Page 45 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Unfortunately they do.”

I would like the record to show that I have no interest in being a part of Quentin’s comeback. Am I about to lose out on this partnership because he’s trying to repair his reputation? Is he shady enough to be responsible for that stupid billboard? How have I been oblivious to the fact that all of this is happening in my own office?

She winces as if I’ve said all this out loud. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, I appreciate you telling me,” I say. “But if you could maybe do me a favor and discreetly spread the word that I’m not dating him…?”

The bartender deposits the cocktails in front of her, and she takes one in each hand, giving me another apologetic smile.

“I would, but the idea that you might have laid claim to him is seriously the only thing that’s kept Aaron and Elizabeth from making it their summer’s mission to bang him. And I… kind of need them to finish the research for that Herrington case?” she shrugs. “No offense.”

I laugh out loud at this, lifting my glass in her direction. “None taken. I’d probably do the same.”

“I’m learning from the best,” she winks.

At this moment, Josie plops down on my other side, signaling for her discounted beer.

“Pickle juice,” she tells me, never one to worry or notice that she’s interrupting something. “It’ll knock those leg cramps right out.”

Somehow, this declaration summons Patrick, seemingly out of thin air. He can pick up a conversation about runners’ ailments better than those creepy phone ads that strategically hound you about something you mentioned to a friend in a loud whisper exactly once. I can’t begin to count how many hours of my life I’ve lost to his monologues about preventing shin splints.

“Don’t listen to her,” he says, edging his sweaty body between us. “Bananas. Potassium is totally where it’s at.”

I can’t blame her: at this, Yolanda retreats towards the tables by the window, reconnecting with her not-date William. I stare into my half-empty pint glass for a while longer, listening to Josie and Patrick argue about the cure for my fabricated leg cramps. After a while, the circular argument about potassium versus sodium, calcium versus magnesium, does me in. I pay my tab and make the slow walk home, trying to ignore the simmering undercurrent in my veins that is desperate to know where this all went wrong and who, exactly, I can hold responsible.

12.

It’s after nine o’clock when I use my access card to swipe into the office. I know that nothing good can come from this, but it has consumed my thoughts to the point there didn’t seem to be any other choice. It followed me into the shower. Hung around my shoulders as I tried to watch TV. Coiled in my ribcage when I considered heading to bed. During my walk over, the sky faded from faintly peachy pink to the color of overwashed denim, stretching over the city in a swath of soft, comfortable navy. It feels weird to step off the elevator wearing high-waisted leggings and a DIY crop top, and even weirder to be walking through the office in lace-up shoes. Normally my heels click down the hallways, but tonight, my trek is smooth and silent. All around me, the glow of city light stretches beyond the walls of windows, but the fluorescent squares on the ceiling are dark.

I don’t bother to click on the light in the file room as I tug the nearest cabinet open. I know this is where Bernadette keeps copies of recent invoices, and I’m desperate to find a signature. As much as I’ve spent the past few years begging us to go completely paperless, at this moment, I’m glad the Boomers on the board have held out. I flip eagerly through the file for this month, quickly passing over company car statements and utility bills. I get to the end of the manila file folder with nothing that links to billboard advertising. I double-check behind myself, ticking through each page again before sliding the drawer closed with a sigh.

I feel stupid, thinking I could sneak in like Nancy Drew and find the answer.

I’m about to retreat towards the elevators, but something about the darkened hall calls me. My eyes have adjusted, and the shadows of the space feel familiar. I wander past my office, beyond the sea of cubicles where the interns bandy about their speedo-style gossip, and into the corner office with the two-eighty view. Erving’s office.

Quentin’s office.

It looks mostly the same as it did before he showed up. The desk is still a smooth, L-shaped stretch of modern mahogany. The framed photos are still of Erving and his well-to-do connections, shaking hands at black tie functions and grinning on the greens of exclusive, manicured golf courses. His degrees still line the walls. His community accolades still adorn the shelves. It almost feels like Quentin was never here at all.

It’s fortunate, given all this, that I didn’t come in here to snoop.

I press the button to raise the automatic sun shades. There’s a faint whir as the river, the bridge, and the interstate highway come into view. I stand so close to the floor-to-ceiling windows that my breath almost fogs the glass. For a moment, my own reflection is a ghostlike overlay across that ridiculous, smiling, uplit billboard ad. It looks a bit smaller from here than it did on my run, but I know it’s still looming large enough to catch attention. I fold my arms protectively across my chest and watch the line of headlights travel beneath it.

I wonder what people think when they see it. Am I a jingle? A joke? A pretty girl begging for attention? Standing here, part of me still feels like the kid I once was: lost, angry, used. I spent years getting here, and all I ever wanted was to make sure I wasn’t like those attorneys. The ones giving me Capri Suns, coaching my parents on how to best play me against the other, convincing me to go on the stand. The problem is that sometimes I feel like I never escaped them. Maybe all this time I fought to be here, what I was really fighting for was to work among them, the kind of people who would plaster me on a billboard without considering what it might mean. Not for them, but for me.

“Enjoying the view?” a voice says from behind me.

I start so hard that I smack my forehead against the window. The dull pain pools above my left eye as I spin around, holding one hand to my brow and jutting the other out to grab the nearest object. Within seconds I’m dazed and wielding a heavy, corporate award trophy. I aim the dull crystal point of it towards the shadow leaning against the doorframe. As I squint into the darkness, it smirks at me.

“Quentin?” I demand.

I hear him breathe out an amused sigh of a laugh.

“Don’t sound so surprised. This is my office,” he says. “Are you okay?”

I lower the crystal trophy, but I don’t release it.

“I’m fine.” I massage my forehead indignantly. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

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