Page 156 of All The Happily Ever Afters

Graphic design has nothing to do with the man I slept with last night. For fifteen whole minutes, I concentrate on my projects. A new logo for a company based in the city. A banner for an artist’s website. The background for a set of wedding invitations.

None of them are exactly presentable … but I try.

All of it takes way longer than it should, because I can’t focus.

The only thing that draws my attention is my phone. Every two minutes, I stare at it, willing it to ping and let me know Jackson texted me to tell me how much he wants a repeat of last night.

After about an hour, I find the tea cold and my thoughts turning on me.

I don’t know what’s worse. If Jackson texts or if he doesn’t. If he ignores what happened last night, then I guess that’s something to go on. If he texts and wants to talk …

Butterflies flutter deep in my stomach. It’s hard to tell if they’re the nervous kind or the excited kind.

Of course, there’s always the third option, which is that he texts and says we should pretend it didn’t happen and was a mistake.

I fly out of my seat so fast the office chair nearly hits the wall as it rolls backward and I put my phone on the kitchen counter, plugging it in to charge. After that, I buckle down for a solid hour of work. There’s not a chance in hell I’m going to miss a deadline and get laid off because I let my crush tear up my heart.

It doesn’t take long, though, for it to buzz from all the way across the apartment and I’m out of my seat before I can think twice. It’s silly to run across my little apartment just for a notification that could be a text from anyone, but I do.

Jackson: You ran off this morning. I should have at least made you breakfast.

Not even one emoji.

How am I supposed to answer this? How am I supposed to respond? I guess I’ll have to play it off like I’m fine and absolutely not obsessed with the outcome of sleeping with my best friend’s brother.

Aubree: Sorry—I just didn’t want to be late for work!

I sent the exclamation mark before I can think twice. Damn it, I should have changed that to a period.

The typing indicator dots appear on my screen and hover there for what seems like forever. He could say anything right now.

Option A: Let’s forget about it. See you Sunday.

Option B: We shouldn’t say anything about this. Keep it between us.

No, I correct my thinking, it’s too late for that. Cheryl saw. She knows we left together. Everyone who was still at the bar knows. And even if they didn’t, there’s no way we’re pretending it didn’t happen.

Jackson: Let me buy you dinner tonight?

My heart’s racing slows up slightly, hope in sight. I send a message back without thinking.

Aubree: You don’t owe me food just because we had sex :)

I mean it as a joke, but no new dots come up on the screen.

Jackson doesn’t say anything.

Not right away. And not in the next hour. Or the hour after that.

The afternoon crawls by. It’s the slowest day I’ve ever lived through. I leave my phone in the kitchen and force myself to work on my projects. This is not a good productivity hack, but it does mean my list gets smaller and smaller as the minutes pass.I answer emails I should have responded to a month ago and put in a couple bids for new projects.

I even cold email a handful of companies I think would like my work that have been on my to-do list forever. Sending cold emails is basically a new record for me. I put it off as long as possible because I hate writing those emails—they seem salesy and weird. I know putting myself out there is a big part of my job, but I still don’t like it. I’m supposed to bring in a certain number of clients so I have to. But cold emailing ahead of the deadline … I am … desperate for a distraction.

All this to avoid deciding what to do about Jackson’s text.

Do I say something? Ask for clarification?

Send him a message talking up last night as a joke?

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