Chapter 12

JACK DOBSON HAS SENT YOU A FRIEND REQUEST.

It didn’t show up in my notifications in all caps. But it felt like an all caps kind of announcement.

I was about to click accept, but the tingle of anticipation that swept up from my stomach stopped me. I set my phone down and turned to stare out of my office window. The bail bondsman billboard showed a suave-looking dude trying to guarantee me a bail bond, but it was old and peeling. Part of the paper with his right eye printed on it had come loose and it fluttered, turning him from a one-eyed pirate to a James Bond wannabe and back to a pirate again.

I should not be so excited to see Jack’s friend request in my inbox. I should only feel a pleasant little ripple of recognition, like, “Oh, that Jack guy sent me a friend request.”

This was not a big deal. So why was I staring at my phone and experiencing an existential crisis about whether to pick it up and press “Accept”?

It was honestly bizarre. I didn’t have a history of bad romantic relationships. Yeah, my parents had divorced, but I didn’t carry much baggage over it. They were happier apart and got along well enough. I didn’t have a problem committing. Not really.

I mean, maybe a little. But not for any deep reasons, like past trauma. I dated nice guys. Nice, normal, well-adjusted guys. But I never felt that…thing. That thing they showed in romance movies and books where I needed another person as much as I needed to breathe. That thing where time apart felt like years and time together sped by like seconds.

I’d also never felt the electric current that had run up from my center because some guy had sent me a Facebook friend request.

And Jack was just some guy. A funny guy, yeah. But just some guy. Some guy with bad hair and good Photoshopping skills.

Just some guy. Yes. And a friend request was no big deal.

I picked up my phone and accepted it. Less than a minute later, it vibrated with a DM from Jack.

I refused to overthink it and opened my messages.

JACK: Good morning.

EMILY: Not really.

JACK: Uh-oh. What’s wrong?

I couldn’t remember for a hazy second. A few minutes ago work had been terrible, and then he’d sent a friend request, and then I forgot that I’d been in the middle of a work crisis about…oh, yeah.

EMILY: The breakroom has no coffee.

JACK: Don’t you work at a tech company?

EMILY: How did you know that?

JACK: It’s in your profile.

It was, but we were a startup, one that didn’t have a lot of name recognition. Very few people besides our direct clients even knew us by name. And all I’d put was our name. So that meant…

EMILY: Did you research my company?

JACK: No.

EMILY: Then how’d you know I’m at a tech company?

JACK: You’re in San Francisco. That’s what everyone does.

EMILY: No. That’s what everyone in Silicon Valley does. San Francisco is a whole lot of everything. Confess: you looked it up.

JACK: …

JACK: …

JACK: I didn’t. But…

EMILY: ???

JACK: Sean told me what you do.

Which meant Sean had found out from Ranée. But…why? I didn’t mind that Jack knew. My job wasn’t by any means top secret. I just didn’t get why Sean was so invested in trying to connect Jack with someone who lived six hundred miles away.

JACK: Is it a problem that I know?

EMILY: No. But turnabout is fair play. What do you do?

JACK: You didn’t tell me. It’s not really even if I tell you, is it?

EMILY: So I’ll ask Ranée. Ooh, or Google you.

JACK: Good luck with that. But we’re off subject.

EMILY: We were on a subject?

JACK: Yes. Your tragic coffee situation. I thought tech companies ran on coffee. Isn’t that GROUNDS for a strike?

EMILY: That joke is.

JACK: That’s fair. But honestly, it’s not right for a tech company to be out of coffee. Do you work in one of those buildings with a lobby café? Do you have a minion you can send to fetch some for you?

EMILY: No café. And I do have an assistant, but I need her too much for actual work to send her on coffee runs. I’m gonna sit here and suffer.

JACK: I’m going to make you the perfect digital cup of coffee. How do you take it up there in your fancy skyscraper penthouse executive suite?

EMILY: You mean my eighth-floor not-even-corner-office?

JACK: Fine, how do you take your coffee in your glorified cubicle?

EMILY: Venti, black.

JACK: I’ll be honest, I wouldn’t have guessed that.

EMILY: Was I supposed to say something frou-frou because I’m a woman?

JACK: No. Because straight coffee is gross.

EMILY: You’re right. It’s gross. I actually like a latte.

JACK: Hang on…

Five minutes later a picture popped up. It was a coffee cup bristling with enough tropical drink umbrellas to supply a sorority house. It was funny, but I’d expected something a little more for the time it had taken him.

EMILY: I thought maybe Transcendent Seagull was going to make an appearance.

JACK: That’s ridiculous. Seagulls don’t drink coffee.

EMILY: Are you sure? Because they eat Cheetos. I see them do it every time I’m at the beach.

JACK: Transcendent Seagull isn’t a Cheeto eater. That’s offensive.

EMILY: I love Cheetos.

JACK: That’s fine for you. You’re not Transcendent Seagull.

EMILY: What does he eat?

JACK: Prophecies and karma. But you have a latte now. Are you happy?

EMILY: Yes. I’m amazed you knew exactly how frou-frou I like it.

JACK: You seemed like a fifty-three umbrella kind of person. I know these things.

EMILY: Clearly. I’m going to go enjoy this latte. Have a good day.

JACK: Later.

I saved the coffee mug picture. I didn’t think too hard about why, and I definitely didn’t think too hard about why I made it my phone’s wallpaper. Then I turned my phone off completely and set to work reading the latest email chain dealing with a bug in our newest software, determined to put Jack out of mind until work was done.

Which would have worked if my assistant Hailey hadn’t poked her head in through my door fifteen minutes later, a stress pucker wrinkling her forehead. “You know you can ask me to go get you coffee, right?”

“I know.”

“Then why…” She stepped out of the way and a guy carrying a to-go cup printed with the logo of a nearby café walked in. “I would fetch it just because I like you. Now you’re going to have to tip him.”

“The tip was already taken care of,” the delivery guy said. “You’re Emily?”

“Yes. I didn’t order any coffee though.”

He shrugged. “All I know is that someone said to bring a latte here. I’m sorry I’m late, but I had to track down a couple of things.” He set the latte on my desk and then reached into his delivery basket to pull out a bright yellow drink umbrella and a small bag of Cheetos. “I’m supposed to tell you it’s from—”

“Let me guess. Jack?”

“No, some guy named T. Seagull. Have a good day.” He tucked the umbrella into the lid and left with a polite nod.

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. “This is ridiculous.” This is what he’d been up to when he took so long to Photoshop the latte.

Hailey eyed the umbrella. “A little bit ridiculous. Who’s Jack?”

“Nobody. Go back to using your valuable time doing valuable things.”

She cast one more confused glance at the yellow drink umbrella then closed the door behind her. She popped her head right back in. “Nobody? Really?”

“Back to work, Hailey.”

But the door hadn’t even clicked shut before I had Google open to figure out who my nobody really was.