September 10

I’m perusing a market analysis for a client and eating a packed and soggy Subway sandwich during a working lunch at the office, waiting for the inevitable drip to find my blouse. Angie insisted on bringing me back something after I declined to go with her and Jordan. You need to take time to eat and relax, she said, sternly. You bring in all these snacks for us, but you don’t have any for yourself. You’re looking too thin, and people are starting to hate you for losing weight without trying. That last part made me laugh, even though I know it’s probably true, and Angie’s eyes softened and crinkled behind her red glasses in a mixture of kindness and concern.

Laughing still kind of catches me off guard, because it’s been few and far between. It’s been twenty-five days since Jack. Twenty-five days—I glance at my iPhone for the time—two hours and forty-seven minutes. I’ve been keeping a countdown, which is probably the stupidest thing I could do, because countdowns are supposed to be for getting to some sort of end result. But I’m already at the end result. So I’m just counting aimlessly, and for what reason? To keep track of how long I’ve been miserable? And yet still, I count.

I lift the turkey sub to my mouth, my tongue darting out to catch the drip of sweet onion sauce. Too late. Sighing, I set down the sandwich, dip a napkin in my glass of water and dab at the stain. Jack would be laughing at me right now, eyes dancing, perfect lips turned up in a devastating grin.

Oh, God. Shouldn’t have gone there. My eyes begin to sting, and I blink hard. Think of good, life-brightening things, Mads. Good things like the phone call the other night from Corey who is thankfully doing great. Good things like hot apple cider on the stove and great big belly laughs with Laney and sleeping in on Saturday mornings.

A few raps on my office door before it opens. Jordan, breezing in with her long brown curls springing at her shoulders. It’s virtually impossible to be sad around this ray of sunshine in her shirt dress and jangly earrings. Plus, she has cookies.

“Angie and I almost forgot to give you the best part,” she grins. “Not that they’re even close to what you make. What were those ones you brought in on Tuesday?”

“Oatmeal butterscotch chocolate chip.”

“Oh, yeah. They were awesome.” She slides the cookie bag across my desk. “You, um, change your mind about asking someone to the gala?”

I can’t help but smile. “You poor thing. Angie put you up to this, didn’t she?”

Her brown eyes widen in innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But maybe. Actually, yes.” She smiles sheepishly. “We think you should.”

“Jordan.”

“Maddie. Come on. Just think about it.”

“If you’re suggesting that I ask Jack...”

“I am. We are. What do you have to lose, seriously?”

“My pride?”

“Swallow it. Swallow him, for God’s sake. But just call him. What if he’s thinking the same thing you are?”

“Which would be...”

“That being apart sucks. It can’t hurt to ask him, right? If he says no, maybe that’ll give you more resolve to move on. And if he says yes...geesh, Maddie, at the very least, you get to lay eyes on that gorgeous hunk of male flesh again.”

I reach into the cookie packet, take one out and bite into it. “M & M. Thanks.”

“Maddie.” Jordan grabs the phone off my desk and shakes it at me.

I take it from her, huffing in mock exasperation. But I’m not exasperated with her; I’m grateful, because she makes sense. I can tell myself I’m doing this so I can hear him say no, which will give me strength to put him in the past and move forward.

I will ignore the fourth of July sparkler-feeling in my chest at the chance that he might actually say yes.

Jordan’s smiling at me. She’s seen the change in my face, gives me a double-thumbs up and blows me a kiss on her way out.

Deep breaths. Scroll through my contacts. Find him. Tap the number.

It’s ringing. Of course it’s ringing, because I called him, but God, it’s ringing, and in just seconds, I might even be talking to—

“Hey, Callaway. What’s up?”

Even though I’m sitting down, the sound of Jack’s voice again after twenty-five days turns my knees to jelly. More deep breaths so I don’t slide out of my office chair and have Angie find me in a puddle under my desk, although he sounds so casual—like it’s no big deal that I’m calling.

“Madeline? You there?”

I clear my throat. “Yes! Sorry—was just...eating a cookie.” Moron! Could I sound any more idiotic? “How are you?”

“I’m good. And you?”

Desperately, hopelessly missing you, Jack. “I’m fine, thanks. Is this a good time? Are you working?”

“I’m driving. On my way to see my father.”

“Oh...is he all right?

“He’s fine.” A chuckle. “Back to his old bastard self.”

“I guess that’s good, then.” I switch the phone to my other ear, pick up a pen, tap it on my desktop. My hands feel damp and cold. Deep breath. “Well...I was calling to ask you something. For a favor.”

“All right. Ask away.”

Just do it, Madeline. Like ripping off a bandaid. “My company goes to this charity gala every year. It’s a fundraiser for pediatric cancer—a big one. Most of the area businesses go. There’s dinner, and dancing. Anyway, I was wondering...if you’d go with me.”

“When is it?”

“Next weekend. Friday night. I know it’s short notice, so if you have other plans, I totally understand. Or even if you don’t have plans...I mean, that’s absolutely fine if you can’t.” I’m babbling now, filling up the air space between us with stupid words because I’m so afraid he’ll say no.

There’s a layer of quiet amusement in his voice that makes me curl my toes. “I don’t have other plans, Callaway.”

I realize I was holding my breath, waiting for his answer, because I make this little sound that’s like a balloon when you let out just a tiny bit of air. “Really?”

“Yes, really. That sounds like fun.”

“Okay. That’s great, thank you. It’s formal—black tie. I hope that’s all right?”

“I’ll have to dust off my tux, but that’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get in touch with you mid-week about it, if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

“And Jack...um, just so you’ll know...” I don’t know how to say this except for to just come right out and say it. “I’m not expecting anything other than your company. This is just...platonic.” The word tastes metallic on my tongue.

Another soft chuckle. “I’m not worried, Callaway. Talk soon.”

I end the call and sit there, trying to process what just happened as a thrill skates up my spine. Platonic, I remind myself firmly. Two acquaintances going to a charity event. One person doing another person a favor. That’s all.

Platonic.

Okay. With that settled, I turn my attention back to the market analysis. Two and a half baths...check. Two-car garage...check. Full basement...check. Pressure-treated deck...check.

Deck.

Big Deck...charity gala...next Friday. Check.

Eight days. Eight days until I see Jack again.

This is a countdown I’m going to like.