Page 107 of You've Got Male

She glanced in the rearview mirror and groaned. “I give up.”

It would take a cargo van full of product to make her look presentable, which was why she’d taken the last three days off, claiming she was sick. And she was sick—lovesick for a man with whom there was no future.

She snapped her compact closed and thought about turning tail and heading home, where she’d crawl back into bed and hide under the comforter with a container of her mom’s snickerdoodles. The amount of energy it was going to take to fool everyone into believing her heart wasn’t torn in two seemed insurmountable. But it was all hands on deck, and people were counting on her. She wasn’t about to let them down because she’d chosen the easy way out.

That wasn’t the Evie way.

She laid her head back against the headrest and stared out the sunroof. October was flexing, with rustling yellow and red leaves, bright blue skies dotted with a few scattered clouds drizzling down on the town that was slowly coming to life. One last time she allowed herself to fall into the past few weeks, remember the deep conversations and even deeper connection, the kissing, the flirty notepad exchanges, that first time they’d made love.

Every memory was fueled with emotion and affection—somuch affection it spilled over into other parts of her life. Scratch that. It had spilled over into every part of her life, leaving marks that would never disappear. They might fade over time, but they’d always be there.

There was a tap on her window and she nearly jumped out of the sunroof. Hand to her heart, she turned her head and her stomach sank. A tiny part of her had hoped it was Jonah, there to tell her that he couldn’t let her walk. That he’d miraculously found a way for this all to work—for Evie to chase her dreams, be there for her family, and still have time to devote to their relationship. And love.

But love, she’d learned from distant and not-so-distant history, didn’t seem to fit into her schedule. So when she saw Julie’s nose-pierced face pressed against the window, she let out a sigh of equal parts relief and disappointment.

Evie rolled down the window.

“You want to tell me why you’re sitting out in your car looking like someone shit in your best handbag?”

Before Evie knew what was happening, tears that she thought had long ago dried up resurfaced, leaving her blurry and uncertain of what was in front of her.

“Okay, scoot over,” Julie said, opening the door and shoving Evie over until they were sharing the same seat. She slammed the door shut and the console shanked Evie in the ribs. “I knew you weren’t sick.”

“How?” Evie asked through a few stray sniffles.

“Best friends know these things. Plus, you have never called in sick. Not even to play hooky, which is a damn waste of the general manager title if you ask me.”

“Or it’s the responsible thing to do.”

Julie rolled her eyes. “Responsible is something sad people say.”

“Or something successful people say.”

Julie looked at Evie’s shirt and snorted. “You’re wearing a shirt that says‘Good Morning,’ I Whisper to My Latte. It doesn’t quite have that cover ofTimemagazine vibe. Plus, I saw Jonah at the market last night.”

At the sound of his name, adrenaline jump-started her pulse, kicking her brain into hyper speed. “You saw Jonah?”

“In the flesh.”

“Did he say anything?” Evie asked, going for unaffected, although her body was affected as hell by the mere mention of his name.

“Didn’t have to. He looked like roadkill.”

Evie didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse, that he was as messed up as she was. “But did he say anything?”

“Yeah, like, I said, ‘Good to see you,’ to which he grunted. I said, ‘How’s it hanging.’ He said, ‘South.’ Then he said something about screwing up and needing to make it right.”

“He can’t make it right,” Evie heard herself say.

“Why not?”

“Because the only way for this to work would mean one or both of us giving up our dreams,” she said, although she felt like she’d already given up on one. “This is all your fault, by the way.” She poked Julie in the arm.

“Ow.” Julie poked back. “And how am I the dream stealer?”

“Because”—she emphasized with another poke—“you”—poke, poke—“just couldn’t stay out of my dating life.” Poke, poke, poke.

“Before me you didn’t have a dating life.”

---