Page 96 of Not in the Plan

“He’s on break.”

She seized the skinny microphone in front of him in a screech and pushed the on button. “Need a manager to the front!”

“What the hell, lady!”

The manager emerged from the back room and stopped mid-step when he saw Mack’s face. His scowl turned to an expression of “I don’t get paid enough for this crap” and he shooed the other employee aside with a heavy sigh.

Forty-seven minutes later, she marched to her car with a box holding 365 pages of all her hopes and dreams. “Tuesday my ass,” she muttered, and climbed into the driver’s seat. The car started with a roar, and as soon as she took a left out of the parking lot, she floored the gas and took off towards Charlie.

THIRTY-TWO

CHARLIE’S DRINK SPECIAL: COLD BREW WITH WHIPPED HEARTACHE

Well, here she was. Again.

Two years post-divorce, Charlie assumed the sickly, familiar position of crying into a pillow as Ben performed his best mother-hen impression. The sounds of clanking mugs and banging cabinets from the kitchen echoed through her place.

A few hours ago, Mack’s broken voice pleaded outside the loft. Charlie had slid down to the floor, the cold metal of the doorknob wrapped in her fingers as she debated opening the door. Once Mack left, Charlie realized she couldn’t power through on her own, so she reached out for her best friend to battle the shattered-heart storm with her.

“Here. This’ll help.” Ben handed her a cup of chamomile tea and motioned for her to scoot over on the couch. He scooped her legs onto his lap and squeezed her foot.

She hated this. Sitting on the couch, warm drink in hand, the salty, dried tears making her cheeks feel like they verged on cracking. She had more than one flashback of when she split with Jess, and she and Ben pulled multiple all-nighters.

“God, tea tastes like shit. Seriously, how do you drink this?” His words were a joke, but his tone was sweet. “You ready to talk to me about it?”

The chamomile slowly settled her nauseated stomach. “I found a document on Mack’s computer. About me.”

Ben cocked his head to the side. “Uh… okay. Like naked pictures or something?”

“No… notofme.Aboutme.” She took a slow sip. “Stuff about my life, my dad, my fears. Everything. Like a journal.” She paused and thought for a moment. “No, I guess, like an investigative report.”

He stared at her. “Sorry, babe. You’re gonna have to spell this out for me.”

She clutched her tea and explained everything as Ben sat quietly next to her with an unreadable expression. “I literally wanted to throw up, looking at my life written out like a shopping list.”

“Okay, is that super creepy or super sweet?” He seemed to pick up her death glare and cleared his throat. “Creepy. Definitely creepy. What did she say when you asked her about it?”

“I didn’t ask her. I bolted.”

Ben set down his tea and folded his arms. “Why wouldn’t you ask her?”

Because she didn’t want to admit that she had fallen into a trap. Her chest tightened. She was angry and shocked and heartbroken and should never trust anyone again for the rest of her life until she shriveled up and died.

“I already know why she did it. She told me a while ago how writers use people for intel. I just never thought… she’d do that to me.” She dropped her head back onto the couch and stared at the twinkling fairy lights. “I knew this was too good to be true. What was the one rule I made when me and Jess split? Never again. I was happy single.Thriving, even. And now… now I remember why I like to be alone.”

A long silence followed. The clock inched towards midnight, and the full moon’s glow seeped through the cracks in the window blinds. She yawned and curled up on her side.

Ben stood and moved to the window. He tapped his fingers against the pane, his shoulders lifting in a deep inhale. “I never liked Jess.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“Sorry. No. Let me rephrase.” He turned back. “I didn’t like who you were with Jess.”

“Um… we were together for like a decade.”

“This isn’t coming out right.” He settled back on the couch. “This is me doing feelings. Stay with me for a second.”

She tried to smile but couldn’t. Everything was so heavy, including her lips. Her eyes were dusty, her mouth was tacky. She rested her head against the couch and trailed a finger across the fabric.

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