Page 4 of The Probability of Us

Two

AUGUST CURRENT DAY (MONDAY)

“Shit,” I murmur as the Tupperware container full of blondies almost gets knocked out of my hand when I suddenly stop in front of Lola’s Flower Shop. The two blue tulips I keep in the little white vase in my office started to wilt on Friday. I really should pick up new ones, but I’m already running late and have my hands full with these baked goods.

After Friday’s fiasco, I didn’t wake up until midday on Saturday. And even then, I didn’t get out of bed until late afternoon. It was one of those weekends that doesn’t happen as often as it used to when he first left, but still happens more than it should. My mind wouldn’t shut up, dredging up every memory, starting with when we first met. Normally, I keep those memories locked away—buried deep. But the waves of emotions Friday night eroded their hiding place and exposed them again.

Late Saturday night, when I couldn’t sleep, I resorted to making my comfort dessert—his favorite. I love blondies too, but they’ll always behis.

It’s been a while since I felt compelled to make them, and it feels like a step back, but everyone at the office loves them so I just pretend I baked for them.

I make a mental note to stop by the flower shop tomorrow morning as I rush to make the next crosswalk. The executives from Vitality will be arriving just after lunch and Clara texted me, letting me know there’s a lot to go over before they do. Luckily, I can make quality coffee in the office because there’s no time to stop at Kallia for a latte either. I splurged on an espresso maker last Christmas and still end up buying coffee most days, but it’s nice to have it for days like this one.

The modern-looking, glass building glows in the morning sun, like a beacon, as I round the corner. I almost drop the blondies again trying to open the door, and nod at the security guard at the front desk as I head toward the elevator. Clara wanted to rent out a higher floor originally, but my fear of heights vetoed that idea so we ended up on the third floor.

The workspace embraces an open atmosphere. High-walled cubicles like all of my old jobs sported, have been traded out for long tables with multiple workstations. The offices are grouped in the middle of the floor—a blessing to me, because even the third floor makes my stomach queasy if I have to stare out a window all day. But as I weave across the floor, I feel many eyes following the blondies, and I make another mental note to lock my office door anytime I leave. I learned quickly that if I don’t, they’ll all be gone before lunch. The process also tends to go smoother when I’m there to moderate.

My baking quickly became a hit here, and word spreads fast whenever I bring a new treat in. Things have been hectic lately, so it’s been a few weeks since I last baked. The war-ready look in the eyes of the people I pass makes me think it’s only made the cravings worse.

I drop my bag in the cubby next to my desk, setting the blondies on the coffee cart next to my espresso machine, in front of the vase of flowers that needs replacing. I start the espresso machine and move around the room, gathering what I need for this meeting in the meantime.

People immediately file into the room and grab at the blondies. I cut everyone off at one slice and use the excuse that we need to save some for the guests coming later so they don’t disappear in the first fifteen minutes. There are some grumblings at that rule—most people like to grab an extra to have with lunch—but everyone adheres to my guidelines.

As soon as the espresso is done, I add oat milk and a few pumps of mocha syrup, then gather my belongings, usher people out of the room, lock the office door, and head off to the meeting—hoping to get a few more answers than I currently have.

* * *

“All right, everyone understands the schedule?” Clara eyes the three of us after explaining the plan for the next two weeks. She looks stressed and exhausted, and the day has barely begun. I nod, along with Jason, our director of Partner Relations.

Serge, our Director of Implementation, asks, “So, what exactly is our role in this?”

Clara sighs, and I don’t blame her. She’s covered this in emails and multiple meetings over the past week, but Serge is the kind of person who’s brilliant at his job but cares little for anything else. “I’ve paired each of you with one of their executives that best matches the line of work you do. I’m paired with the CEO, Peter. Analise is with the CFO, Mitch. Jason is with the CMO, Mackenzie. And you, Serge, are with the COO, Ben. What that means is you are that person’s main point of contact during their stay here. You will show them around the office, answer their questions, and give them suggestions for what to do in town if they need them, etc. You are the main representative for our company to your partner, so represent us well.”

I study the schedule again and notice there’s supposed to be a group dinner tonight. “Do we have anything planned for dinner tonight yet?” Clara’s eyes go wide at my question, so I’m assuming she completely forgot about the dinner. “I know of a great Italian place in Buena Park with a beautiful view of the city. We’ll need people to drive there, but it’d be a great introduction to the city.”

And it’s been a while since I’ve been there. Just because it used to beourplace, doesn’t meanIcan’t still go. I won’t let him ruin all my favorite things in this city.

But even as I think it, my chest gets tight.

“That sounds great. Please, book it. Thanks, Analise.”

I nod, and after a reminder that we’ll be meeting back in the main conference room at noon, Clara dismisses us. Jason tries to catch my attention, but I leave the room and move as fast as I can, ignoring the way his eyes drop to my ass as I stand, hoping he won’t follow. I don’t want to deal with him right now. I don’t want to deal with him ever really, but there’s only so much I can do about that.

When I get back to my office, I callIl Piacere. The woman who answers has a kind, light voice—a bright voice—and my smile falters. All I can see is a montage of the dates we shared there, of the brightness in his eyes as we talked and laughed a million different times. Eventually, my thoughts drift to the picture frame sitting on my shelf at home. The one I’ve never been able to get rid of no matter how much it hurts me to look at it now. Is it a good idea to go here tonight when memories of him haven’t subsided yet?

“Hello?” the woman says when I don’t answer her first greeting.

I shake my head. No more thoughts of him. It’s time to stop letting him in.

“Hi,” I finally say. “I’d like to make a reservation for eight people tonight, at six, if possible.”

“You said eight people?”

“Yes, and out on the back patio if we could.” The view overlooking the city is so beautiful. I think back to the first time I ate there. I don’t know what made me more speechless that night—the view, or the fact that I was on a first date withhim. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I broke my own rule not ten seconds after I made it.

“We can make that work. What’s the name for the reservation?”

“Analise Summers.”

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