Page 14 of Problematic Summer Romance

“As the managing director,” he interrupts, firm, “let me reassure you that while Eli is in flight, I am more than capable of—”

“Are you capable of putting me through to Eli? Because that’sall I’m asking for.”

Yup, thatwasan explosion. Followed by a silent, drawn-out beat. And: “There may have been a misunderstanding. Am I speaking with the Mayers CEO?”

“I’m Maya. Maya Killgore. Eli’s sister.”

“You are—” A deep sigh. “Of course, you fucking are.”

And that, at last, is when I finally place the voice. It belongs to Hark. Or, Eli calls him Hark. Full name, Connor Harkness.

No, the Irish spelling. Onen. That’s what the accent is.

Conor Harkness.

He’s my brother’s good friend. The best, maybe, though adult men rarely dole out the label. Our orbits have overlapped dozens of times, but unlike Minami, Hark never showed the slightest interest in me. I have faint recollections of him sitting in our living room, drinking beers with Eli, wearing high-finance clothes, saying high-finance things. I cannot remember him ever glancing my way or initiating a single conversation. Frankly, that was a relief. It wasn’t fun, being that young, feeling older men’s eyes on me.

I never made overtures, either. I can list few things that would have interested teen me less than a guy twice my age. After moving to the UK, I didn’t return overseas for a while, choosing to spend my holidays with Rose and her family, then with Alfie. I did briefly go back last summer, between my third and fourth year, but I must not have crossed paths with Hark, because…

Frankly, I’d forgotten that he existed.

“Did you think I was Mayers something or other?”

“Yeah. Be nice if you introduced yourself at the start of a call.Maya.” He sounds annoyed, which perfectly matches my recollection of his temperament.Bit of an assholeseemed to be his dominant personality trait.

I’m not the type to crumble under the weight of a rude reply, but right now I’m not at my most emotionally regulated. “Okay, well…Can I talk to my brother?”

“His plane just took off. It’ll be a while.”

My stomach drops. “Is there any way to get in touch with him?”

“You can text him, but after he boarded the pilot announced that the Wi-Fi wasn’t working.”

I might have to scream. Or not. I’ll have to wait and see. “How many hours is the flight?”

“No clue. Twenty?”

“Twenty?”

“Might be more. Or less. I’m not a licensed air traffic controller. But there’s this new tech you might use to figure it out.”

“What tech?”

“Google, it’s called.”

I close my eyes as tears start trickling out once again. I cannot deal with—I can’t. Not right now. “Well, if you hear from him before I do, please tell him tocallmebackatthisnumber.” I barely manage to spit out the last few words before hanging up and bursting into a fresh bout of tears.

I sob for a few seconds, then fold over to bite into the ball of my denim-covered knee. Fuck him. Fuckhim, and fuck all fucking men. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t be sitting in a fucking park past fucking dark—

My phone rings. I pick up, too hopeful and bleary-eyed to check the caller ID. Stupidly ask, “Eli?”

“Are youcrying?” It’s Conor Harkness.

Again.

“No,” I snarl. Between hiccups.

“Youarecrying.”

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