Page 59 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Throughout the rest of the morning, Olivia glances in my direction occasionally, as if she thinks my secret will slip out of me when I’m off-guard. I don’t know why she expects me to crack. She’s known me long enough to know I don’t spill emotions or details easily.

I’d love to disclose everything, especially after the way Olivia reacted to walking in on my argument with Jacob. I thought she might judge me or take his side. Instead, she put him in his place and even gave me a compliment.I don’t think you’re the golden child. You work for what you have.I can still hear the softness in her voice when she said it, as if she couldn’t dare to speak any louder or she’d let herself in on the fact that she was complimenting me.

I glance across the work table at Olivia. She’s focused on her laptop screen, her brow furrowed just the slightest in concentration.

“What?” Olivia looks up at me, a note of impatience in her tone.

“Nothing.”

She squints her eyes and tilts her head. “You do know when people saynothing, it always means something, don’t you?”

I chuckle.

“Are you trying to be infuriating?” she asks. “Or does it just come naturally?”

“I’m not trying to infuriate you,” I tell her, honestly.

“Wow.” She shakes her head and returns to work.

There’s not as much bite in her tone as usual. To the outside observer, she would still seem to be filled with vitriol toward me. But I know Olivia. Something seems to be shifting between us. It’s a precarious pouring of wet concrete that could become a foundation for something new. But, also, I could step in it and end up slogging through sludge if I move too quickly before things solidify.

Less is more. That cookie has become a mantra of sorts—a random cookie, of all things.

The rest of the week, we develop our campaign plans and set up next week’s YouTube testimonials and some shorter videos for other social media platforms. By Friday, we’ve seen impact from our counter-campaigns through our strategic partnerships with various influencers.

We’re wrapping up for the day, getting ready to head out for the weekend.

It’s the big weekend—our ten-year reunion.

I’m not worried about it. High school was fun for me. I wasn’t the most popular guy in school, but I was well-liked, and I was involved in all the things I loved. Olivia was too. From my vantage point, we had parallel experiences. I’ve been surprised at her lack of enthusiasm for the reunion.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say as we approach the elevator side by side.

“Not if I see you first.” There’s a small smile in her eyes, not on any other part of her face.

I see it, though, and it makes me nearly smile.

“I’ve always heard a class reunion is a time for new beginnings,” I say. “For letting go of whatever hurts and …” I pause, unsure what madness led me to say anything to her about high school.

I’m not the one to tell her to let go of hurt. We don’t talk like this. She’s probably going to eat me alive.

“Hurts … and what?” she asks, pushing the button for ground level.

The doors slide shut, and we’re alone. I turn toward Olivia. Her eyes are fixed dead ahead, staring at the mirror-like silver panel.

I’m quiet as the elevator engages, turning away from her so we are both facing forward.

“A reunion is a fresh start,” I say, finishing my thought because she asked me to. “We’re ten years older. That’s a lot of water under the bridge—for everyone. People have grown up, finished college, gotten married, started families, pursued careers. We’re not the same as we were.”

What is wrong with me? I never talk this much, especially not to Olivia.

She’s quietly studying me. The doors open, and I think she’s going to walk off without another word when she turns and says, “You might be right.”

Then she pivots and walks to her car. I stare after her, trying to sort myself out.

The class reunion is being held at a local country club. It’s not a club like the one my parents belong to on our side of town. Bristol West Country Club is nicely landscaped, and the buildings are colonial-style, set on rolling hills that once served as a horse farm in the eighteen hundreds, but now feature a golf course and club facilities. I park my car and walk into the main clubhouse, where a table has been set up near the entrance.

Our class representatives are all seated in chairs behind the table, greeting former classmates. I spot Gil and Maisy across the way and wave to them. Then I approach the table where the sign [A - F] is hanging in front of Ginny Spears, our class president.

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