“TELL ME.”
I smiled and stepped into the lobby of the building so I could talk privately without everyone on the floor overhearing. I’d just finished my interview and immediately called Max.
“It was amazing! I was prepared for every single question they asked, and at the end they said it was ‘just a formality’ but they’re going to schedule a meeting for me and the leadership team!”
“Congratulations!” Max boomed through the phone, a smile in his voice. “I’m not surprised, but this is amazing news. When’s the meeting?”
“In a week,” I said, still unable to believe it was actually happening. “Holy shit, Max, do you realize that if we hadn’t started our whole fake-friendship thing, this might not be happening?”
“Wild, right?” he said, and I could hear his grin.
I wanted to see him.
At that minute, I just wanted to be with the one person in the world who actually understood how badly I wanted this and who seemed proud of me about it.
So I felt warm inside when he said, “You know we have to get drinks tonight, Sophie Steinbeck.”
“Yes, we do,” I agreed, melting into my own grin.
“I feel like the lovely servers at Upstream will be pissed if they see us coming on another weeknight, though.”
“Oh.”
“So let’s hit Jackson Street Tavern. I’ll bring the cigars.”
“I’d love that,” I said, excited. “But don’t feel obligated—”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world, you fucking vice presidential goddess.”
“Max,” I very nearly squealed, excited and just plain happy, but then I remembered where I was and managed a cool “thank you.”
“Ditch the heels beforehand this time,” he said, “because no way will we get lucky twice with the bike.”
I was beaming—thank God no one was around to see me—when I said, “Absolutely I will.”
“You know,” he said, “they’re closing my street for Beerfest on Saturday. We should totally go.”
Shit.
“I’d love to, but I can’t,” I said, bracing myself for the fact that we might have to have the conversation I’d been avoiding because I was pretty sure it was going to make him upset.
“Damn it, Steinbeck, how dare you schedule something in your life without my approval? The nerve,” he joked, sounding adorably teasing. “What are you doing? Ironman with old Lar Bear?”
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath before casually saying, “We’re doing the wedding in Lincoln—he’s going with me. But what time does Beerfest end? I’ll probably be back by seven o’clock.”
He didn’t say anything; the line went silent.
Fine.
I wasn’t going to say anything, I was just going to wait for him to speak, because I’d done nothing wrong. I was simply working a wedding, the same thing he’d done multiple times.
But . . . the silence just hung there.
And went on. And on.
“Max,” I finally said, trying to keep things light, “we can still drink a lot of beer if it goes until eight. I’ve been known to shotgun—”
“Why?”
His voice was clipped and serious. My nerves were jittery as I spurted out a breathy “What?”
“Why are you so hell-bent on doing this, Sophie?”
It wasn’t angry or irritated, the way he said it. It was more . . . exhausted, or resigned, like he was too tired to deal with it.
Which irritated me. Because he wasn’t wrong at all; I was hell-bent on doing it. As soon as he’d said his ex was the cheating bride, I’d been out of my mind excited about doing it. I wanted to rescue her groom, yes, but I wanted to score a point for my friend whose heart she’d destroyed.
I wanted her to feel as bad as she’d made him feel.
Also, I wanted to see what Lilibeth—what a ridiculous name for someone who wasn’t a royal—looked like. She didn’t appear to have any public profiles on any platform that I could access, which was absurd. What kind of psychopath wasn’t on social media?
It bothered me a lot that he didn’t want me to do it. That he seemed to want to protect her from being hurt.
Did he still love her? Was he still in love with her?
I tried to come up with an answer to give him, but instead I blurted out, “Why are you so hell-bent on me not doing this?”
He sighed, long and deep like it was coming from his very center, and he said, “Whatever, Sophie.”
“Whatever?” I asked. “You’re going to whatever me over this?”
“I have to go,” he said, sounding so cold that it hurt my heart.
“Why?” I asked, a heaviness settling into my chest.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Wait, no drinks tonight?” I asked, absolutely horrified by the overwhelming disappointment in my voice. Him backing out on celebrating with me because I was wronging his ex felt like a betrayal.
Please, please, please don’t skip out on me, I thought, desperately hoping he’d just momentarily forgotten.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice raspy and emotionless. “I’m sorry.”
A burning started in the center of my chest, and I blinked fast as tears threatened to form. “Seriously, Max?”
“I can’t, Soph. I have to go.”
He ended the call before I could say another word.
