Love Interest

I don’t remember anything about my fourth interview other than the fact that I love Alex Harrison, I’m tired of saying words, and I need to ask Dad to please upgrade the Wi-Fi.

I’m done by noon, which is the close of business in London. Alex comes into our room and pulls me into bed, hugging me horizontally. Our legs are tangled under the covers. The heat from a floor vent is pumping into the room, cloaking the air in a hazy, metallic warmth that has my eyelids drooping. The way he’s holding me, kissing my temple, both of us silent because there’s too much to say, has my mind reeling, recalibrating everything I thought I knew.

Here’s the truth: my feelings for Alex were never casual. Not even when I hated him did I do it casually. I’m as emotionally invested in him as I am with this dream job. In my head, the importance of it and the importance of him are on exactly equal footing.

I love him so much that part of me doesn’t want this job. I love him so much that I’m glad the BTH launch got denied. Maybe he’ll be forced to stay in New York longer. Maybe we both will, together. A pit of despair wells up inside me, my chest tight with something sweet and lovely that wants to morph into anger. Because I have never loved like this, and it is entirely Alex’s fault.

I think I might never forgive him.



* * *



By New Year’s Eve, Miriam’s back in town, and Alex and I meet up with her, Sasha, and Miguel, who are fresh off a flight from Chicago and staying in a swanky hotel downtown. Miriam and I give the tourists the highlights of the city, cruising around in her family’s minivan. We stop at the I BELIEVE IN NASHVILLE sign, Music Row, a hot chicken restaurant, even Bobbie’s Dairy Dip.

“Casey,” Miriam says. “We are so close to that sketchy Mexican restaurant we used to drink margaritas at in high school. Should we go back there?”

“As much as I love this reminiscing for you,” Sasha says from the back seat, “could we get margaritas somewhere … I don’t know, cooler?”

“Spoilsport,” Miriam grumbles.

“I want the Nashville experience!”

“That would have been—”

“I want the tacky tourist experience!”

“Mir,” I interject. “Just head downtown. Let’s beat the traffic and get this girl on a mechanical bull before sundown.”

It’s a disaster, if a hilarious one. The bull always wins. I tried to warn her.



* * *



At 11:59, under a space heater on the rooftop of a Broadway honky-tonk we paid a whopping $180 to access, the countdown of Ten! Nine! Eight! ringing out with the power of a thousand drunken voices, Alex takes my face in his hands, and I know he’s in love with me when we get to five.

He’s so gorgeous right now, the neon lights of the bar across the street painting him an inky blue. He looks almost like fiction. Like he can’t be real. But he’s also looking at me like that. Like I can’t be real, either.

When we get to four, he says it, his eyes on mine, and in them, I see a million colors inside of one. “I love you.” I can’t hear his voice, but I’ve already memorized the shape of his lips.

On three, I say, “I love you, too,” positive he can’t hear me, either.

We kiss on two, letting those extra few seconds go fuck themselves.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


“What do you want to do this morning?” I whisper. “On your last day in Nashville.”

“The Parthenon,” Alex whispers back.

We’re sitting at the kitchen table, staring at each other over two mugs of coffee and one stale blueberry muffin. There’s no cause for whispering, yet here we are. Because sometimes, after you admit you’re in love, everything besides that admission needs to get a little quieter.

“The Parthenon,” I repeat.

“Yeah. Remind me why there’s a Parthenon replica in Nashville?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Can we go?” he asks. “I have so many questions.” And since I’m with love with him, of course the answer is yes.

We pack up our suitcases now so we can grab them and head to the airport right after our excursion. Jerry and Dad spent New Year’s Eve at Jerry’s sister’s lake house, and I’ve already bidden them farewell, no clue when I’ll see them next, or where I’ll be coming from when I do.

On the drive to midtown in Dad’s car, Alex and I are mostly quiet. I don’t know what he’s thinking so hard about, but for the first time in a while, I know my own mind.

Alex is my person. You don’t keep secrets from your person, especially not ones they’re wrapped up in.

I have to tell him about the acquisition, today.

Other than one field trip in middle school, I’ve never paid much attention to the Parthenon, but now that I’m really considering it, I have to admit it’s pretty cool, all sprawling and stately. When Alex and I get out of the car, we look at it, then awkwardly glance at each other, and then look back at the Parthenon. Simultaneously, we burst out laughing.

“Well.” I gesture. “There it is!”

“Can you go inside?”

I check my phone. “Closed today.”

Alex nods, his hand shooting out to grab me. “This Parthenon,” he murmurs in my ear, still laughing, “is somehow both exceeding and falling wildly short of my expectations.”

“Art does mirror life,” I quip.

The buzz of my phone dissipates the electricity snapping between us.

“That your folks?” Alex asks.

But that ringtone isn’t for a phone call; it’s a corporate call through our company chat app from the recruiter assigned to my job application. Together, Alex and I look down at her name blinking across my phone screen.

“It’s New Year’s Day,” I say, shell-shocked.

“Answer it,” he whispers, letting me go.

With shaking fingers, I accept the call and press my phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Casey? Sorry for calling so late. Or—wait, I guess it’s not that late for you?” Her voice is clear and distinctly British.

“It’s four thirty.” I gulp. “In the afternoon.”

“Oh! Great. I just had to let you know as soon as I got word! LC is officially offering you the travel cost manager position.”

Alex overhears. He grins wide, pulling me against his chest.

“Oh.” I readjust my phone, slippery in my palm. My heartbeat is beat, beat, beating against my eardrums. “That’s great to hear.”

“Yes! I’m sure you’re busy, but I thought telling you now would be a nice holiday surprise before we all get slammed with work tomorrow. We’re offering a twenty percent increase on your current salary. The start date would be the Monday of the first week of fiscal February, so I think that’s, like, the last couple of days of calendar January. I know it’s soon, but we’re very eager to have you.”

“Okay.” I am numb.

One month.

One month one month one month—

“I’m going to send over an email with the offer letter, the benefits, the moving support package, work visa information, et cetera. Take a look at the documentation and we’ll talk tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say again.

“Great. Happy New Year, Casey.”

“Happy New Year.”

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