I step back into the office building and immediately encounter the last person in the world I want to see right now: Marty Vallar. The man seems as if he’s had fire ants in his underwear since I met him judging by the scowl he always gives me. He’s one of those midforties men who think feminism is a dirty word only attributed to man-haters. I pity him his sad, narrow mind.
“Excuse me, Marty,” I say, attempting to step around him.
“Meeting not go well?” he asks, stepping in front of me so I can’t pass. “I saw Pender storm out of here like you bit him. I thought maybe he wasn’t too keen on the idea of having a…newbie as an agent.”
Newbie is not what he was going to say.
“Working on your detective skills, Marty? Impressive. I’ll keep you in mind for my next murder mystery dinner party.” In actuality, I know that Marty pays attention to every move I make at all times. Not because he’s attracted to me or anything…but because he genuinely hates that I’m here and wants to see me gone.
There’s not a single agency meeting where he doesn’t try to undermine one of my suggested marketing strategies or make a crack about something I’ve said, trying to lure me into a public argument that will make me look hotheaded and irrational. But I don’t take the bait because my stats always speak for themselves. My ideas are good—and he’s threatened by them. By me.
So every day that I step into this office, I remind myself not to waste my mental energy on a man who has his head so far up his own butt he can’t even see that his tactics are outdated. That his marketing ideas are unoriginal. And that if he doesn’t learn to adapt his thinking to a more progressive approach, I’m going to run him out of business. He thinks he hates me because I’m a woman in a world that supposedly belongs to men, but why he should really hate me is because I’m smarter than him and will smile while I steal his clients.
“Well, anyway,” he says with an annoying fake chuckle. “I only came out here to say that if things aren’t going well with Pender, I’ll be happy to take him on for you. Save you the embarrassment of not knowing what you’re talking about in front of him.”
Am I seething inside at the way he condescends to me? Yes. Have I learned by now that it’s more fun to prove someone wrong by succeeding than by blowing smoke in a hallway? Also yes. But will I absolutely mess with him because it’s the only joy I find in this situation? Again, a resounding yes.
I put my hand over my heart. “Thanks for that, Marty. But I think I’m all good since he already agreed to sign with me, and we were only outside to look at his cool electric SUV. Besides, how difficult can it really be to manage one basketball player?” I laugh purposely sweet. “Enjoy the Skittles I left in the break room before everyone eats them! They’re the tropical flavor this week just to mix things up.”
As I walk past Marty I hear him begin to correct me that Derek is a football player and not a basketball player, but then he shuts his mouth, probably in hopes that I’ll embarrass myself in front of Derek at some point. Pitiful that he would so easily believe that I don’t even know the sport of the athlete I’m looking to represent. But that’s Marty for you. It also makes me grateful I never told anyone that Derek and I used to date. Not that it matters much in the great scheme of things, but I know that Marty will find a way to spin it so that it seems like it does. Like I’m getting special treatment or something. If anything, our history has done nothing but hinder my chances at being Derek’s agent. I’m glad I listened to my gut, even if it means keeping a secret from Nicole.
Maybe one day it won’t feel like such a struggle to simply exist as a woman in my field, but today is not that day. So I’ll continue to fight with all I’ve got to prove I belong here. Even when that means representing my ex-boyfriend.
“I got our drinks,” I say, carrying two iced coffees over to the little table in the corner of the café where Derek is waiting for me. He wasn’t too happy when I told him I’d order and pay for the drinks, but since he clearly would like to interact with me as little as possible, he didn’t fight me on it. But now he looks for all the world like a grumpy giant sitting among Barbie furniture. He’s wearing a maroon-colored hoodie that manages to make him look even more broad somehow (but sadly hides his tattoos other than the ones on his hands), black athletic shorts, and tall white socks with limited-edition Nikes from his partnership line with them. And a hat that casts an ominous shadow over his face. The man looks hot as hell even though I’d rather eat a rock than admit it.
He fidgets in his seat when he sees me, and his knee bumps the tiny table, threatening to knock it on its side. His hand splays flat against the top—steadying it. Goodness, he’s a big guy.
“First task as your agent…complete,” I say dramatically, while setting down the drinks.
I could almost swear his eyes flicker with amusement from under the bill of his hat. “What was that voice supposed to be?”
I take my seat across from him. “A video-game announcer.”
He looks confused.
“You know? Like when you unlock the next level and the godlike voice booms over the speaker?”
He raises an eyebrow. “It’s clear you don’t play videogames.”
“True. But why would I need to when I could organize my sock drawer by color, size, and patterns instead?”
Zero expression from Derek. He’s stone cold over there. Somehow his sharp cheekbones and jawline look even sharper today.
I think he’d rather be having dental surgery right now than sitting across from me. And honestly, I’m struggling to keep the smile on my face too. It’s painfully tense. And I think it will stay this way until we clear the air between us. Until I tell him the full truth of our breakup. That it had very little to do with him and everything to do with me.
“You know…” I take a sip of my vanilla cold brew and let the sugar throw a party in my veins. “I was reviewing your file earlier today and I noticed you haven’t done a single interview or endorsement deal since your injury last season. I have a few friends in—”
He holds up his hand like he’s a king and I’ve just been summoned to silence. “I don’t want to discuss endorsement deals or my injury or anything concerning my career today. We’re writing rules for conduct and then signing. That’s it.”
What a dingle-berry. I know we have a beef between us, but…this isn’t at all the man I used to know. Not only is this one a mountain and covered in tattoos and has a scowl that marks his face like a bloodstain on a white shirt, but he’s so snippy. The Derek I used to know was a world-class flirt. He could have charmed you naked in ten seconds with one strategic smile. I would have thought that Famous Football Player Derek would be the guy I used to know but on steroids. (Not literal steroids, though, because that shit is illegal.) The guy sitting in front of me more resembles a muscular cactus.
I swallow my retorts because I need to find peace between us if we’re going to make this work. I’ll let him throw his hissy fit and then we’ll get down to business.
“Okay, let’s write the rules, boss man.”
“Don’t call me boss man,” he grumbles before finally taking a drink of his coffee.
“No? Not flashy enough. How about Your Supreme Footballness?” I eye him with lifted brows and he just glowers. “We’ll keep workshopping it.”
I fish a sparkly purple pen with a giant pom-pom on the top from my purse followed by a little spiral-bound notebook that I had lying around my office (read: neatly placed in a drawer in its own organizational container and lined up against six of its multicolored pals). I fan it out in front of my face, and the breeze of it tosses my hair like I’m standing on the beach.
“Nothing excites me more than getting to crack open a fresh three-by-five top-bound memo pad.” I pretend to snort its scent. Fine, I really do snort it.
Back in the day, Derek would have quipped that I’m such a nerd. And then he would have pulled me into his lap right here in the middle of the café and made out with me until my lips were bruised and there was a hickey on my neck. It’s the kind of thing I would only ever do with him.
Now, he looks at me like I’m offending his senses.
I glance down, mainly to give myself somewhere else to look so he doesn’t see whatever emotion I’m trying not to feel. I’m split down the middle. Part of me is still guilty over how I broke up with him in college—knowing full well that I was callous and hurtful. That part of me really wants to apologize and make amends. But the other half of me is balking at his rude reaction to me after all this time. After he brazenly moved on from me so easily back then like I was a crumb he could flick off his shirt. It seems at odds with his “I will make you pay” attitude.
I get comfy in my seat and force my gaze up to him again, willing myself to be serious when it doesn’t come easily for me. “Derek. I feel like we have some things we should talk about. Namely…the way I broke up with you. If you’re up for it, I’d like to explain everything.”
“Rule number one…”
My eyebrows fly up at his sudden assertive tone.
“No discussing our history.”
I gawk at him. “You can’t be serious. A little communication would go a long way between us.”
He smiles but it’s not a nice one. It’s vicious. “I’m communicating to you now that I don’t give a shit about your reasons for breaking up with me because I’m over it. And if you have a problem with it, feel free to walk now.”
I grit my teeth and write the rule into the notebook. “As tempting as that offer is, I think I’ll make like the gum stuck on the bottom of my favorite sneakers and stick around.”
“Number two…” snaps Derek, making me jump.
“Someone’s an eager beaver.”
“…No prying into personal lives,” he says, and by the way he’s whipping these rules out so quickly, I imagine he has been rehearsing them all the way here. They’re meant to remind me of my place—which is not in his arms, in his bed, or in his heart. They’re meant to hurt me. And suddenly, I can see into the future. I can see exactly what this list of rules is meant to accomplish.
And because I don’t want him to see that he’s gotten under my skin already, I point my pen at him. “That’s good. Surface friends only. Gives us more time to focus our conversations on your career.”
“Rule number three, no friendship.” His arctic blue eyes are frosted over with hatred.
I imagine I look like I’ve swallowed a lemon. The more time I spend with this new Derek, the less inclined I am to be his friend anyway. I hurt him back then and he wants me to pay for my transgressions now? Fine, I can see the fairness in it. But I don’t have to look like I’m paying for them while I do.
I smile sweetly the entire time I jot down his no-friendship rule. “It’s good you mentioned this one because I was just about to knit us matching BFF Christmas sweaters, but now you’ve saved me the effort.”
“Number four…” He holds up each of his fingers except his pinky.
“Goodness, you’re taking this seriously.”
Derek sits forward, eyes catching mine. A zing pulses down my back. “No kissing.”
Now see, the problem is not with this rule itself. I can appreciate it. We used to kiss and although we don’t plan to kiss again, it makes sense to put it on the list because if I remember correctly, we used to do that particular activity quite well and as often as possible. The problem is with the challenging glint in Derek’s eyes as he delivers it. This glint implies that I want to kiss him but he’s going to withhold his gorgeous brooding mouth from me as torture. And although I might have imagined his lips on mine again at one point, not anymore. Not after the way he’s treating me today. Not after realizing he’s grown into an oversized baby.
And that’s why I sit forward too—until we’re a few inches apart and I can feel his knee press into mine. “Fantastic rule. But I’d like to take it a step further.” I hold his sharp gaze for one beat before looking down and speaking as I write. “Rule number five, no unnecessary touching. Because, you know, we wouldn’t want anyone”—I add special emphasis on that word so he knows I’m meaning him—“getting their emotional wires crossed at any point.” I remove my knee for extra emphasis.
His jaw tics and then I see it…the slightest tug in the corner of his mouth. He might as well have painted the words Game On across the wall. It almost excites me because challenging each other was what we enjoyed most. We played little games all the time. But this feels different because it’s not for fun or for the sake of flirting. It’s laced with cruelty—I can taste it.
“Just so we’re both on the same page, could you expound on what constitutes unnecessary?” He pauses and his eyes drop to my mouth for a split second—inspiration sparking in his eyes before they slide back up to mine. “For instance, let’s say you’re walking, and I can tell you’re about to step on a snake, should I reach out and pull you away or leave you to the snake?”
I set down my pom-pom pen because I take all snake queries very seriously and he knows this about me. “That should be filed under necessary touching. As in, me about to step on a snake necessitates you picking me up and allowing me to stand on your freakishly large shoulders until I can grab hold of a nearby tree branch and climb it all the way up into the clouds where I will never have to see that damn snake ever again. Got it?”
“Got it.”
He waits until my pen is once again in hand before dropping his voice like dark silk. “Now let’s say we’re in an important meeting with the GM and I look over and notice that you have some chocolate on your mouth left over from the candy you snuck off his desk on the way in. Not wanting you to feel embarrassed from said chocolate, I lean over and drag my thumb across your bottom lip, cleaning off the chocolate and then licking it off my thumb.” He pauses long enough for that scenario to permeate my brain. And permeate it does. “Would that be considered necessary or unnecessary contact?”
A vivid fantasy of the whole thing plays out in my head. I imagine what his callused fingers would feel like dragging across my lips. And then staring at me the entire time he licks the chocolate off his own thumb as a blatant reminder of late nights in his apartment, tangled up in sheets and blocking out the world for as long as possible.
I don’t even realize my fingers are gripping my pen so hard it’s in danger of shattering until Derek reaches over and removes it from my grasp, laying it gently on the table. He sits back with a grin.
It’s entirely possible that it’s been too long since I’ve been touched by a man and that’s why my body is breaking out in a hot flush all of a sudden. It has nothing to do with Derek and everything to do with basic biology. Unfortunately, because of my body’s sabotage, Derek is winning whatever random competition we’ve started. Who can rile the other person the most? Who can show the most indifference? I don’t even know now. But judging by my painful heartbeat and the goosebumps lining my arms, I’m losing.
“Unnecessary!” I practically shout like I’m throwing down the gavel along with a guilty sentence in a court of law. I retrieve my pen once again. “Rule number six…no flirting.”
His eyes narrow slightly with wicked amusement, but he doesn’t smile. “Rule number seven, always wear pants in meetings.”
“Okay, buddy, now look! I’m obviously going to wear pants in meetings. What kind of a hooligan do you think I am?”
He shrugs, looking smug. “As my memory serves, you used to live pantsless as much as possible.”
“That’s when I was at home! I would never consider going to a meeting in my underwear. Comfy though it may be.” Apparently, Derek doesn’t just remember me, he remember-remembers me.
He shrugs like I’m a nudist who lives a reckless, pants-free life and he’s just at the mercy of my naked whims.
“Fine! I’ll write it down. But you better believe that rule number eight is going to be Derek must always wear a shirt. So, ha!”
“Just a shirt? Okay, I always thought the Winnie-the-Pooh wasn’t an attractive look but if you’re okay with it…”
“Rule number nine.” I state with magnificent authority. “Wear all clothing at all times in all places. No exposed skin.”
And on and on this list goes. We lob insults in the form of rules back and forth like a Wimbledon tennis match. I’m not sure exactly what the heck this list is supposed to be—all I know is what it winds up as: a cathartic breakup. When I ended it back then, I said what I needed to say, and Derek never fought me on it. If anything, his eyes only shuttered before he turned his back and walked away from us without a second thought. Even though I had no right to—I expected him to fight for me. To at least question me. He never did.
But today…today we went one by one through every perk our relationship ever had and ruthlessly slashed them all. No sleeping in the same bed. No watching TV together. No sharing the bill. No riding in the same car. No holding hands.
And by the time we finish the list on number twenty, our eyes are feral, our breathing heavy, and I know exactly where Derek stands. He hates me. It perplexes me, even as the feeling is quickly becoming mutual.
He pushes his chair back from the table and stands after finally (unhappily) signing the contract. “I think that covers it.”
I watch Derek snatch up his keys and throw his sunglasses on his face before walking with sure strides out of the coffee shop—not once looking back at me.
After all of this, my only question is: Will he let me do my job now that he got that out of his system?
And in tiny invisible ink subtext scribbled on the bottom corner of my heart: I miss my Derek.
