by Ellie Hall
“I think this holiday is different and it involves mass consumerism.”
I shrug. “You want to debate me? I didn’t lead the Cape Hurst High School debate team to victory with my good looks alone.” I mock smooth my hair. “Come on, isn’t that a great way to top off Hazel’s dare?”
“The loser has to leave me alone.” Sharp glare, inbound.
I frown but remain undaunted. “All I’m asking for is a second chance.”
“Give him a second chance, already. What I would do if I could have—” A stooped, older woman cuts herself off.
“He stood me up,” Catherine says to the room at large. She doesn’t mention where we were when I did that. Hint: it wasn’t prom. Nope. Much more monumental.
Several people hiss and boo.
“We were young. Confused. Moving too fast.” This is the unfortunate and maybe unforgivable truth.
“I want to make it up to you. To prove to you that I made a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life was leaving you.”
A few of the folks in the café cheer.
I hold out my hands in question.
Catherine squares off with me. “I’ll go on a date with you and four other guys just to pick one that isn’t you.”
“Harsh, man,” a guy says, breezing by me.
I grip the back of my neck. “I deserve it.”
All of a sudden, everyone around us has an opinion about our past and future.
Encouraged, I say, “Hmm, we need a name, like our own Bachelorette-esque reality show. I’ve got it. Struck by Love. Wait, how about Desire’s Devotion?” My creative gears turn.
Catherine shakes her head, but the temperature of her frosty exterior rose a few degrees. “You’re really skilled at tapping into your inner dork.”
“Cupid’s Caress? Nah. Let me think. We can do better.”
Someone calls out, “True Love Tournament.”
Another voice says, “Heartthrob Hustle.”
“Do we need a name for it?” Catherine’s arms cross in front of her chest.
“I’ve got it, The Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare,” I say.
“That sounds almost as juvenile as The Boyfriend Book,” Catherine mutters.
I smirk and take her hand in mine as if to shake. Instead, I kiss the top of it. “Nothing juvenile about that.”
A round of oohs fills the café.
Our eyes meet.
Hers are chocolate. Not liquid but not hard either.
I leave her with three words. “One true pairing.”
Manwich
Catherine
The snooze button is my best friend. But after I push it three times, Hazel shuffles in, pulls the comforter off of me, and takes it with her. “I’ll give it back when that thing stops going off,” she mumbles, half asleep.
I blink my eyes against the smudge of gray sky through the window before getting dressed in a blue patterned dress with taupe tights and booties with a modest heel.
My makeup takes less than five minutes since I opt for a swipe of eyeliner, mascara, and a simple gloss on my lips. I want to show up at the office feeling powerful and competent, demonstrating to the higher-ups that I’m made for more than fetching coffee, jotting memos, and making copies.
My career goals and surviving financially in Manhattan drive my mission. But it’s also something to focus on other than the image that took up residence in my head last night when I tried to sleep: Kellan, looking remorseful then cocky with all the confidence and swagger of someone with the last name Connolly.
He’s still as hot as ever. He still makes me feel as warm and mushy as ever. I’m sure Hazel will have a lot to say about that later.
I snag a leftover brownie from the housewarming party and bundle up, bracing for the cold.
In any other circumstance, the heat generated by the legions of people occupying the underground cattle car called the subway would be undesirable, repellent even, but I welcome the warmth. Back above ground, I stop for my boss’s coffee order.
“Triple, venti, soy, not sweet, no foam, latte.”
The girl behind the counter gives me a withering look.
“I know. Obnoxious order. It’s not for me.”
How Mr. Bratte knew I got it wrong the first three days I was working at the firm, I’ll never truly know, but someone told me he has lactase deficiency, which probably means he was in his office farting all day.
Back outside, I shake my head, muttering, “It’s colder outside than Kellan’s heart,” feeling the sudden pounding of my own as I’m shoved forward by an onslaught of pedestrians. I slide across a patch of ice and toward the colossal tires of the city bus waiting for passengers. My arms windmill as I try to find a handhold, a foothold, anything to steady myself. The coffee sails out of my hand, splattering against an advertisement for Valentine’s Day chocolates on the side of the bus.
Strong hands grip my waist and I carefully step back onto solid ground. I turn to thank my knight in shining armor and instead wish the coffee splashed him.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask, avoiding the concerned set of his mouth. “You again? What are you doing, roaming the streets of the city, waiting to run into me?” Too late I realize how conceited that makes me sound.
Kellan’s face reflects my surprise, but not my irritation. “Are you okay?”
“Are you following me?”
He shakes his head, confusion giving way to amusement. “No, I have a meeting.” He points off-handedly to one of the surrounding buildings. “I saw someone in a mustard yellow hat with a giant red pom-pom—a hat I vaguely recall borrowing on a ski trip many years ago—sliding across the ice and into the street.”
He’s still holding my arm. I shrug it off. He twitches uncomfortably and then tucks his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t need you to rescue me,” I growl. I did, but that was long ago.
The soft lines of his honest confession harden around his mouth. He swallows. “Of course not.”
“I’m going to be late.”
“Me too.”
I breeze past him, but his footsteps fall in time with mine. I refuse to glance over my shoulder.
“Catherine,” he says. “Cat. Catnip.”
My heart melts every time he uses the nickname that was only his to use.
I pick up my pace, practically jogging to the double doors of my building even though I’d rather be running anywhere else, maybe even into his embrace. It’s almost impossible to deny my still-burning attraction to Kellan. Even after all this time. Even after what he did.
When my hands rest on the metal bar of the door, the fact that I’m empty-handed replaces the stupid thought. I turn back to order a replacement coffee, being sure to tip the server generously for wasting her time.
Fifteen minutes late, huffing, puffing, and pink-cheeked, I meet the pinched-faced and stubby, grabby arms of my boss, Mr. Bratte.
“Miss Kartilage, I expect you to have my coffee before I arrive.”
“Kittredge. And I apologize, sir.” I shouldn’t have nearly fallen on my butt and I certainly shouldn’t have wasted a moment talking to Kellan.
“We have a meeting at ten. Please prepare the pastry trays and make sure the coffee is hot this time.”
The coffee in the urns isn’t good enough for him, but he’ll gladly have me serve it to the clients he woos and romances with big talk of top media placements.
The meeting bleeds into lunch and I clear my throat several times to disguise the grumbling of my stomach.
“Miss Karrolton, is there something you’d like to say?” Mr. Bratte asks.
I clear my throat again. “No, sorry, sir.”
He resumes his mind-numbingly boring promise of fame and fortune to the client. Her agent looks like she needs a nap. Me too, sister, me too. I offer coffee refills and sneak a nibble from a broken pastry.
At last, the meeting is over. As I excuse myself for lunch, my boss calls me back, “Miss Kibb...Kott...Kabb” He shakes his head,
giving up on trying to get my name right. Is it really that hard?
From behind me, a deep voice says, “Kittredge. Catherine Kittredge.”
I whip around.
“Ah, Mr. Connolly. You’ve met our newest assistant?” Bratte says.
I don’t look at Mr. Connolly’s lips.
“You could say that Cat and I go back.” Kellan turns to Mr. Bratte. “Can you remind me your name again? I’m terrible at remembering—”
That can’t be true. I almost snort a laugh. He must’ve overheard my boss using a powerplay and pretending not to know my name.
Bratte claps Kellan on the shoulder. “Ah, I can relate. I’m Gibwick Bratte, but you can call me Gib.”
“I prefer Bratte—” Kellan winks at me and mouths Rhymes with rat.
I stifle a laugh, focusing my attention on the paper hearts on the door to the employee lunchroom, a surprising addition to the otherwise bland professional décor.
My boss claps his pudgy hands together. “You’ve known each other a while then. Well, isn’t that nice? Miss Kartridge, you’d think with his kind of connection—well, never mind. It’s always a wonderful day to have a Connolly in our office. Would you like Miss Kabbage to get you a coffee, a pastry, or a sticky bun—I missed eating one in my last meeting.”
I don’t even try to hide the roll of my eyes. Bratte is insufferable.
Kellan smirks and nods. “I’d love for her to—”
“Mr. Connolly,” calls Coco Albright, one of the partners. She wages war with the marble floor in her spiked heels. Her red lipstick triumphs over the simplicity of my glossy lips. Even though her ebony dress accentuates her curves, everyone around here looks her in the eyes. She must be my age and I can’t deny my jealousy at her having her life so neatly buttoned together. She’s success in a suit. “Glad to catch you before you go. Can I have you sign these?” She holds out a stack of papers.
Bratte stabs the air. “Miss Kottage—was just going to bring him a coffee.”
“Bring it to my office,” Coco says to me. Then to Kellan, she purrs, “Oh, how do you like it Kellan?”
“She knows how I like it,” Kellan says in a low, conspiratorial voice.
I ignore his smug smile, the twist of Coco’s lips at his comment, and stomp away, my boots clomping on the marble floor instead of the click, click, click of Coco’s power walk.
After acknowledging Kellan’s appearance here, assessing the strange, flirtatious game he’s suddenly playing, making sure I don’t have spinach in my teeth, and getting his coffee, I lift my hand to knock on Coco’s office door when it opens.
Kellan comes out. “There you are.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“That’s my line.”
It cuts to the bone. Yep. He kept me waiting all right. My revenge would’ve been sweet had I landed in Coco’s position. Instead, I’m still pathetic, hopeless me. Still waiting for life to happen.
Coco looks on with veiled interest.
“I’m Miss Kitt-whatever, the coffee girl. It’s my job to run and fetch and wear a smile.” I plaster one on.
“I like your smile,” Kellan says.
I shove the coffee in his hands.
“Coco,” Kellan says in his smooth, charming voice. “Do you mind if I borrow Catherine for a few minutes? Promise to bring her back.”
Coco starts to answer, but I say, “No, thank you.”
“You’d rather run and fetch and—” he starts.
“I have work to do.”
He palms the cup of coffee, brushing his hand against mine. Like at the café, a sizzle starts at the point of contact, running like a live wire toward a stick of dynamite. I feel like stubbornly stomping on the floor because of the effect he has on me.
The rim of the cup meets his lips, and he swallows long. Not even Coco can resist the show. As though surprised I’m still standing there he asks, “I thought you had to help Mr. Bratte with his dry cleaning?”
“Nemesis,” I mutter.
When the phone on Coco’s desk rings, she lets out the combination of a gasp and a giggle and then breezes into her office, obviously flustered by the charming and handsome Connolly.
I barricade myself with crossed arms in front of my chest. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I told you, I had a meeting.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here. With Coco—” he says, amused.
“Why?”
“Miss Kartoon—” Mr. Bratte calls from his office. “A word please.”
Before I storm off, Kellan mouths the word, Rat.
“Yes, sir?” I say after closing the door to the hall. I’d rather not be in an enclosed space with him, but it’s preferable to Kellan. Not because I prefer my boss but because of the way Kellan makes me feel. I thought the opposite of love was hate. Well, it’s not working.
Rat probably wants to berate me for not hand feeding him the pastry during the meeting.
I’d like to sleep through the next day so I don’t risk seeing Kellan at the office. Fortunately, he’s not there, but every time someone addresses Mr. Bratte, a laugh bubbles on my lips, making it so I can almost tolerate him butchering my last name.
I scrape through Wednesday, finding myself whirling around every time heavy footsteps approach down the hall. I startle when the phone rings. My stomach cartwheels when the elevator doors suction open. But I don’t see Kellan.
Maybe he forgot about his contract with my boss, the Valentine’s Day Date Double Dare, and me. Again.
Hazel didn’t. Well, the dare part.
That evening, she reminds me of my pending yoga and dinner date. She’ll have none of my excuses or wanderings around the house as I procrastinate going out with Maxwell—the Hottie in 7G.
“I’m not meeting him until six. For a couple’s yoga class.” I brush my hands down my face. “How did I let myself get talked into this?” I ask, edging my way back to my room.
“Have you seen Maxwell lately?”
“Of course. He lives down the hall. I saw him yesterday in the elevator. Awkward,” I sing-song. “There’ll be no avoiding what’s sure to be more of those moments in the foreseeable future unless one of us moves.”
“Let’s hope not.” Hazel’s lidded eyes suggest interest.
In an hour, Hazel has me bathed, moisturized, and dressed in the tightest yoga clothes in her closet. She primes me on conversation starters and responses. “Do you remember how to kiss?”
My mouth falls open.
“No, not like that.” She gently pushes my chin up.
“I wasn’t demonstrating.” It’s been a long time, but the brief moment Kellan and I leaned in the other day, reminds me I haven’t forgotten the way kissing could make me feel. I swallow.
“Why are you smiling like that?” she asks.
“Like what?”
“You were about to bite my head off and now you’re dimpling.”
“Dimpling?” I ask.
“Smiling with your dimple.”
“I am not smiling,” I adamantly refute.
She grabs our coats.
“Where are you going?”
“With you. Dating dare wing-woman.”
How did this happen?
Peer pressure.
A weak resolve.
Loneliness.
A check mark in all the boxes.
I’m manhandled twice in the full subway car: once by an octogenarian who almost fell over when the train stopped abruptly and once by a toddler who was fascinated by the metallic stripes on my pants. Even dressed like Hazel I don’t quite have the same allure.
We wait in the short line by the sign-in desk at the studio. Hipsters and aging hippies fill the room in pairs.
My palms sweat. My throat is dry. My leg jitters and I feel like I might bounce out of my skin. How do adults do this dating thing without elephant tranquilizers?
There’s no sign of Maxwell after we pay so I hurry to the bathroom for a private moment to
prevent any embarrassing incidents involving sudden gusts of wind.
Upon exiting into the narrow hall, I bump headfirst into a broad chest.
“Oh, hello,” Kellan says as though running into each other multiple times in the last week isn’t unusual.
“This is starting to freak me out.”
He smirks. The memory of the way his lips lift and his eyes narrow, like he’s landed on something both fascinating and desirable, may have faded with time. However, my body didn’t forget. There’s warmth. A lot of warmth.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Yoga.”
My eyes narrow this time. “It’s a couple’s class.”
“The lady at the counter told me that after I paid. Hazel didn’t mention it either. She just said to come here for our date.”
I scratch my temple as irritation flares. “She arranged this?” I don’t spot Hazel.
But I do see Maxwell.
“Hi, Catherine. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
In the narrow hall, with Kellan on one side and Maxwell on the other, I’m the mushy filling of a hot man-sandwich.
Connecting the Dots
Kellan
I don’t know where to look or what to say. Hands, ceiling, lips. You’d think I’d at least know how to handle myself in front of Catherine dressed in tight pants and a hot pink tank top.
My imagination runs wild.
My breath is a choppy mess.
A guy named Maxwell extends his hand and introduces himself.
Catherine’s cheeks match her shirt, and she stares at her bare feet, possibly headed for a full-body blush. Why? Then, shifting to a murder face, she scampers off in Hazel’s direction. I glean Maxwell was supposed to be one of Cat’s dates for the dare. I’m here because?
Maxwell and I make small talk and soon discover our fathers once competed in the same golf tournament for charity.
Soon, the yoga teacher calls us in to start. I’m on my mat beside Catherine. Maxwell is on her other side then Hazel.
I break a sweat as I lower to the floor from yet another plank then move into upward dog and repeat. Catherine moves fluidly beside me. Never have I been so aware of the person on the next mat. Post discharge, yoga was prescribed for maintaining equilibrium.
