Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            “Wait—you?”

            “ProBld.”

            “Does he know you’re an engineer?” Gianna is asking.

            I clear my throat. “Yes. I told him I worked for GreenFrame.”

            “Before or after he asked you out?”

            “I . . .” That wasn’t the reason. It wasn’t. Can’t have been. “Before.”

            “Oh, Sadie.” Same tone as before—now with more pity. “But you didn’t tell him anything specific about our projects or strategies or clients, right?”

            “I . . .” I massage my forehead, which suddenly feels like it’s about a second from exploding. “I don’t think so.”

            “Did he ask about anything?”

            “No, he . . .”

            Yes. Yes, he did.

            I can clearly see him, sitting across from me at the restaurant. His almost-smile. His neat, voracious way of eating.

            How did it go, by the way? . . . Your pitch.

            Who’s the client?

            So you got the project?

            “Sadie? Are you okay?”

            No. No. Nope. “I think . . . I’m afraid I mentioned something. About the Milton project. It came up in conversation, and I . . . I knew he was an engineer so I went into more detail than I should have, and . . .” Gianna covers her eyes with her hand, and I want the floor to swallow me whole. The addled, blissed-out feeling from this morning has dissolved, replaced with dread and a strong desire to puke my waffle all over the floor. “Gianna, I know it seems sketchy, but I don’t think Erik would ever do anything like what you mentioned. We really hit it off last night, and . . .” My voice dies down, which is just as well. I cannot bear to hear myself talking anymore.

            He didn’t say he was a partner. Why didn’t he? Why do I feel dizzy?

            “I hope you’re right,” Gianna says, even more of that unsettling compassion in her eyes. She pushes away from my desk, high heels clicking into her office, and doesn’t look back.

            I feel like I could cry. And I also feel like this is a stupid, nonsensical misunderstanding I’m going to laugh about. I have no idea which one is the right thing to do, so I try to focus on work, but I’m too tired, or preoccupied, or horrified to concentrate. At two p.m. Erik texts me: In meetings until 7. Can I take you out after? and I think about our dinner last night, in a restaurant where he usually brings clients. Am I work to him?

            Two minutes later he adds, Or I could cook for you.

            And then: Before you ask: no, not herring.

            I stare at the messages for a long time, and then I stand to take a look at the copy machine, which has been beeping because of its usual paper jam. I ball up the offending sheet and throw it in the recycling bin, not quite seeing what’s in front of me.

            I answer emails. I call one architect. I smile at the interns and have them help me with research. I wait for . . . I don’t know what I’m waiting for. A sign. For this weird, apocalyptic confusion to dissipate. Come on, Erik didn’t go out with me as a cover for some sort of . . . corporate espionage bullshit, or whatever. This is not a John Grisham book, and what I told Gianna stands: my gut tells me that he would never, ever do anything like it. Unfortunately, I’m not positive my gut isn’t lying to me. I think it might just want to make out with the most attractive man in the world during the halftime of soccer games.

            The copy machine beeps three times, and then three more. Apparently, I fixed absolutely nothing.

            At five thirty I hear Gianna’s phone ring, and ten minutes later she walks gingerly out of her office, coming to stand in front of my desk. The interns are gone. It’s just her and me in the office.

            My insides are iced over. My stomach plummets.

            “Guess what project we didn’t get,” she says. Her tone is soft. Gentle. To her credit, not a trace of I Told You So. “And guess what other firm they decided to go with.”

            I close my eyes. I cannot believe this. I don’t want to believe this.