Look where that got me.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the office, then ask the receptionist to connect me with Mary in HR.
Her warm, calm voice fills my ear. “Good morning, Lachlan.”
“Hi, Mary.” My chest feels like a cave where all light and happiness go to die. “I wanted to get back to you and Curt and David.”
Her voice brightens. “About the San Francisco position.”
My heart crushes a little. “Exactly.”
“And?” One hopeful word, hovering in the space between us.
My mouth feels dry as sand. I need something real in my life. And this job? There’s no pretense. I know exactly where I stand. “I’d like to accept the position.”
“Oh, Locke, that’s lovely. David and Curt are going to be thrilled.” Mary’s voice lowers a notch like she’s leaning closer to the mouthpiece of her phone. “Is there a reason you’re not telling me this in person?”
I wince. “About that. I’m actually not feeling well this morning.” I only had time for a single drink at the party, so I can’t blame my headache on a hangover. This is a good, old-fashioned, gut-wrenching, head-pounding loss. But Mary doesn’t need to know that.
“I knew we should have held the party on a Friday night instead of a weeknight.” She gives a low chuckle on her end of the phone. “That’s what we get for trying to get a lower rental rate.”
“Poor turnout today?” I ask, trying to play along. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry at all. Guess we’ll have to get used to you being gone, won’t we?”
“Yeah,” I say, and something heavy slides into my stomach. “I guess you will.”
“It’s not that I don’t love to see you, Locke, but shouldn’t you be at work?”
I don’t glance up from the painter’s palette that I’m washing in the sink of Maggie’s art studio, but I can feel her eyes asses me.
“I called in sick. Holiday party yesterday.” The rainbow colors of paint melt off the palette and mix together in a muddy brown swirl at the bottom of the sink. “Anyway, I didn’t think you’d turn down unpaid labor in the shop.”
“Huh.” My sister reaches for the tap and cuts the water midstream.
“I wasn’t finished yet,” I protest.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “What’s wrong?”
I sigh and shake my head. I should have known better than to think she wouldn’t be able to read my mood. “I took the job.”
My sister cocks her head at me. “Should I be congratulating you or consoling you?”
I hold back a scowl. “What do you mean?”
Maggie sighs and takes the palette from my soggy hands, then places it gently in the bottom of the sink. “You don’t look happy about it.”
I wipe my wet hands on the front of my jeans and lean my hip against the edge of the porcelain sink. “I mean, I had a choice to make. I was always going to have to give something up.”
“Greer,” she says, cutting straight to the heart of me.
“Greer,” I say. The word falls to the floor like lead, and the sweet, chemical scent of the paint stings my eyes.
“Does she know?”
“Not yet.”
“Locke.” My sister places a hand on my arm, and I try not to flinch. “You know you can always confide in me, and I’m glad you feel like you can come to me first. But don’t you think that’s a conversation you should have had with her?”
Yes.
I owed Greer that much, I know. But the knife of her betrayal cuts too deep for logic.
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I say. I wave around my sister’s shop, pointing at all the holiday decor. This time of year, the kids’ classes are always filled with kindergarteners making last-minute art projects to wrap and place under the tree, and six days out from Christmas, this week is no exception. Twenty paintings of carrot-nosed snowmen dry on one wall, while tiny Santa statues made of clay line up and wait for their turn in the kiln.
“With the holidays and all, I need to figure out the right approach.” The second I say it, I feel my mouth twist. “Oh, god.”
Maggie takes a step back and holds up her hand. “Why do you look like you’re about to puke?”
“The holidays. Mom’s still expecting Greer to show up on Christmas Eve.” I know she’ll be fine if I don’t bring Greer, but I also can’t be that guy who dumps his girlfriend before Christmas.
Except that I already am.
Fuck me.
“Just don’t tell Mom yet, okay? About anything.”
Maggie looks like she wants to protest, but I shoot her a look and she closes her mouth. She leaves me standing by the sink and goes to pull the tiny, child-sized chairs off the table in the kids’ room and arrange them on the floor.
My sister lets the silence stretch between us, wearing me down. I’ve lived with her long enough to know this is a draw, and I’ve always been too quick to give in.
“Did you know about Dad?” I ask after a fractured minute.
I watch my words take impact, freezing Maggie’s back and making her shoulders bunch tight.
“Maggie?” My voice is a raw plea.
When my sister turns around to face me, her eyes are glassy and her nose is red. “Yeah, I knew. If you haven’t noticed, you and I don’t look anything alike except for Mom’s eyes.”
A cynical laugh bubbles up my throat.
Maggie laughs too, then shakes her head at me. “Even if we’re only half-siblings, I’m still one hundred percent your sister, asshole. It’s not blood that makes family, okay?” She sounds like Greer.
I hold up my hands. “Okay.”
Maggie reaches for another chair and moves it into place. “How’d you find out?” she asks.
“Food allergy test.”
My sister presses her lips in a line and nods. I think she’s going to leave it at that, but suddenly her eyes widen and she drops her hands to her hips. “Wait. Don’t tell me this thing with Dad is the reason you’re taking the job.”
My feet feel locked on the floor, and any minute now, the wooden floorboards are going to swallow me up. “I don’t know, Mags. But it didn’t help.”
“Don’t do something stupid or rash just because you’re still reeling from that news. For the love of god, Locke, give yourself time to think it through.”
“It’s too late, Mags. I already accepted the job.”
Sometimes it’s hard to tell which what’s the action and what’s the reaction. My dad and this job and Greer and me—everything swirls down into a mess, like the paint scrubbing off into the sink. All I know is I’ve set something in motion, like throwing a deck of cards into the air. I have to get through today and tomorrow and a week from now, and then maybe we’ll see how everything turns out.
Let the cards fall how they may.
25
Greer
By the time I slink to my desk on Friday two hours later than normal, almost all of my colleagues are in the office, sorting through emails, working on project designs, and slurping their caffeine fix of choice. Everyone except Damien, that is.
The bitter scent of strong coffee makes my stomach turn over as I take my seat, and Eden casts me a sympathetic glance as if she somehow knows I spent the last two hours meeting with Mary from Human Resources, telling her exactly what Damien did at the holiday party. I thought I was hiding my inner turmoil with my pencil skirt and soft, fitted cardigan, my painted red lips that I wore like armor, but maybe not.
Locke sits at his desk in stony silence, glaring at his computer and so pointedly not looking at me that my chest crushes. And yet I can feel every other eye in the room on me as I take my seat at my desk.
What the hell is happening?
I rouse my email, and a message from Curt appears at the top of my inbox. End of year organizational changes.
Oh god, not another re-org.
I click into the message, and that’s when the words freeze me, absolutely lance through my heart.
We’re pleased to announce that Lachlan Mills has accepted the position of Content Experience Manager, reflecting growth in both our organization and in Lachlan’s responsibilities. Mr. Mills will report to David Brinkley out of the San Francisco office and will bring his five years of experience with WanderWell to help lead the team in a customer-focused direction.
Lachlan Mills.
My Lachlan Mills.
Or maybe not mine anymore.
Stinging tears spring to my eyes, and I swipe at them furiously. I knew he was pissed at me, but until I saw the words on the screen, I didn’t think it would ever come to something like this.
I thought we could work through anything.
Guess I was naively, stupidly wrong.
“Can I see you for a second?” I call over the desk between us.
A muscle in Locke’s jaw flexes, and he runs his hands through his hair before he meets my eye with a sigh. There’s so much stark pain in his gaze that my heart shreds into pieces. It’s like I’ve just scraped every tender nerve along a road of shattered glass.
Locke doesn’t say anything, but he nods, and I stand from my desk. The team room feels too close—too obvious—so I hurry toward the supply closet around the corner. When Locke steps in behind me, I close the door and seal us into the quiet tomb.
A single bulb illuminates the small room, and the smell of paper and ink seems almost cruel. Don’t let something I love turn into a bad memory.
Locke stops in front of a stack of Post-It notes, and I can taste my heartbeat as I make myself say the two words that carry the weight of the entire world. “You’re leaving?”
“You got the email.” It’s not a question.
“But it’s San Francisco, Locke.”
He rubs a thumb over his lower lip. “That’s where the opportunity was, Greer.”
It’s not that simple. “That job didn’t happen overnight,” I whisper. “You knew for ages. Since before we ever kissed, since before we ever crossed all those lines.” I shake my head. We could have been safe. He could have spared me all of this pain. Why let me fall for him if he was going to take it away? “Was any of this real?”
His mouth wrenches in a bitter twist. “You tell me.” The words land like a slap.
“What do you mean?” He was there with me, falling with me. I didn’t make this up.
“You and Damien.” The accusation hisses out between his teeth. “I saw you.”
“No.” I swallow down a lump in my throat. “You might have seen a kiss, but it wasn’t me kissing him. He kissed me.”
“Does it make a difference?” he scoffs.
“Yes, Locke, it matters.” My voice starts to shake with frustration and anger and remembered fear. “It matters when your boss corners you in a quiet room at a company function and forces himself on you. It matters when you said no the first time and he does it again. When he tells you you only have your job because of him. That’s sexual harassment, Locke, no matter what our history may have been.”
Hesitation fills his eyes. “Greer, I—”
My chest heats with anger. “God, did you really think I wanted him? After everything you and I—” I bite off my last words. Locke has to know how I felt about him. Feel. “For the record, I reported him to HR.”
His eyes widen, and his words puff out like someone punched him in the gut. “You what?”
“Yes, Locke,” I groan in exasperation. “I know I sometimes run late and all, but two hours would have been a new record. I spent the morning with Mary, and then I came back to that email…” My voice drifts off. I shouldn’t be on the defensive here. Not when this all could have been avoided. I turn my words into arrows and launch them back at him. “How could you have bailed on me without even giving me a chance to explain?”
He opens his mouth and closes it, his jaw tight as steel beneath the fine layer of scruff.
“You should have trusted me,” I continue. “Just like you should have trusted me with the truth about San Francisco.” And then my heart breaks all over again as I realize that no matter what happens, I’m not fighting for us anymore. He already chose.
Damien was right. Locke was always going to leave me.
The walls of the supply closet press in and the air feels thick and sour and I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. Fire licks through my lungs, a searing burn, and tears course down my face, unbidden. I need to get out of here before I completely lose my shit.
I push past Locke and reach for the door handle. With one hand on the knob, I look back over my shoulder at the one man who’s been through so much with me. My best friend, who I’ve loved in so many ways. My best friend, who I’m losing and I’ve lost.
“This was my biggest fear,” I whisper.
A tear glitters on Locke’s cheek, and he swipes it away. Another follows it, trailing from his eye to the corner of his mouth. “I’m so sorry, Greer,” he says, his voice thick and raw.
I nod once before I push open the door and walk away. I’ve won, but it’s an empty victory. Locke’s leaving.
It’s already too late.
26
Locke
Eden frowns at me over the top of her laptop on Monday. “When exactly did you say you’re leaving?”
I stare at the calendar summoned on my own computer and groan. “I didn’t.”
Eden and I are huddled up on the couches at the far end of the open office to discuss content strategy and how I’ll be handing off responsibilities while I transition to my new role. Our normal writing crew is noticeably down one member, and I can’t say I blame her.
Greer is…well…somewhere. I didn’t get an out of office message from her when I sent the meeting invitation this morning, though I wasn’t holding my breath that she’d show up, either.
“Is San Francisco hoping to have you there for the new year? Are they giving you two weeks to switch?” Eden wrinkles her nose as she stares at the computer. “I mean, I don’t know when you’d exactly count the starting point with all the vacation days coming up.”
“Yeah.” Christmas Eve is tomorrow. Historically, the WanderWell offices run only the barest crew during the stretch between Christmas and New Year’s Day, and with my seniority, I usually take the whole thing off.
My shoulders knot with tension as I realize just how little I’ve figured out about this whole San Francisco thing. The weight of it’s starting to sink in—I need to give notice to my landlord that I’m leaving, look for a new apartment while still living here, pack up my life, tell my family, fake my way through Christmas.
All of it without Greer.
Everything, everything, feels like a gaping wound and an open plan.
I hate every part of it.
“Excuse me?”
I look up and spot the same guy who originally moved Damien’s stuff into the office. He carries a large cardboard box in his hands. Empty.
For Greer? My heart lurches even though I don’t have any reason to believe she’s leaving. Other than what I did to her.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Am I remembering correctly that Mr. Price sits in the far row of this office?”
I nod in stunned silence, and the guy offers his thanks and heads toward Damien’s desk. Eden’s gaze follows him all the way there.
“Holy shit,” she whispers to me. “He couldn’t even come in to save face.”
“What do you mean?”
Eden gives me a look like I’m an idiot and then sighs. “Damien. Didn’t you see the message?”
“What message?”
“Oh, lord.” She taps a few keys on her computer and a company-wide email lands in my inbox.
I skim the message and my skin prickles with unease.
In accordance with our zero-tolerance policy about sexual harassment, a member of our staff was let go early this morning. For their privacy, their name will not be disclosed, however we want to assure each of our valued staff members that WanderWell seeks to be a safe, supportive env
ironment for all our employees, and we will not tolerate unwelcome behavior.
With Damien out of the office and a moving crew asking for his desk, it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
“She wasn’t shitting me,” I blurt out, not bothering to read to the end.
Eden narrows her eyes at me. “Who?”
I swallow hard. “Greer.” She was right to be pissed at me for not trusting her. My stupid ego just ruined everything for me. For us.
“About that.” Eden closes her laptop and crosses her arms over her chest, signaling that we’re moving from professional to personal territory. “What’s going on?” she asks in a lowered voice. “When you guys aren’t talking, it’s like there’s something wrong with the universe.”
“We’re not…” I don’t even know where to go with that.
Eden scoots toward the edge of the couch and says, “Locke, seriously? First, you take this job, then Armageddon goes down in the supply closet on Friday, and now Greer’s gone.” Her features twist in disappointment. “After all that work I did to make sure you’d get her for your Secret Santa recipient, you can’t drop the ball now.”
My jaw drops. “You set us up?”
“What?” Eden shrugs. “I just nudged you. It’s obvious how crazy you are about each other.”
My mind reels back to when Greer first walked in the doors at WanderWell. “I thought you told me to back off.”
Eden flicks a strand of hair over her shoulder. “For, like, a week, Locke, to let her get adjusted when she first started. Not a lifetime.” She pokes me in the knee with a single finger. “For the record, you totally ruined my chance of winning the office poll.”
“The office poll?”
“Of when you were going to get together.”
This is too much information, too much to process. I groan and rub a hand over my face. “Greer probably hates me right now. I just took a job a million miles away.”
“Yeah. That’s a serious fuckup, my friend.” Eden grins. “The good news is you’re a smart man. I’m sure you can figure out a way to fix it.”
The Fake Date Agreement (Awkward Arrangements Book 1) Page 15
