Page 72 of Meet Hate Love
As soon as we debarked, he kissed me, told me he’d call me when he arrived safely in Alabama, kissed me one more time, then took off, leaving me Vanceless.
I made my way to baggage claim, trying to find the right word to describe the weird feeling settling in my chest. And as the banged-up luggage cycled around the carousel, I finally figured out what it was. I felt unwhole.
Shaking my head, I grabbed my bright-pink suitcase and headed toward the exit, a little disgusted and a little amazed that I was beingthatgirl.
Three feet away from the baggage claim, the back wheel came off.
Seven steps outside of the front door, my worst fear came true when a pigeon flew straight at me, smacking the side of my face before I could duck. Screeching, I dropped my phone, swatting sky rat feathers from my face as the bird flew off unscathed.
I hadn’t been back in New York for more than an hour before my bad luck demons had started a party. Silver lining, customs had not detained me.
I retrieved my now-cracked phone from the gum-riddle pavement, then started toward the waiting taxi with the wheelless corner of my suitcase scraping the concrete.
Halfway into the city, I pulled up the photo Vance had sent me of the two of us in Paris. We looked happy. We looked right together… Screwed. I was absolutely screwed. Because like a bowl of half-eaten gelato, I was not finished with him. Nowhere close. I swiped off the photo and went to my email, pulling up Wanderlust’s employee handbook Amanda had sent when I’d started a year ago.
I skimmed page after page until I finally found a subsection titled:Employee Dating Policy.
-Workplace romances are strongly discouraged.
-In the event that employees become involved, they cannot report to one another or be of significantly different rank.
-Couples must keep it professional and not act like a couple at work. Which means no PDA and no fighting.
At the very least, we wouldn’t get fired as long as we didn’t fuck in the restroom. We’d have to discuss that when Vance got back to the city.
A text from Margot flashed across the screen just as the driver merged onto Grand Central Parkway.
Have you landed?
Yes.
Next, she sent a screenshot of Vance’s dick in front of the sparkling Eiffel Tower, a Photoshopped beret on top of his engorged head.
I’m just putting it out there. He could oui oui me with his baguette anytime.
If he wasn’t an asshat, of course. Asshats don’t get to oui oui anything.
I stared at the message, debating on how the hell I would break the news that he had, in fact,ouiedouied me with his baguette. Many times.
Bubbles danced across the screen.
You’re taking longer than usual to respond.
I see your read receipt!
Fuck me! Blake? You didn’t?
I panicked, my fingers typing out a string of words that made zero sense, but before I could press send, another message popped up.
You FUCKED him, didn’t you?
I typed in “yes” and then deleted it.
“Yes” seemed too abrupt. While I debated how to respond, the taxi driver slammed on the brakes, sending my phone flying from my hands. He swore at a truck driver who had evidently cut him off while I nearly threw my arm out of its socket, trying to retrieve my phone from the floorboard. When I finally snatched it up, Margot was blowing up my phone.
I can NOT believe you.
I’m your best friend. You’re supposed to fuck and tell. Not fuck and go hide.
