She leaves me alone then and I breathe a sigh of relief.
I force myself to focus on replying to emails—there’s over two hundred so it’s going to take awhile. I’m grateful that so many people are interested in working with me—and city people, at that—but it’s a bit overwhelming. After answering close to thirty emails, I decide to take a break. It’s probably not a good idea, because the chances of me going back to work are slim, but I can’t take another second of staring at my computer. I go to shove my keyboard back under the desk when my pen goes flying through the air.
“Stupid pen,” I mumble to myself and climb under my desk to retrieve it.
While I’m under there, I happen to look up at the underside of my desk. Taped beneath it is a paper crane. I gasp, and my heart momentarily stops before restarting and picking up speed.
Ben.
It’s like he’s speaking to me from beyond the grave.
I carefully peel away the tape and the paper crane comes loose. I want to open it and read it immediately, but at the same time I want to savor the moment.
I opt for savoring.
I slowly peel open the wings of the bird to find what he’s written.
“Why didn’t the lifeguard save the hippie?
Because he was too far out.”
Right about now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me and saying, “You and your stupid jokes.” But I know you secretly love my stupid jokes. You know what else I know? You’re smiling right now.
Love you.
—Ben
He’s right. I’m smiling. Not a little smile, but a full-blown grin. Despite my smile, I feel tears creep into my eyes.
“Oh, Ben,” I whisper. “What has become of us. When did our love story become a tragedy?”
I take a deep, shaky breath and refold the bird. I climb out from under my desk and let out a scream when I find my dad standing in the doorway.
“Any particular reason why you’re under your desk?” He raises a brow, holding his hands behind his back.
“I dropped my pen and then I found this.” I hold up the paper crane for him to see.
“Ah.” He nods.
“What are you hiding?” I ask, nodding at his still hidden hands.
He smiles sheepishly and holds out a plate. “I made you lunch—I figured you’d use lunch as an excuse to stop working.” My dad knew me way too well. “So here.” He sets the plate on my desk. I eye the sandwich. It’s a mess—seriously, it looks like a bear mauled it. Before I can say anything, he says, “I know it looks bad, but I tried. Give your old man some credit.”
“It’s great. Thanks, Dad.”
He stands by my desk. “Aren’t you going to take a bite?”
I stare at the ham and mustard sandwich and my stomach rolls. “Um…”
“Come on, Kid, one bite?” he pleads.
“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I promise it has nothing to do with your sandwich making skills.” He frowns. “Fine,” I groan. “I’ll take one bite.”
He brightens immediately. “I made one for myself too,” he says. “It was good, I promise.”
I lift the sandwich and nearly gag from the smell, but I swallow back the bile and take a bite. I chew slowly and the texture of the meat and bread is too much.
“I’m gonna be sick,” I cry, and launch out of my desk chair. I run into the hall bathroom and fall to the floor, throwing up all the contents in my stomach—which isn’t much.
My dad appears in the bathroom and grabs my hair, holding it back while I’m sick.
“Jeez, I’m sorry, Kid.” He rubs my back, trying to soothe me. “I guess I shouldn’t have pushed you—was it really that bad?”
I finish retching and he lets go of my hair. I stand and rinse out my mouth.
“No, Dad, I think I’m getting sick.” I lean against the counter, suddenly feeling weak. I bend down and grab a cloth from the cabinet and dampen it with cool water. I press it to my forehead and take deep breaths through my mouth.
“Blaire …” He hesitates in the doorway, seeming unsure if he wants to continue what he has to say.
“What?” I prompt.
“Nothing.” He waves a hand dismissively.
“Dad?” I raise a brow. “Spit it out.”
He sways slightly—something he only does when he’s super nervous. “Do you think maybe you’re pregnant?”
Shutters come down over my eyes, and I give him the most withering glare I can muster. “We both know that’s not possible.”
He shrugs. “Those things are wrong all the time. Maybe it was too early or somethin’. I don’t know.”
“I’m not pregnant, dad,” I say harshly. The last thing I need right now is false hope. My heart can only handle so much heartbreak. “I just have a bug or something, that’s all.”
He nods. “Fine. Sure.” He doesn’t look convinced.
“Seriously,” I say, moving past him and back into my office. I gag at the smell of the sandwich. I pick up the plate and turn around, practically shoving it at him. “Thanks for trying, Dad, but get this out of here.”
“Is there somethin’ else I can make you?”