Hate to Love

by R. S. Lively

  She's right. I do work in a big office building. The coffee shop in the lobby of a big office building.

  Every day I watch busy, important-looking professionals shuffle through the lobby in their power suits and heels, carrying their leather briefcases, and chatting away on hands-free headsets. Who has such intense conversations this early in the morning? They sweep through the coffee shop, get their morning hit of liquid energy, and head off to their powerful roles in the offices right above me. I'm supposed to be one of them, not the one misspelling their names on the side of coffee cups and pushing them into purchasing baked goods that in no way fits into their trendy diets.

  A cluster of them burst into the cafe. We've only been open a few minutes, but the Suits are acting like they’ve been waiting for hours. On one hand, it's invigorating. I can feel the energy and urgency radiating off them, drawing them up to their desks to tackle the day. On the other, it's frustrating as hell because I'm the one they're glaring at. I'm dispensing coffee and adding foam as fast as modern technology will allow. I sweep my gaze over the group, trying to remember the names of the few faces I recognize from the three shifts I've worked here. I'm debating whether the blonde at the front is Ashton or Ashlyn when I notice a new face come through the door.

  The man is wearing a well-tailored suit like the other customers milling around the shop, but something about him sets him apart. He doesn't give off the same vibe as the rest. Instead, his massive shoulders and broad, muscular chest seem out of place in his pristinely-tailored midnight blue jacket, and his wavy dark hair doesn't have the same professional polish. The expression on his face isn’t tense or rushed. Instead, he looks unhurried, almost amused, at the rush of activity around him. I stare at his chiseled face for a few seconds as a flicker of recognition rushes through me. He looks so familiar. Something in his crystalline blue eyes strikes a memory just far enough in the back of my mind that I can't pull it all the way forward.

  I glance over my shoulder to find Bindi and see her moving through the customers with truly impressive speed. Stepping up to the counter, I start jotting names on the cups, trying to connect them with each of the customers as I do so. I've seen the way the customers that Bindi recognizes and greets by name toss cash into the tip jar, and I can use every single cent I can get my hands on. The faster I can pad my bank account a bit, the faster I can regain control of my life.

  The line continues to weave its way toward the cash register, and I wait for the man to take his turn. When I look at the end of the line again, I realize he's not there anymore. The man he came in with reaches Bindi and makes an order for two cups of drip coffee. Straightforward and classic, exactly like I drink it. Rather than Bindi taking his name, or the name of his companion, she dispenses the coffee herself and hands it to him. I busy myself wiping the counter, so I can make my way closer to the table where the man in the blue suit has sat down. Unlike the others who took their coffee and left the shop so fast it was like it was like they were never there, these two seem to be settling in for a conversation of sorts.

  I watch them for a few seconds before they suddenly stand and exit the shop.

  "Well, that was abrupt," I say.

  Bindi looks up from where she appears to be organizing the coffee stirrers by some unspoken qualification. Her expression is surprised as she realizes the wave of customers has left.

  "That happens," she says. "There must be a lot of clients coming in today."

  "Clients?" I say.

  I realize I have no clue what types of companies fill the offices above the lobby.

  "Yeah. There are a few different businesses, but most of the people who come in here are lawyers or from the PR firm."

  My ears instantly perk up.

  "PR firm?" I ask.

  Bindi nods.

  "The third floor is a PR firm. The last guy I gave coffee to runs it."

  "PR?" I ask. "PR like public relations?"

  She nods again.

  "Yeah."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "You didn't ask," she mutters, sounding slightly bewildered.

  "I told you I've always wanted to be a PR rep. I just told you about the job that brought me here – why I'm working at this shop. This whole time you didn't think to maybe mention to me that I'm working in the lobby underneath a freaking firm?"

  "I thought mentioning it might upset you. I thought it might be a, you know," she leans closer and lowers her voice to a whisper even though we're completely alone in the shop, "trigger."

  I glare at her.

  "How old are you?"

  "I'll be twenty in three weeks."

  I sigh, rolling my eyes.

  "Of course, you will." I hang my head. "How could I not know there's a PR firm in this building? I thought I researched every firm in the area. There isn't even a sign anywhere."

  "Well, it seems to me that it's a pretty small firm. Just a few reps. I don’t think it’s been open long. I think the owner defected from another firm to start his own." She smiles. "But you still got here to the shop. Of all the coffee shops in the whole city, you ended up here."

  I don't want to tell her that after my humiliating run-in with Mr. Bronson I was so angry I could barely even see straight, and it wasn't until I got to this building and smelled coffee wafting out the door that I came to my senses. I saw the "Now Hiring" sign, and now I'm here.

  "You know what? You're right. I could have ended up anywhere, but I came here."

  Bindi smiles broadly and returns to her attempt at organization. I try to concentrate on cleaning up after the rush, and refilling the pastry case, but my mind is focused on what I just found out. Maybe it was destiny. In my blind rage, I really could have wandered anywhere and applied for a job. Instead, I made my way here. I'm determined to find a way to learn more about the firm and make this my dream move after all.

  A week later, it seems I might be on the edge of making that dream come true. I just finished handing the last morning customer her cup of complicated coffee when I notice several of the men have sat down at a table. I automatically look for the man who looked so familiar last week, but he's not there.

  Suddenly, I hear the word I hoped I would.

  Interview.

  Grabbing a towel, I walk quickly to the table a few over from the men. I wipe far more slowly and thoroughly than necessary, especially considering no one had even touched the table that morning. I try to listen to the conversation as subtly as I can. I don't want the first impression they have of me to be eavesdropping on their morning conversation.

  "She didn't even give notice," one of the men said, staring forlornly into his coffee.

  "Well, would you?" another asked. "The way Lawson talked to her was ridiculous. I would have smacked him upside of his head with my purse."

  There was a brief beat of silence.

  "I don't know whether I should ask you if you frequently carry a purse, or if I should make fun of you for sounding like Thelma Harper dealing with a mugger."

  The Mama's Family reference takes me by surprise. Mrs. Livingston, my neighbor and recent addition to my friend roster after the duckie adhesive, introduced me to the show recently during an evening I spent at her house when the power in my apartment went out. Hearing someone else mention it out in the real world strikes me as unexpectedly hilarious, and I try to cover my laugh. Despite my best efforts, I only manage to squish it into a snort instead.

  The men at the table turn to look at me. My cover is officially blown. I straighten and grip my towel in both hands as I take a cautious step toward them.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to overhear." Lies. "I was just laughing at the reference. I love that episode." They continue to stare at me. "You know, when she's sitting at the bus stop… and the guy tries to mug her… but she's been taking self-defense classes? And she… hits him with her purse?"

  Still staring.

  I don't know where to go from here. I intended on wowing them with my sparkling personali
ty, convincing them to welcome me into their fold as a stunning PR rep. Instead, I'm staring at four men in suits that cost six months' rent, giving a play-by-play of a TV show older than me. And quickly remembering that I have no sparkling personality.

  "I'm sorry," I finally say. I turn around and start to walk away, then turn back. "It's just… I overheard you mention the opening in your firm, and I wanted to let you know that I am extremely interested. Public relations is my dream career, and I actually moved here from Virginia to pursue it. If you would give me the opportunity to interview, I’d love to discuss my qualifications."

  I'm not sure the words came out of me at a speed intelligible by humans, but finally the man Bindi pointed out last week as the owner of the PR firm gives a slow nod.

  "Your dream career?" he asks.

  "Yes," I say. "It's all I've ever wanted to do."

  "Perfect. I'll see you for an interview tomorrow morning." He glances over to where Bindi has returned to her post behind the cash register. "That is if you can get the time off."

  "I can," I say. I have no idea if that’s true or not. "What time?"

  "First thing," he says. “Eight.”

  They all start to stand up, and I notice no one has finished their coffee. In all likelihood, they are trying to escape before I try to connect with them over more episode storylines.

  "Great," I say. "Thank you so much."

  I feel like I’m walking on air as I return to the counter. I don't know how my manager is going to respond to me asking for the morning off less than two weeks after my first day, but I don't care. I'm going to be at that interview tomorrow morning, and when I land the job, I'm not going to need to pour another cup of coffee or pull out another pastry ever again.

  The next morning…

  It turns out, my manager was not terribly receptive to the idea. Fortunately, Bindi had the morning off and was willing to step in and trade shifts with me. As I sit here in the waiting room outside the owner of the firm's office, I know she's downstairs dutifully organizing cheese danishes, and scribbling names on cups in bubble letters with tiny hearts dotting the I's. Andy, the part-time barista, is likely leaned against the corner of the counter, fiddling with a mobile device far too complicated for someone whose life revolves around coffee and freshman year at a community college. I'm surprised to realize I’ll miss Bindi and her ridiculous handwriting if this works out. This doesn't make much sense considering I've only known her for two weeks, and our interaction is limited to the shifts we share at the coffee shop, but it’s comforting to know that I could still see her in the mornings before heading up to work.

  "Miss Jacobs?"

  I look up and see the man from the coffee shop smiling at me from the door to his office. Nodding, I smile at him.

  "Yes," I say. "That's me."

  Why did I say that? Of course, he knows that's me. He's the one who offered me the interview.

  I somehow resist the urge to facepalm myself and stand instead, following him into the office. He sits at a large glass top desk before gesturing toward a molded blue plastic seat across from him. I can imagine the furniture is supposed to look modern and edgy, but all it does is give me flashbacks to elementary school. I'm still trying to find a comfortable sitting position in the plastic chair when he extends his hand toward me.

  "I'm Jason Slidell."

  "It's nice to meet you, Mister Slidell. Thank you for giving me this interview."

  "Absolutely," he says. "I wasn't really looking forward to the process of finding applicants, so it will be really fantastic for me if you fit my qualifications."

  It sounds like one of those things powerful men say when they think they’re clever, and I'm not sure if I should laugh or not. Fortunately, he fills the silence between us by flipping through the first couple of pages of the resume I've handed him and making sounds of approval as he reads.

  "This is all very impressive, Miss Jacobs," he says.

  "You can call me Julie," I say.

  "Julie, then. It looks like you did extremely well in school. In fact, I would venture to say you're overqualified for this position."

  I'm not sure what he could mean, but the hesitation in his voice is enough to spark panic in my chest. I shake my head and lean slightly toward him.

  "No," I say. "Definitely not overqualified. In fact, I don't believe in being overqualified. I believe a person can never be too prepared for any challenge that comes their way in life and should never be so arrogant that they believe a task is beneath them. Everyone has space to grow and improve in anything they do, and I believe even the simplest and seemingly most straightforward and easy of tasks can often be the clearest opportunity to do so."

  I've completely made up every word that just came out of my mouth as I said them, but Mr. Slidell has a slight smile on his face as though they were the exact words he needed to hear. Closing my resume, he extends his hand to me again.

  "I think I've heard enough," he says. "Thank you, Julie, for saving me the hassle and frustration of looking for other applicants for this position."

  "Does this mean I got it?" I ask.

  It's a painfully obvious thing to ask, but this time I need to hear it. I need confirmation there's a job waiting for me in one of these offices.

  Mr. Slidell gives a soft laugh.

  "Yes," he says. "You're hired. Let me introduce you to a couple of people and show you where your desk will be."

  I'm doing my best not to grin stupidly as I stand and follow him out of the office. We've only taken a few steps down the hallway when a woman in a floral dress and perfectly matched navy heels comes around the corner. She smiles at Mr. Slidell, then looks me up and down curiously.

  "Good morning, Miranda," he says, then looks at me. "Julie, this is Miranda, one of my top representatives. I've seen her take complete unknowns and transform them into the next big thing in the blink of an eye."

  "It's nice to meet you," I say.

  "Miranda, this is Julie. I just hired her to be my new secretary."

  I feel the smile drop from my face.

  "Wait, what?" I croak. Mr. Slidell and Miranda both look at me with confused frowns, and I backpedal faster than a circus unicycler who's drifted dangerously close to the tiger ring. "I mean, yes, that's what happened. Happy to be here."

  There's another awkward moment, then Miranda smiles.

  "Well, welcome aboard. It's great you were able to fill this position so fast, Jason. The other secretary only left a couple days ago."

  I stretch my face into a painful smile and nod.

  "Yep," I say. "It's like it was fate."

  My mind drifts back to Bindi with a sinking realization. I walked in here this morning thinking that I was finally going to land my dream job, having paid my penance for being fooled by Mr. Bronson, but somehow managed to talk my way into being a secretary. Now I definitely won't be slipping in to visit her in the mornings. I’ll still be working weekends with her, and probably swapping shifts with her so I can work evenings. A secretary salary alone won’t be enough to pay my bills and build my savings up enough to make me comfortable and confident again. I'm going to have to continue working at the coffee shop. Damn.

  Thank goodness my goodbye tour there wasn't nearly as cocky and disastrous as in Virginia.

  But I'm not sure Bindi is anywhere near as endearing now that she's back to being my coworker.

  Chapter Two

  Shane

  "Omaha! Red! Omaha! Omaha! Set-hut!"

  I drop back in the pocket three steps and rock forward, scanning the field for an open receiver. On the outside left sideline, Ricky is jetting down for an L route. Up the middle and heading across from Ricky is Amal, a speedy fucker. On the right is Daron, also going short, likely heading back to the line of scrimmage in case the heat from the linebackers gets to me. Smart play. But wait. Way down in the distance is Kev. Kevin J. Baker, that fast motherfucker, is going for the Hail Mary play.

  Deep breath.

  I kno
w Coach wants to see me make the smart play, but fuck that. I've spent years making things happen, and it usually works out for me. I have a ring for every finger on my right hand, not including college. I have won every imaginable award a quarterback can win – not because I only make smart plays. I make big plays. Game winners. The ones that put nails in the coffins of teams with a whole quarter left to go. The ones that deflate an entire home crowd because they know their team can't beat us. Can't beat me.

  Except for last year, but that was an anomaly. I was distracted. I was upset. I wasn't myself. I'm fine now, and I can prove it. I scan downfield and see Kev throw his right hand up in the air, signaling he is open. No losing record this year. Not with Kev getting open like that.

  I scramble to my left to avoid the outstretched hand of the high school lineman who won the opportunity to practice with us today. He's a fast kid for pushing nearly four hundred pounds. Gonna make a good player if he can stay healthy. Not as fast as me though. I take a few steps and rock back on my back foot again. Ricky is open, but barely. I could laser it to him, but there's a risk the corner could drop in and snatch it. Amal and Daron are being smothered by linebackers, though I could loop it over their heads and hope they can outjump these kids. Kevin though, Kevin is open. Deep.

  Fuck it.

  I rear back and let it fly. The ball cuts through the air in a neat spiral, and it is soaring sixty some yards. I know Kev is going to look up in a second and see it.

  Who the fuck is that?

  Oh, shit.

  Out of nowhere comes Bobby Kilmer. The son of a bitch who tried to ruin my life. The son of a bitch who pretended to be my friend before stealing my ex. The son of a bitch who called me a whiny elitist in the media, and who has no damned business that far downfield, jumps into the air and snatches the ball right before Kev can get it. Kev doesn't even get a hand on him before Bobby is gone. He zooms back up the field toward me. The bastard just intercepted me, and now he is damn near at the line of scrimmage, aiming right for me. He wants to plow through me. He wants to hit me and keep going. Not today, jackass.