Page 32 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

I spin around to glare at him. “Why are you even here?”

“The same reason you’re here, I think,” he says. “We should probably re-evaluate our work-life balance.”

My sour expression doesn’t shift. This draws a laugh out of him.

“Why are you so mad?” he asks.

“Because Erving stuck you out here with me on purpose.”

“And what purpose would that be?”

“To make me look bad.”

Quentin barks out a laugh. “Tell me more about this secret evil plan. How does being out here with me make you look bad?”

God, where to begin.

“It makes me look like…” I can’t win on my own? I can’t get a date? I sigh, throwing a hand in the air. “It makes it look like we’re… friends.”

“You didn’t want to share a canoe with me because people might mistake us for friends?” He says it as if he’s genuinely concerned about my lack of a social life.

“You know what I mean. People will talk.”

“Talk about how we shared a canoe,” he deadpans. “As coworkers. At a work event.”

“You’re a guy. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Explain it to me then,” he challenges.

“If people think you’re hooking up with me, it makes you seem desirable. If people think I’m hooking up with you, it makes me look like I have poor professional boundaries and am possibly trying to fuck my way to the top. Like the office floozy,” I say in an irritated rush. “It makes me look like I can’t succeed on my own merit.”

I realize once I’ve let that last part slip that it’s one of the things that bothers me most about Quentin – not only in the context of this boat race, but in the larger sense. They assigned him to my case. They stuck him in my boat. For all I know, they could just as easily hand him that partnership. And at the risk of sounding juvenile, it’s not fucking fair.

Understanding seems to soften his features, and I wish I hadn’t said it. I turn back towards the front of the boat with my face hot. Not in the least because I just used the word floozy.

“I’m sorry. None of those things are my intention,” he says. “And nobody who has ever had a single conversation with you would think you’re a floozy.”

“Thanks,” I offer, sounding more annoyed than I care to.

“You know if we win, that’s all anybody will be talking about – our victory. Not speculating about if we’re friends, or whatever.”

“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”

“Since we’re already stuck out here together, let’s imagine for a moment that I’m not your coworker,” he says. “That there’s no case. No partnership. No secret evil plan.”

This is an incredibly dangerous path for my imagination to travel down. I try to keep a tight leash on my thoughts as I entertain it.

“Why would I be sitting here with you then?”

“Because you had a long week, and you came out here to have some fun and maybe win some money for a community organization that you’re passionate about,” he explains. “Same goes for me.”

“Still not explaining why I’d hop into a boat with a stranger.”

“Always with the stranger danger,” he teases. “Okay, let’s say we met at the bar, where we ordered at the same time – me, a Juan Collins, and you, a spicy ranch water – and the bartender revealed that he only had enough tequila for one drink.”

“Wow, whoever was in charge of the bar in this story is terrible at their job.”

He ignores this.

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