Chapter Forty-Five

Annabel

“This doesn’t fit right. This is weird.”

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in Cynthia’s sister’s bedroom, tugging at the hem of the blazer I’m wearing. It’s the top half of the brand-new business suit Cynthia forced me to buy yesterday in preparation for my new job. Three suits, actually. She wouldn’t listen to me when I insisted it was overkill. She stood in the dressing room and shook her head, pushing for five.

“This isn’t a reality show,” I said to her in the mirror. “I’m still a girl on a budget.”

“Go all in on this, Annabel,” she’d scolded. “It’s like everything else. Worldwide Consulting is going to be great.”

I make a face at her in this mirror, too. “It doesn’t look good.”

“It looks amazing.” She reaches up and brushes at one of her eyelashes. “You look professional. Calm. Cool. Collected. It’s going to be a great first day.”

“I should buy a bus ticket instead.”

“Oh, shut up.” She checks her watch. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Cynthia cheers me on when she drops me off at the Worldwide International building in Midtown. She even forces me to pose for a picture like it’s the first day of school.

“Nobody needs this,” I say through my pasted-on smile.

“You need this,” she says. “You never want to remember anything, and you should. This is going to give you a new version of yourself!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

“Smile bigger!”

I smile. She takes the picture. Then it’s time to go in and face the lobby staff, who have been watching this entire display. To their credit, not one of them laughs to my face or even snickers.

It might not be so bad.

The morning is a whirlwind of handshakes and acronyms. I meet my group manager, the floor manager, and Lisa, the woman I’m going to share a cubicle with. Lisa is tasked with taking me through Worldwide’s computer systems and what she calls the “general workflow,” which is the process we’ll be using to create deliverables for . . . someone. I’m not clear on whether it’s another department within the company or another company entirely.

At lunch I escape to the sidewalk. I want a gyro from a halal cart, and nothing else will do. There’s one four blocks away. I let the sun warm my shoulders while I walk.

My chest aches. It aches all the time, but it aches especially now, when I’d love nothing more than to take out my phone and call Beau. He might agree that the job is bullshit and that we should drive away somewhere, anywhere.

He might, or he might tell me I’m being an irresponsible jackass. The words he said still sting, like a paper cut that won’t heal.

I buy the gyro from the halal cart and eat it on the way back to the office. It’s not so bad. I should let Cynthia know. She’ll be relieved it wasn’t a disaster. More so, she’ll be relieved I can help with the rent this month. I eat the last bite of the gyro and wipe my hands, then throw the wrapping and napkins away into the nearest bin. My phone is the first thing I grab in my purse.

It’s dead.

I roll my eyes hard to get it out of my system. That’s the last straw. Tonight I’m getting a new one. I’ve got a new job, right? It’ll be a little celebration.

I head back into the office. One half day to go, and I’ll have conquered it.

My one wish? That it made me feel the least bit happy.

*****

“This is the newest model, with 256 gigabytes of storage,” says the rep at the phone store, waving his hands like he’s giving a grand presentation. “There are three color options to choose from. Black—”

“I see them,” I say. The color won’t matter. It’ll be covered in a case for most of its life because I’m a rough-and-tumble girl when it comes to phones. They’ve got to last a long time. “The regular black one will be great.” My debate is the storage size. What do I have to take pictures of these days? The inside of my cubicle? Not very inspiring. But this is a celebration, and the thing will be in my life for a while, so I splurge on the one with hundreds of gigabytes to fit pictures of . . . my desk plant, I guess. I’ll get a desk plant.

“Excellent.” The rep beams, then digs in his pocket for a set of keys. He unlocks the shelf below the display, pulls out a gorgeous white box, and hands it to me ceremoniously.

I hold it in my hands in reverent silence. New phones are nice. I can admit that.

Then it’s back to business. “Would you like to activate in-store? You can also make changes to your plan, get a new number, start fresh—”

“That sounds great.” A fresh start. That’s exactly what I need. I can disconnect myself from the past right here, right now.

The rest of the store hums around us while he takes the phone out of the box, hooks it up to a computer that’s sunk into a desk, and starts the process. “It’ll be a few minutes. Did you want a number with a New York City area code?”

“Yeah,” I say absently. I’m listening to the couple at the next desk bicker good-naturedly about whether or not the husband really needs the brand new iPhone or whether he can settle for last year’s model.

“It’s been out six months,” the girlfriend needles. “But I can never say no to you.”

I swallow hard.

The rep hooks up my old phone to his computer, as well. “All I need to do,” he says, “is deactivate this old number here, and—” He clicks around. The moment is nigh.

That’s when the old phone rings.

I see his name in my peripheral vision, and my entire body whooshes with adrenaline. “Stop!” I cry, lunging for the phone, tearing it away from the cord. He stares at me. “I mean—I’m sorry. This is an important call.” I’m fumbling with it, trying to answer it, failing. “Give me one minute, and I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

My thumb finally hits the right spot on the screen to answer the call. I have zero battery. I press the phone to my cheek and try to breathe. “Beau?” If it’s not him, if it’s a butt dial, I will die right here in the middle of this cellular service provider’s overly lit store.

“Annabel,” he says, sounding shocked. “It’s you.”