Page 5 of Power Play
It’s faint, vaguely shaped like Australia, and I’ve decided it’s my new emotional support stain. Because every time my brain tries to rerun game night like a highlight reel from hell; Murphy’s smirk, Murphy’s hands, Murphy’s mouth, boom. There’s Australia.
Australia doesn’t flirt back. Australia doesn’t smell of warm laundry and reckless decisions. Australia doesn’t whisper “Why not?” with the kind of sincerity that makes your bones vibrate.
Murphy does.
I groan and yank the duvet over my face.
I need a reset. Like when your phone gets glitchy and you hit the nuclear option. Factory settings. Sophie version 1.0; unbothered, emotionally bulletproof, mildly terrifying. The version of me that wears tailored suits to work and a slouchy band tee, mom jeans, and my wild blonde curls pulled into a high pony tail the rest of the time. And I absolutely do not get flustered by bad boy hockey players with good hair and better timing.
Definitely not the version who blushes at text messages that say:
Murph: Left a slice of pepperoni in the box for you. Figured you’d want something to argue with.
Murph (10 mins later): If you’re ghosting me, at least do it dramatically. For instance, change your name and become a scuba instructor in Bermuda.
I don’t respond.
Instead, I march to work in four-inch heels and mysignature winged eyeliner, armed with a to-do list that includes finishing reports, ignoring Murphy, not daydreaming about Murphy, and maybe schedule a therapy session for my clearly deteriorating sense of self-control.
By mid-morning, I’ve already snapped at the intern twice and accused the coffee machine of gaslighting me. I’m obviously off to a great start.
The problem is, I can’t focus. Every spreadsheet blurs. Every client call echoes. It’s as though my brain’s been hijacked by a six-foot distraction in a backwards cap who once said, “Trust me,” and made me consider it.
Which is dangerous.
Trust is a luxury I don’t afford to men who flirt like it’s a sport and kiss like they’re trying to rewrite your DNA.
“Everything okay?” Marissa, my assistant, peers into my office holding a very judgmental latte.
“Yes,” I snap, too quickly. “Fine. Great.”
“Mmmhmm.” She sets the latte down with a clink. “You’re wearing two different earrings.”
Shit. “I’m testing your attention to detail.”
My hands dart to my ears, fingertips investigating the situation. One hoop. One stud.
Fantastic.
“Reset,” I mutter, spinning my chair around to face the window. “This is fine. I’m fine. It’s all perfectly-”
Buzz.
My phone lights up. Not Murphy this time. Mia.
Mia: Gala’s Saturday. Black tie. No excuses. You owe me after I defended your honour when Murphy said you cheat at card games.
Me: I don’t cheat. I just aggressively interpret the rules.
Mia: Bring a date. Or bring chaos. Either way, wear the red dress.
Of course she knows about the red dress. She saw it once and declared it illegal not to wear it in public. It’s clingy and dramatic and has absolutely no chill, which makes it the opposite of how I feel right now.
Still, the idea of skipping isn’t appealing either. That would mean staying home with Australia and my own thoughts.
And Murphy will be there. Which should be a deterrent but it’s not.
My phone buzzes again. This time itishim.
