Page 119 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Megan squints at me. Her arms remain crossed across her chest.

“Who is it?” Olivia’s voice comes from down her hallway.

“No one,” Megan shouts back to her. “Go rest. It’s just …”

“Me!” I shout in the doorway. “It’s me, Olivia. Can I come in? I don’t know what’s going on. I’m worried about you.”

Olivia shows up behind Megan, and the sight of her hits me like a punch to the gut. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and she looks like she’s lost something precious. The urge to pull her into my arms surges through me.

Those cookies feel like they’re burning a hole in my pocket.

Winning isn’t everything—unless it’s her heart.

What’s more important? Your job or your relationship?

If a woman matters to you, sacrifice everything to win her heart.

“Olivia?” Her name is all I can manage to say.

“Logan.” Her voice is numb, lifeless.

“May I come in? Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Megan steps even more fully in front of Olivia, clearly willing to take me on if I cross the threshold. Whatever this is, it’s obvious Megan thinks I’m at the heart of it.

Winning isn’t everything … What’s more important? Your job or your relationship?

Winning? At my job? The promotion!

“Is this about the promotion?” I ask.

“Ding, ding, ding.” Megan taps her nose while she makes the sound of a winning bell.

I glance at Megan. “Please, give me a minute. If she asks me to leave, I will.”

Megan looks back at Olivia.

Olivia gives a weary nod.

Megan waves her arm, ushering me in. “I’ll be right in her bedroom. If she needs a bouncer, believe me, I’ll be happy to do the job.”

I nod. Then I turn to Olivia. “When you want me to leave, I’ll go. You won’t need a bouncer.”

“Have a seat,” she says without looking at me.

I walk into the living room and sit on the overstuffed chair, leaving her the whole couch.

She plops down on the far corner, as far away from me as possible.

We’re quiet for a few beats. She’s looking around her apartment, anywhere but at me. Finally, her eyes land on the windows.

“I wanted that apartment,” she says.

“That apartment?”

“2B. Gran’s place. I applied for it. But you got here first. I know you didn’t know. But I ended up here, in a smaller apartment with bad plumbing and a faulty electrical system and the squeaky door and a view of a parking garage.”

Her voice is like the color grey. Lifeless, defeated. I’ve never seen her like this. In all my life, she’s always been a fighter, my greatest competitor, a worthy opponent.

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