Copyright © 2019 by Rachel Arnett
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 9781079137187
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Author
1
The most important thing is for the marshmallow to be on top.
“And by that, I mean the whole marshmallow,” says Sherrie, our manager. “A cut or nibbled one will disqualify your team.”
“You hear that?” I whisper to Luke. “No nibbling the marshmallow.”
Luke shoots me an incredulous look that says, Who, me?
It’s early on a Thursday morning, and we—all forty-two employees of Artisanal Goods, a purveyor of, you guessed it, artisanal goods—have been summoned into the conference room for some good old fashioned team building. Sherrie has a thing for team building exercises. We do them far more often than necessary. I guess that’s Sherrie’s prerogative, though. And I do have to admit that I’m intrigued by today’s activity—something called the Marshmallow Challenge.
As Sherrie does a lap around the conference room, dividing us into groups with gestures of her hand, she finishes going over the rules: we must construct our structure with the provided materials only; we are not allowed to suspend our structure to another object; we are permitted to rebuild our structure as many times as we like until the timer goes off; aside from the marshmallow, we may alter our materials in any way.
“The team that builds the tallest structure wins,” Sherrie says, beaming with excitement. “You have eighteen minutes, starting now.”
I take a moment to consider my teammates. Thankfully, Luke and I have been put into the same group. We’ve been friends since I started working at Artisanal Goods six years ago; we clicked right away. Luke is down-to-earth, a hard worker, an all-around good guy. And, objectively, I’m aware of the fact that he’s handsome. The dude is in shape, too, thanks to all the recreational rugby he plays. But he’s nothing more than a friend.
The guy I daydream about? That would be Alex, also a coworker. Alex is…well, he’s mega handsome. Need I say more? Unfortunately for me, though, mega handsome Alex is on the opposite side of the room right now.
Also in our group is Derek—a nice guy, if a bit oblivious. I feel neither glad nor annoyed that Derek is on our team. It’s our fourth member, Paige, whom I’m already gritting my teeth about.
Where do I even start with Paige? She gets too close to you when she talks. She has a habit of reciting the weirdest facts. She’s always leaving unpalatable home-cooked goods in the break room and pestering everyone to try them.
I open up the bag that Sherrie gave us and empty its contents onto the floor. Our provided materials are as follows: one perfectly puffy marshmallow, three feet of string, three feet of painter’s tape, and twenty strands of uncooked spaghetti.
“This should be interesting,” says Luke.
“Did Sherrie say we can or can’t cut up the marshmallow?” asks Derek.
“The marshmallow must stay whole, Derek,” I say.
Paige picks up the little bundle of spaghetti, brings it to her nose, and gives it an intense sniff.
“Mmm,” she says.
A small part of me wants to ask what she can possibly tell from smelling the uncooked spaghetti. But mostly I don’t want to know.
For the first half of our allotted time, our team of four discusses what our spaghetti structure should look like. We debate whether we should double up the spaghetti or not. We debate whether we should break the spaghetti into smaller pieces. And then we debate about the best way to use the string and tape, and whether we actually need to use the string at all.
“Fun fact,” says Paige. “The first violin strings were made from dried sheep intestines.”
I ignore her. “We shouldn’t use the string if we don’t need it.”
“I agree,” says Luke.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to use the tape?” suggests Derek.
Luke glances at the clock up on the conference room wall, and then around at the other teams.
“We better start building, you guys,” he says.
And so we do. We tape. We construct. We quickly but efficiently assemble our spaghetti structure. Six minutes later, there’s three minutes left and all we have left to do is add the pièce de résistance.
We turn to Derek, who has been safeguarding the marshmallow in his palm. He nods and swallows. It’s his big moment. It’s all up to him now. Carefully, so carefully, he uses his other hand to pick up the marshmallow from his palm and transfer it to the top of our tower. He presses it down onto the ends of the taped-together spaghetti, piercing the soft little pillow, deforming it slightly as he secures it in place. Finally, as we draw a collective breath in, Derek moves his hand away.
For exactly three seconds, our structure stands proud. It’s majestic. It’s glorious. I’ve never seen a more beautiful thing. Behold, the great spaghetti tower! Oh, what a sight it is.
And then—and I swear, it’s like it happens in theatric slow motion—the whole thing collapses.
Spaghetti strand after spaghetti strand, our tower breaks apart. Meanwhile, the marshmallow somehow dislodges itself and comes tumbling down. It rolls along the carpet, coming to a stop right by the toe of my shoe. In that moment, it becomes obvious that we’ve made a fatal mistake: we underestimated the weight of the marshmallow.
The four of us stand there, in silent dismay, for what feels like an eternity.
Finally, Luke speaks up.
“We need a stronger base,” he says.
Immediately, his comment gets my own thoughts churning.
“Triangles,” I exclaim.
Luke snaps and points a finger gun at me.
“Yes,” he says. “Good thinking, Armstrong.”
As we scramble to reassemble our spaghetti strands into triangles, I can’t help but think about how good of a team Luke and I make. How in sync we always are. How things get done when we put our heads together.
And that’s when the idea comes to me.
I know how I’m going to fix my Hawaii problem.
To explain, I need to back up a little—by twelve hours, to be exact, to the Skype chat I had with my family the night before. The call consisted of my older sister Catherine (the golden child, the environmental lawyer), my younger brother Garrett (the chill college student), our parents (sweet old Dad and always generous Mom), and, of course, yours truly. Mom and Dad still live in the house we all grew up in, but the rest of us live in other cities now, so most of our face-to-face interaction these days is facilitated via the wonders of technology.
The
purpose of the video chat was to figure out where we wanted to go on our annual June vacation together. June is the slowest time of year for Mom and Dad’s restaurant, so we always schedule our family vacations then. This year, however, the planning was happening more last minute than usual.
We’d originally scheduled the chat for weeks earlier, but then things kept coming up for Catherine that she apparently couldn’t reschedule, and by the time we all actually connected, there were only a few weeks left until June. Nobody except for me seemed annoyed by this, though. Like I said, Catherine’s the golden child. She could set her own house on fire and the rest of our family would say, “Well, she must have had a good reason for doing it.”
Everyone else was already signed on when I joined the chat. Mom and Dad’s faces filled up the upper left quadrant of my laptop screen. In the space below them, Garrett was sitting at his desk in his cramped off-campus apartment. Catherine had called in from her living room in San Francisco; I could practically see a view of the Golden Gate Bridge over her shoulder.
Catherine was in the midst of telling everyone about the case she was working on—something that sounded dismal, as usual.
“I mean, can you imagine?” Catherine was saying. “A hundred thousand tons of the stuff. And it’s extraordinarily toxic, of course. It’s like these people have no conscience.”
“Well, we’re proud of you for trying to do something about it,” Mom said.
Catherine shrugged. “I do what I can.”
I let the moment of reflective silence pass, then waved at the screen and said, “Hey, guys.”
“Oh, Emma,” Mom said. “I didn’t see you log on. Well, at any rate. Now that we’re all here, should we discuss the trip?”
“Where do you want to go, Mom?” asked Catherine, her tone instantly perking up. “Dad?”
“Oh, anywhere is fine,” said Dad, smiling and shrugging.
“Someplace tropical would be nice,” said Mom.
“Like Hawaii?” asked Catherine.
I adjusted my laptop screen. “We were there two years ago,” I pointed out. “What about someplace new?”
“We would go to a different island,” said Catherine, as if that was more than obvious. “Garrett? What do you think?”
In his corner of the screen, Garrett nodded. “Hawaii’s cool.”
“Great,” said Catherine. “How about Maui this time?”
“Maui sounds lovely,” said Mom.
“What about—” I started to say.
But Catherine interrupted me. “Perfect. And since you two have a big anniversary coming up, I’d like to plan the trip.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that, Catherine,” said Dad.
“I’d like to, though,” said Catherine.
“Well…if you really want to,” said Mom.
“I insist,” said Catherine.
“Guess that’s settled, then,” I said, picking at a stain on my jeans.
“Actually, there is one more thing.” Catherine glanced off-screen. “Honey? Can you come over here?”
As soon as Catherine asked her husband to join her, I knew what was about to happen. My sister has never been subtle about her desire to have kids. Even when we were kids ourselves, she used to run around declaring that she was going to have two boys and two girls—all perfectly staggered in age, of course.
Sure enough, as soon as Kenneth sat down and waved hello to the rest of us, Catherine hooked her arm through his and smiled at us giddily.
“We thought about holding off until the trip to share this,” she said. “But we just can’t wait.”
“Catherine,” gasped Mom. “Are you—”
Catherine nodded. “Pregnant!”
Mom shrieked with delight. Dad laughed and hugged Mom. It was along the lines of the reaction they’d had back when Catherine and Kenneth announced their engagement, only turned up a notch. Okay, more like half a dozen notches.
Both Garrett and I congratulated Catherine and Kenneth, but Mom’s excitement continued to dominate the screen.
“That is absolutely the best news,” Mom said, delicately wiping away tears. “How wonderful, you two. How wonderful.”
And with that, Catherine officially confirmed her place as the favorite daughter. After all, how could I compete with someone growing a human being?
Five minutes later, the call was over, and I was left feeling all sorts of stupid feelings: inadequacy, bitterness, irritation with myself for feeling that way in the first place. And I couldn’t help but dread our upcoming family vacation. I mean, I always dreaded our vacations a little; no Armstrong family gathering was complete without me feeling lousy about my lack of a relationship or meaningful career. But now I dreaded it like the bubonic plague. I imagined every conversation revolving around Catherine and Kenneth’s impending little marvel; I imagined Mom endlessly repeating how wonderful it was. Nobody would say outright how pitiful my own life was in comparison, but the implication—oh, no doubt about it—the implication would be there.
Sad little Emma. The twenty-eight-year-old apple of no one’s eye. Doomed to the cubicle forever.
* * *
There are barely two minutes left on the clock when Luke, Derek, Paige, and I start to reconstruct our spaghetti tower. Maniacally, we strip the tape off our strands of spaghetti and re-tape them into triangles. We work quickly, mutely, utterly focused on the task at hand.
But time waits for no spaghetti constructor.
And so we don’t win the Marshmallow Challenge. We don’t even come close. But I emerge from the conference room that morning with pep in my step anyway, because I’ve won something even better: a solution to my own little problem.
A few hours post-team-building-exercise, I send Luke a chat message on my computer: Want to grab coffee?
Sure, he types back. Just let me wrap something up.
Five minutes, an elevator ride, and a block-and-a-half-walk later, we’re strolling into The Brilliant Bean. The café is crowded that afternoon. The room is humming with the collective buzz of caffeine, and at first glance, it appears as if all of the tables are taken. Then I spot one open beside the condiment bar, and we grab it as soon as we get our coffees.
“So my annual family vacation is coming up,” I say, taking a seat.
“Oh yeah?” says Luke. “Where are you guys off to this year?”
I pantomime hula arms.
“What is that? Are you doing Thriller?”
“You know what I’m doing.”
Luke grins. “So, Hawaii. Nice.”
“Have you ever been?” I ask.
Luke shakes his head. “Nope. Always wanted to, though.”
It’s almost like it’s meant to be.
I am a tad nervous, though. Just a little. It’s not as if I’ve asked anything like this of Luke before, and I’m well aware of the ridiculousness of my forthcoming request. Buying a few seconds to collect myself, I pop off the lid of my coffee and let some steam billow out.
“You excited to go?” asks Luke.
“Yes and no,” I say. “I’m excited for the island. I’m not excited to sit around in my sister’s shadow the whole time.”
“That sucks,” says Luke. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s pregnant, by the way.” I press my lips together. Focus, Emma. Focus. “Anyway, I, um—I was thinking that the trip might be more pleasant if I brought along a plus one. That way I’d no longer be the pitifully perpetual single girl, you know?”
“Come on, Emma. You’re not pitiful.”
“No, I know. But it sure feels that way when I’m around my family.” I take a breath. “Anyway, I know this is probably going to sound nuts, but…I was wondering if you would consider coming along as my boyfriend. My fake boyfriend, I mean.”
Luke laughs. Or, to be more accurate, he bursts out laughing. Immediately, my stomach sinks.
Then Luke looks at me and his face drops. “Wait. You’re serious?”
Should I pretend that I was joking? I
s this a sinking ship that I should abandon? No. Come on. I can’t give up this easily.
I look at him solemnly. “I’m serious.”
“Wow,” says Luke. “I…uh…”
“You’ll get a free vacation out of it,” I say. “My parents always insist on picking up the tab for the hotel and food and everything. And I have a bunch of extra miles, so I’d cover your airfare.”
I cringe at the desperation coating each word that tumbles out of my mouth. Why did I think this would be a good idea? Why didn’t I at least sleep on it, like a rational person? I study Luke’s face, trying to gauge how he’s feeling about my proposition now that he knows I’m not kidding around.
Unfortunately for me, his expression is one of indisputable pity.
“Look, Emma,” he says. “I’m sympathetic to your situation. I really am. But…sorry, it’s kind of…I don’t know. I don’t know if I could do something like that.”
I knew it. I knew it was a stupid idea. I lower my eyes. “It’s okay. I understand.”
“Besides, wouldn’t it be easier to get a real boyfriend to show off to your family?”
I know that Luke is just trying to help. But the question stings anyway. The only person I’m interested in is Alex, and I’ve never gotten the slightest hint that he likes me back. Why oh why do I have to like someone so unattainable? It’s like I’m trying to stay single on purpose.
I’m about to tell Luke to forget that I ever asked. Before I can, though, someone bumps into our table, knocking over my coffee. The coffee floods the tabletop, then spills over onto the floor. I thrust my chair out of the way.
“Oh, gosh,” says the stranger, cupping her hand over her mouth. Her eyes go as wide as coffee lids. “I’m so sorry.”
Luke is already out of his seat, grabbing practically the entire reserve of napkins from the condiment bar. Kneeling, he presses them to the floor. They soak through instantly.
He looks up at me. “Any get on you?”
I shake my head.
“Let me buy you a new coffee,” the stranger says.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
“Are you sure?” the stranger says. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”
“I’m fine,” I snap. I stand up and grab my things. But of course the strap of my bag gets tangled on the back of the chair, and as I yank it off, I topple the chair in the process. I pull the chair upright, hook the freed strap over my shoulder, grab my empty cup, and toss it in the trash on my way out.
Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 1
