agreement is in writing, you’re good.”

I remembered an email from Florence. Long words, small fonts, electronic signatures. Relief punched through me. Thank you, Florence.

“Guys, try not to sweat this too much, okay? Go to the assembly you’re probably already late for. Find out all you can and report back. And for the love of Justice Brown Jackson, update your damn CVs. You haven’t been a pet groomer since undergrad, Tish.”

“Get off my LinkedIn,” Tisha muttered, but she was flipping off an already blank screen. So she leaned back in her chair and settled for another subdued “fuck.”

I stared ahead and nodded. “Indeed.”

“Neither of us has the emotional constitution for job insecurity.”

“Nope.”

“I mean, we’ll be all right. We’re in tech. It’s just . . .”

I nodded once more. We were happy at Kline. Together. With Florence.

Florence. “Last night, Florence texted me,” I told Tisha. “Asked if I wanted to go over to her place.”

She turned. “Did she say why?”

I shook my head, feeling half-embarrassed, half-guilty. Way to show up for your friends, Rue. “I told her I had plans.”

“What were you—oh, right. Your quarterly sex-up. Rue After Dark. Oh my god, how have we not talked about the guy.”

“What guy?”

“Really? You send me a picture of some dude’s driver’s license and then ask what guy? Nice try.”

“It was a valiant attempt.” I stood, trying to avoid remembering deep-set blue eyes. That Grecian urn profile that had forced me to stare. The short brown curls, just this side of too messy. He’d kept his eyes straight ahead as he drove me home, as if adamant not to look in my direction.

“Have you heard from him? Assuming you did the unthinkable and”—she gasped, clutching her sternum—“gave him your number.”

“I haven’t checked my phone.” It now lived at the very bottom of my backpack, pressed under an extra hoodie, and my water bottle, and a stack of books that were due back at the library in two days. It was going to stay there, at least as long as I caught myself wondering every ten minutes whether he had texted.

I liked to force myself to keep a certain detachment when it came to hes.

“I should have gone to Florence’s,” I said, remorse prickling at the bottom of my stomach.

“Nah. Having to choose between you getting laid and having a heads-up on this here clusterfuck, I’d probably choose orgasms for you. I’m a generous soul like that.” Tisha lowered her voice as we walked side by side, treading down Kline’s sea-blue, ultramodern hallways that teemed with employees, all heading toward the open space on the first floor. They all smiled at Tisha—and nodded at me, polite but much more somber.

Kline had started out as a small tech startup, then quickly ballooned to several hundred employees, and I’d stopped keeping track of new hires. Plus, the solitary nature of my project made me a bit of an unknown quantity. The tall, serious, distant girl—who always hung out with the other tall girl, the funny and delightful one everybody loved. At Kline, Tisha’s and my popularity levels were as mismatched as they’d been since elementary school. Luckily, I’d learned not to mind.

“Sadly,” I murmured, “no orgasms were had.”

“What? He did not look like he’d be bad at sex!”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She scowled. “Isn’t that what you met him for?”

“Originally.”

“And?”

“Vincent showed up.”

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