Page 2 of Don't Remind Me
“I wasn’t stalking her.” Which was true. I’d hidden her and Alec’s posts from my feed years ago to avoid this very thing. “A mutual friend from college posted a photo with her, and I just…got curious.”
The fact that the photo showed up on my feed the morning after I’d had another dream about Alec was just the universe being cruel.
But this was the pattern. Whenever I managed to push aside thoughts of Alec and what might have been long enough to feel like I’d truly moved on—finally—my subconscious decided to throw him back in my face while I was asleep, drudging up every ounce of longing, desire, and heartbreak I’d once had for him.
It didn’t matter that it was only a dream, or that we’d broken up years ago, or that, from the little I knew about her from college friends and social media, I actuallylikedStephanie for Alec. Every time I woke up from a dream that featured him—even if all we did was wave to each other across a disjointed dreamscape—those feelings were as fresh as if we’d been together yesterday.
It was like my body remembered what it was like to love him, and no matter how much my brain tried to let go, my body wasn’t ready to.
Worst of all was that as much as it hurt to be reminded of it all again, it also feltgood. Better than anything I’d felt with another person. And a part of me wondered if maybe Alec was my one chance to experience it, and I’d let him go.
“I’m curious if you ever plan to go on an actual date,” Robin said. “You’ve lived in Philly for six months, and so far, your dreams are the only place you’ve seen any action. Maybe if you stepped up your real-world game, your brain would cool it on the ex porn.”
I snorted. “My dreams aren’t remotely porn-like.” I’d almost prefer if they were. At least then I might get an orgasm once in a while instead of just angst.
“My point stands. We need to get you a himbo to bone. Or at the very least a hot bartender. In my experience, they’ve got skills—the female ones anyway. I assume the skill set crosses genders.”
“It does,” Kelly said, inspecting her nails.
Robin snapped her fingers and pointed at Kelly.
“Noted.” I stood from my chair, writing pad in hand. “But boning will have to wait until after my meeting. And probably until after the symposium is over, seeing as once the last of the funding comes through, the only things I’ll be dreaming about are panelist speakers and venue decor.”
Robin flashed her brows. “Kinky.”
In her dreams, they probably would be.
I swatted her ass with my notepad and headed for the conference room.
I was the first one there, which gave me time to scan my notes again before my boss and the board member we were meeting with arrived. I could already recite the details of this event better than my own life story, down to the last cent of the budget and minute of the schedule, but being too prepared was the only thing that made me feel prepared enough. Especially when it came to the symposium.
It wasn’t the first event of this kind I’d ever planned—I’d helped put together a few multiday conference/fundraisers in the past and knew what needed to be done—I’d just never been the one in charge. The one making the decisions instead of simply executing them. Top that off with the fact that this was HBC’s first time hosting an event of this scaleandthe first event I was organizing since getting hired, and I wanted to make sure it was as close to perfect as possible. Not just to prove my boss was right to hire me but because this event mattered.
It wasn’t some pointless golf tournament dressed up as charity or a corporate retreat that was just an excuse to get drunk on the company dime. I’d planned enough of those that if I’d been the one playing golf, I’d be goddamn Tiger Woods by now. And I’d rather trust fall with a hornet nest than coordinate another team-building exercise.
This event wasn’t for show. It was a three-day symposium bringing together nationwide experts to speak on reducing pregnancy-related mortality and a fundraiser for HBC’s first-ever prenatal health clinic and birthing center.
As a nonprofit, HBC’s mission had always been to help low-income people carry out healthy pregnancies, but this was the first time they were going about it in such a direct way. The clinic they aimed to build—weaimed to build—would provide comprehensive care to those who couldn’t otherwise afford it. And the project couldn’t move forward if this symposium didn’t raise enough cash.
As the new marketing and events manager, it was my job to ensure it did. And that couldn’t happen if we didn’t secure this final sponsor.
Laughter came from the hallway, and through the glass walls of the conference room, I spotted Talia and another woman approaching.
“Oh, Dani, wonderful,” Talia said as they walked through the door. Her smile shone as brightly as her yellow blazer against the deep brown of her complexion. It was a genuine smile too. One I was still sometimes surprised to see from HBC’s chief communications officer and my boss. Affection hadn’t exactly been a quality of many of my former supervisors.
I stood as they rounded to my side of the long table, and Talia gestured to the shorter white woman beside her. She looked older than Talia by a decade or so, in her fifties maybe, and carried the confidence every one of those years afforded her. “This is Jillian Matice, a member of our board whom I don’t believe you’ve met.”
I extended my hand to Jillian. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Jillian offered a warm smile as her manicured hand gripped mine in a firm shake. “The pleasure’s all mine. Talia has been raving about you,” she said with a wink.
My chest tightened, nerves overwhelming any pride the praise might have brought. I tried to hide them with my own smile. “We’re so grateful for your help with the symposium.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Talia said, crossing her arms with the triumphant look of a negotiator who’d just closed a deal. “Jillian’s committed Matice Enterprises as a full sponsor for the eventandhas generously offered up her new restaurant to cater the whole thing.”
The relief rising in my chest took a hard left and crash-landed somewhere around my spleen. “That’s…” No words came. My brain was too busy cataloging what a change in caterer meant for my production schedule.
The menus would need to be updated, for starters. Which would require adjusting the dinnerware order, redesigning the place cards, and probably adding the restaurant’s branding. That had the potential to be a whole thing in itself, depending on the branding style. The website would need to be updated, along with the invitations and email correspondence…and at least a dozen other things.
