We’re only five minutes into Friday’s staff meeting, and Timothy has already used the word synergy 15 times by my count. I have trouble staying awake during these meetings under the best of circumstances, but after last night’s long call with my dad, it feels almost impossible. He’s called twice this week, which means he’s on another downward spiral. I’m sure my mother hoped—though she would never say it—that the move here, away from his friends and past, would give him a clean start. Instead he’s lonely, and my father’s solution to every unhappy feeling is to make it go away with booze.

I feel my cell buzzing in my lap and surreptitiously check it, only to discover that I am missing a call from Rob. Timothy says synergy again, and I picture winging the phone at his head. I imagine the clunk it would make on impact, the shock on his face. It’s small consolation for being stuck here.

When the meeting’s over, I go outside to call Rob back, positioning myself in a patch of sunlight to stay warm. I love Harper, but she won’t hesitate to shout commentary over our shared cubicle wall if I’m there.

He answers, and I hear rustling in the background, which forewarns me that he’s busy and about to rush me off the phone for another of his super-fun nights out. I’m annoyed before he’s even said a word.

“I’ve got to run here because people are waiting,” he says. “But I wanted to let you know, it looks like we’re not getting out of here until the end of July.”

“July,” I repeat blankly.

It’s April. He was supposed to be home the first week of May, and that was bad enough, but July?

“They’re bringing in new staff to replace some of the people here, and we can’t even begin the transition until that’s done. None of us are happy about it but…”

He continues to speak, but I have stopped listening. I don’t want him to justify this to me. Does he really think I care deeply whether or not the transition is a success? I don’t. All I’m thinking is this: July is three months away. The end of July means two-thirds of the summer will be over.

“What about Olivia’s race?” I ask, my voice devoid of inflection, barely a whisper.

We already have our plane tickets. We were going to fly into Reno and spend a day in Tahoe before we drove up.

“I think the tickets are refundable, but you should still go,” he says. His tone is encouraging, as if he’s being kind somehow when he’s actually bailing on our first trip together in a year. “It’ll still be fun.”

Yeah, nothing like a trip to Tahoe alone, Rob.

I tell him I wish he’d spoken to me first, and he simply continues to justify the decision, telling me what a big deal this is for the company. I dig my nails into my hands to silence my reply. To avoid saying “I don’t give a flying fuck about the transition, Rob, and this isn’t fair.”

I hold all of it in. It’s easy enough to do because I’ve done it my entire life. But as he continues to speak I only hear the words three months. Three months. Only two weeks have passed, and I’m already going crazy. How the hell am I going to stomach three months?

I stew about it all day, and I’m still not over it that evening as I finish up an op-ed demanded last-minute by the chancellor’s office. It’s after 7 PM, and I’m scrounging through my desk for something to approximate dinner—which will apparently consist of Tic Tacs and one mangled cereal bar—when Harper emerges from the bathroom, clad in five-inch black heels and a tiny black dress.

“Wow, Harper. I don’t know who this guy is, but I guarantee he’s going to like that outfit.”

She grins wickedly, winking at me. “As long as he doesn’t make me wear it for long.”

I laugh, but feel a squeeze of envy. I miss that—the excitement, the anticipation, the way just getting ready felt like foreplay. But Rob doesn’t notice what I wear, and sometimes it hardly seems like he notices me. He just finds enough bare skin somewhere under the sheets to make things work. Sex with us is now like a shortcut through the woods, everything trampled down by repetition to make it easy, straight to the point. I guess that’s a good thing. It’s just that sometimes, when I see Harper heading toward a destination she can’t begin to predict, I feel like I’m missing out on something I shouldn’t be.

* * *

When I get home, there’s a FedEx envelope on the front step waiting for Brendan. If it weren’t about to rain, I’d be tempted to leave it. Instead, with vast reluctance, I go out back and tap on his door. Three crisp knocks: my civic duty and not a shred more.

He has 30 seconds to answer before I throw it and walk. I’ve counted to 25 when he opens the door.

“This was at my place for you,” I say, thrusting the envelope toward him.

He takes it from my hand, studying me a little too carefully, and steps aside for me to enter. I really don’t want to go in, given that I suspect he’s made our pool house smell like sex and bad decisions, but I can’t come up with a reason to demur.

My eyes are drawn to the center of the room. “You hung a hammock in the living room?” I ask incredulously.

“I checked with Rob first.”

“But…why? You already have a bed.”

He shrugs. “I like to mix things up.”

“Are you talking about sleeping in the hammock or something else?”

He gets this secretive smile on his face. “Hammocks are good for a lot of things, Erin.”

“Oh my God. You can’t have sex in a hammock. You’ll fall out and crush the poor girl to death. I’m almost positive our liability insurance doesn’t cover that.”

He gives me a crooked grin, a little light in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment earlier. “Haven’t had an accident yet. Maybe I’m a little more agile than the guys you know.”

I make some noise that sounds an awful lot like “harrumph,” which is something only portly old men in Dickens’ novels make. But this information sits poorly, right on the heels of Rob’s announcement that he’s not coming home. I’m not asking for that much. I don’t need some stranger eagerly removing my little black dress. I don’t need hours of sex in hammocks with men whose agility is almost unfathomable to me. But I need something more than I have, which is nothing at the moment.

He frowns. “I can take the hammock down if it really bothers you.”

I bite my lip and feel an unexpected urge to cry, though I have no idea why, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it in front of Brendan. He’d enjoy it too much.

“It’s fine. The hammock’s fine.”

He steps closer, and his proximity makes me feel fluttery and unsettled. “You talked to Rob?”

“Yes.” I swallow. The urge to cry grows. Maybe Brendan knew about Rob’s trip getting extended before I did, and that bothers me too. “I guess you heard he’s staying longer.”

He nods as his eyes roam over my face, and for once there’s no smirk. It’s possible I even see concern there, as unlikely as that is. Olivia was right; Brendan has changed since he left. He’s grown more serious these past few years. The old Brendan would have made a joke, no matter how inappropriate the circumstances. The new version of Brendan seems to understand grief a little better.

“You’re upset.”

“It’s fine,” I say, but my voice catches a little. “I have no reason to be upset.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be upset? He’s your fiancé.”

“I just…” I don’t know why I’m discussing this with him. We aren’t friends. It’s going to turn into something he uses against me later. “It’s not like I see that much of him when he’s home.”

Something flickers over Brendan’s face—a sort of displeasure, distaste—and I wonder if he thinks that was a complaint.

“So what’s different then?” he asks.

It’s the question I’ve asked myself a hundred times. “He filled just enough of my hours when he was home that I felt like I had a point or a purpose,” I reply. “And I’ve suddenly discovered I have neither.”

A muscle ticks in Brendan’s jaw, and for a millisecond he seems angry, making me regret every word I just said. I’m sure he’s somehow turning this into one more piece of evidence that Rob should have dumped me long ago.

“Never mind.” I sigh, heading for the door.

“Erin.” His voice stops me just as my hand reaches the doorknob. “You should figure that out before Rob gets back.”

I shoot him the nastiest look I can muster. “Yes, Brendan, thank you. I’m well aware of all the ways you think I’m not good enough for Rob. I’ll add this to the list.”

“Who ever said I thought you weren’t good enough for him?” he asks.

“You did, every time you ever tried to talk him out of dating me.”

“Sometimes people just aren’t a good fit,” he says. “It doesn’t mean one of you isn’t good enough.”

I roll my eyes and reach for the door. “Give me a break, Brendan. You told him he was making a mistake a thousand times. It’s pretty clear why you said it.”

He starts to argue, but then his jaw snaps shut. “You understand a lot less than you think you do.”

I open the door and let it slam. I’ve heard enough of Brendan’s bullshit to last me the rest of my life.