Noelle August - Boomerang

I’m not angry that she brought Alison back into my life. It’s working out all right. Forcing me to come to terms with the past. And I can’t blame Mia for being the reason I won’t get the job either. Regardless of how it started, I’m the one who went head-to-head with Cookie that morning, and then went behind her back with the video game.

I can’t really tell what I’m pissed about. The goddamn no-dating office policy? Maybe none of this would’ve happened if I’d just gone after Mia like I wanted to in the first place.

“The virtual game’s going to be awesome, Ethan,” Rhett says, breaking our silence.

It’s surprising to hear him call me by my full name, since he usually calls me “E” now. That bugged me a few weeks ago, but now I can’t imagine why.

“Maybe you went rogue on it,” he continues, “but Adam appreciates trailblazers. He’ll be more impressed by your initiative than pissed that you went around Cookie.”

He has no idea what happened between me, Mia, and Cookie at the office on Sunday night. As far as I can tell, no one except the three of us does.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” I say, but it’s a lie. I’m here because I do care. I’m here because I finish what I start, and because I still want the job. I don’t want Mia to lose, but losing isn’t an option for me either. I don’t know where that leaves me. Or us.

“You don’t mean that,” Rhett says, his intuition spot-on as usual.

But my pride won’t let me concede the point, so I shrug and take a long sip of my drink. Then I square my shoulders and focus on being here. In this moment.

Sin City is firing on all cylinders tonight. The vibe around us is charged with the promise of money and sex.

Businessmen. Professional escorts. Bachelor parties. Girls’ weekends. They’re all here to let go of themselves, and it’s close. I can feel it in the air. In two hours’ time, their last thin layers of cool reserve will crack under the pressure of mountains of pent-up desire.

My gaze pulls to the dark-haired girl in a black dress entering the bar.

Mia.

I’m not surprised to see her walk in with Sadie and Paolo. We’re all staying here; it was only a matter of time before she appeared.

I’ve done a spectacular job of avoiding her this week.

Monday I spent the day at the gaming vendor’s warehouse.

Tuesday I was at Winning Displays to check on the booth design.

Wednesday she went there to do the same for her design.

Thursday I worked in the conference room.

And Friday I came into the office at 6 a.m., left at noon, and worked the rest of the day from my apartment.

Where I failed was every freaking night, when I pulled up her picture on my phone.

Rhett peels away from my side and joins Sadie and Paolo at a high bar table. The way they do this, so deliberately, makes me wonder if I’ve been wrong about no one knowing what happened. It’s obvious now they all think Mia and I need to talk.

“Hi,” Mia says, joining me.

I turn toward the bar and rest my elbows on it. “Hey.”

“Haven’t seen you much.”

“Been busy getting ready for this and with practices.” I stare at the spotlit liquor bottles against the back of the bar as I answer. I don’t want to look into her green eyes. I don’t want to see the sadness I know I’ll find there.

“Right,” she says. “Makes sense. How . . . um . . . how’d it go with Parker this week?” she asks after a moment.

My team practices were the only highlights of my week, and I want to tell her about it. I want to tell her how Parker’s like a different kid out there; he and Tyler are this unstoppable duo now. And how Raylene comes to every practice and how she and Rhett have morphed into this cool, normal couple, mellowing each other out. Rhett sweats less now, I want to say. And Raylene isn’t manic anymore. She’s actually pretty nice.

But I don’t tell her any of that.

“Good,” I say. “He’s coming around.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Mia nod, but I get the feeling she senses how much I’m not saying. She pulls a chair over and sits. She orders a drink from the bartender when he comes around.

Then we sit there for long minutes, drinking our drinks, my heart pounding just from being near her.

“I wish you’d talk to me.”

I face her. “That’s what I think too, Mia. Why didn’t you say something after that first date with Alison? Why did you let it go so long?”

“Because I was afraid,” she says, but it comes out like she’s angry. “For a while, it felt like all we had were reasons to not be together. The competition for this job . . . The rules. The way we started, with a one-night stand that neither of us could even remember. I didn’t want to add one more thing. One more reason to drive us apart. Then you started seeing her again, and I—”

“I wasn’t seeing her again.”

“That’s what it looked like. You went on dates with her. You went to Colorado with her. You and I . . . we haven’t done one thing together that we actually chose.”

I realize it’s true. The first night, we happened to be at Duke’s together after meeting with Adam. The second time we kissed, in her mom’s studio, my being there was a coincidence. Working together happened by chance. Even this moment, right now, is a coincidence.

A prickling sensation spreads over my skin, and I feel like I don’t recognize myself. My internal compass is spinning. I’ve lost my north.

I’ve always gone after what I want, but I haven’t done that with her. I don’t think I’ve done that for myself either.

I’m fighting for this job and for my future. For money, so I can pay off my loans and go to law school, but something feels wrong, and I can’t see what it is. It’s like my life’s gone blurry and unfocused.

“Sorry to interrupt your poignant silence,” Paolo says, joining us, “but I just got a text from Mark. Adam’s on fire over at the blackjack tables. I guess he’s up twenty K already and he just sat down ten minutes ago. That’s a must-see situation. At least it is in my book. What about your books?”

“Sure. I’m in.” Mia looks at me, hope glowing in her eyes. We’re not finished with our conversation, and it’s not going to happen now, with Rhett, Sadie, and Pippa standing around us.

“I’m good,” I say. “Maybe I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Okay,” Mia says, her eyes dimming. She leaves with Paolo, Sadie, and Pippa. I don’t watch her go, but I feel the rush of being with her fade.

Rhett takes the seat she just vacated. “You’re Opposite Man tonight, E.”

I smirk at him.

“It’s true,” he says, grinning. “You keep saying things that are the opposite of what you mean. ’Cause you didn’t want to gamble, and you’re not ‘good’ and I doubt you’re meeting up with them later either.”

“Opposite Man, huh?” I tip my drink back, sucking down the rest. “Well, in that case, I love the way you pry into my private life, Rhett. It doesn’t make me want to punch you so you’ll shut the hell up.”

He laughs, and then we order another drink, and I make my purpose tonight finding a comfortable numbness. Maybe if I do that well enough, I won’t pull up Mia’s picture when I get back to my room.

Because I don’t want to do that.

So says Opposite Man.

Mia

Q: Bright lights, or quiet nights?

Only in Vegas does a hotel exhibit hall blaze with neon and feature carpeting patterned to look like someone fed a tiger into an industrial shredder. Soft techno ebbs and flows beneath a steady stream of conversation punctuated by bursts of shrieking laughter that make my entire body clench.

Of course, I’m on edge already, not just because I’m responsible for finally putting my part of the display together—with help from Paolo, thank God—but because I have to spend the entire day working side-by-side with Ethan, acting like I’m perfectly fine with the fact that we haven’t spoken since I cornered him at the bar yesterday. Everything’s still wrong. But I’m here now, and I’m determined to do the job Adam entrusted me to do.

All around us, people hustle elaborate displays into place, erecting massive vinyl banners, latching together platforms, hauling up shelves. And at every other booth, it seems, someone is having a full-on nervous breakdown.

Nearby, a man with a helmet of straw-gold hair and a shiny steel-gray suit paces back and forth with his cell phone glued to his ear and a face red enough to make me look around for EMTs. “I ordered the ten-foot chrome pyramids, and you sent me these fucking dinky shelves.” He stands back and holds his phone out to capture a pair of triangular bookcases that stand about as tall as my shoulders. “Seriously,” he says. “Are you seeing this shit?”

Just then, a massive ripping sound splits the air, and I look over to see two girls about my age, only tall, wearing dresses that look recently sprayed onto their bodies. Each holds half of a heart-covered banner, now torn neatly in two.

“Jesus Christ, Amy,” one of the women, a redhead, shrieks and throws down her side of the banner. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? I told you to stop tugging at it!”

“This place is cray-cray,” Paolo mumbles and unfolds a schematic of the cavernous space.

“What number’s our booth again?” I ask for about the sixtieth time.

“We are”—he consults the diagram—“in the primo spot, right between the bar and the bathrooms. Number thirty-three.”

Someone almost clips us with a giant wheeled backdrop of men in fatigues and a sign that says, “Love Is a Battlefield,” which feels like an iffy approach to me but hey, I’m not their marketing intern.