Page 53 of The Words We Lost

When she finally breaks long enough to inhale, I’m barely able to blink my tears away in time before I say, “Send it to me, Allie. I’d love to read it.”

It’s nearly seven when my phone rings, and I pause before I reach for it. Joel predicted his last meeting would end around seven—not that I’ve been keeping track of the time since he texted two hours ago to ask about dinner plans—but the bag of microwavable kettle corn I shared with Allie won’t tide me over much longer. And since Joel mentioned picking up takeout for us, I’ve been avoiding the siren’s call of the pantry ever since. By cleaning.

I flip my phone over. Not Joel.

I swipe to accept Chip’s call.

“Hey,” I say, opening the dishwasher and positioning my face in the steam. It’s the closest I’ve come to a facial since Cece’s twenty-fourth birthday at a spa in Denver.

“Hang on,” he says, “my voice recognition software isn’t a hundred percent positive it’s really you. Is thistheIngrid Erikson of Fog Harbor Books, winner of the prestigious Editor of the Year Award? If so, I’ll need you to authenticate.”

I can’t help but smile, but I suppose it has been a bit strange that most of our interactions have been subject to text as of late. “Hmm, let’s see. I once wrote you a three-by-five card of approved pick-up lines for your favorite pink-haired barista. How’s that going anyway?”

He sighs.

“Uh oh.” I set the mugs on the open shelving to the left of the sink and arrange them with their handles facing to the right. “I thought you were asking her out this week?”

“I thought so, too. But new evidence suggests she has a boyfriend.”

“What kind of new evidence?”

“I saw her kissing a Seattle Seahawks fan by the milk steamer on Monday.”

I gasp. “Noooo.”

“Yep. I really thought she had better sports judgment than that. It was devestating on multiple levels.”

“I’m so sorry, Chip.”

“Eh, I’ll live.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, do you have a chance to check your email? I’m getting your pitches ready for the sales conference next week, and I was hoping you could look them over for me. I could ask SaBrina but...” He trails off, and I understand every ounce of his hesitation.

I set the last glass from the top rack of the dishwasher into the cabinet and admire a mug on the top shelf in the shape of a puppy that looks uncannily similar to Rontu. “Give me just a minute, and I’ll look them over.”

“Sure, I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

“Wait, are you still at the office?”

“Headed to the break room as we speak to scavenge for food. I’m starving, but I still have to prep for a couple of meetings tomorrow—one with the cover design team and another to go over a proposal for a new production schedule timeline, and then one on the sales conference.”

All things I would be doing if I were there. Guilt dulls my own hunger pangs. “Chip, I’m sorry. I feel terrible you’re stuck doing all that on your own when—”

“Nope. That was not a you-should-feel-guilty-for-not-being-here comment. You’ve needed a break from here, I just wish you weren’t stuck in the last place on earth you want to be.” I feel a strange urge to correct him when the slamming of cupboard doors in the background causes me to pull the phone away from my ear. I set it to speaker and place it on top of the microwave so I can finish cleaning the kitchen.

“You know what this office needs?” Chip continues as another cupboard door slams. “Someone who will police the snack inventory and expiration dates inside this break room.”

“Can they also police how hard you’re closing those cupboard doors, too? My eardrums are about ready to file an official complaint to HR.”

“Sorry about that. Had to put you on speaker. Need both hands to peruse this sad collection of party crackers.”

“You’re on speaker here, too.” I tap my phone screen. No new texts from Joel. Once in the living room, I set it down on the arm of the sofa, then reach for my laptop. “Okay, I’m looking over the email now, Chip.” Using track changes, I make just a few edits to the pitches and a couple more on the structure, but overall he’s done a great job.

“Jackpot!Guess who just found a half bag of Taco Doritos.”

The distinctive sound of a chip bag unfurling has me reaching again for the volume control on my phone. I tap it down but not in time to avoid the sound of him munching, and my stomach roils.“Chip, you can’t seriously be eating those.”

His chomping makes me cringe.

“Honestly, this is far from the worse thing I’ve eaten at the office.”

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