Page 67 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

My heart leaps as the three dots bounce at the bottom of our conversation.

Q: It’s almost like I know you or something.

Q: Enjoy your marathon, PBG. Xoxo.

I bite into my smile, all giddy and glowing. I know those kisses and hugs aren’t intended as an endearment, but they surprise me all the same. Quentin has clearly watched this show – one of my comfort favorites – at least enough to be familiar with its classic sign off. This shouldn’t give me such a thrill, but it swarms in my stomach like butterflies.

In the bathroom, I take off my shirt – his shirt – and climb into the shower, willing myself to let it go, as if I can wash the feeling off of me as easily as I wash away his scent. By the time I settle onto my couch with the episode menu loaded, I pick up my phone anyway, already typing a reply.

***

Somehow, we keep texting.

It’s a long string that carries us through the next several days, until I find myself lying on my couch in the middle of the weekend, staring at case notes.

I massage my fingers into my scalp, beneath the floppy bun I’ve secured on top of my head, and roll my neck, hoping to release some of the tension that has knotted there. Beyond putting on leggings and heading out for coffee earlier this morning, I wonder when I last moved from this spot. I feel restless, like I should be doing something with my weekend other than sitting here and watching the strips of sunlight disappear from my ceiling, completely alone.

I slide my phone off the edge of the coffee table.

H: What are you up to?

Q: Working the Glass case. You?

H: Lol. Same. We are pathetic workaholics.

Q: You’re welcome to come up here, if you want to be pathetic workaholics together.

I chew my lip, but I don’t reply. I’m trying to puzzle through this like a flowchart, using my own boundaries and rules to determine if I’m actually able to say yes to this. I definitely want to say yes, but I can’t help but question my motives for this. Question his motives.

His next text sweeps in like he’s reading my mind.

Q: This invitation is entirely professional, of course.

H: I could meet you at the office?

Q: No offense, but my couch is way comfier – and closer – than the conference room.

H: Hmm. Maybe. Are there sandwiches? I worked through lunch.

Q: Lol. Are you serious? It’s the weekend.

H: *shrug emoji*

Q: Yes, there are sandwiches. Door’s unlocked. Come on in.

I tell myself this makes perfect sense, taking the elevator to the tenth floor and letting myself into Quentin’s apartment. I’ve been so busy during business hours lately that there hasn’t been a single sliver of my calendar where I can squeeze him in, and we desperately need to compare notes and start to finalize our strategy. Plus, we’ll get more done this way, without the constant interruptions of the office. Also, the contents of his fridge are far superior to the questionable mismatch of items that can be found in the break room.

Quentin is wearing what I’ve dubbed as his off-duty outfit: dark gray athletic shorts and a v-neck t-shirt. I wonder if it smells like the one that is still hanging on a hook on the back of my bathroom door, which I secretly can’t help but press my face into sometimes, like I can breathe in the contraband scent of him.

To my credit, I successfully manage to make it into his apartment without pressing my face against him. Everything feels easier from there.

We grab a couple of his Costco beers and eat award-worthy Cuban sandwiches that he throws together like it’s nothing, before tucking ourselves into opposite sides of his couch. He eyes me over the top of his computer, where he’s already typing, all business.

“So,” he says. “Glass v. Russo?”

“That’s why I’m here,” I smirk.

He inclines his head. “All right. You’re the boss, PBG. Tell me what you’ve got.”

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