Noelle August - Boomerang

“What plan?” asks Ethan.

“Field research,” he says. “Next Wednesday, you both start dating.”

Ethan

Q: How do you fight your battles: cold shoulder or shouting match?

What did you just say?” I brace my elbows on the table, feeling the seams of Mr. Galliano’s shirt strain and pop.

Adam looks at me calmly. “Dates,” he repeats. “To give the company product a test-drive, so to speak. A firsthand understanding of the service we offer. It’s not mandatory, but hardly anyone passes on the opportunity. And obviously the commitment is only to spend a few hours with one of our matches, nothing more.”

He keeps talking, going on about how he thought Rhett had told us, how it’s something he suggests to all his single new hires, but my focus shifts to Mia. She looks a little pale, but it’s hard to tell under the candlelight. Still, I can tell she’s reacting to this way better than me. I have no doubt that Dark Ethan just showed up again. But what the hell kind of job is this? I’m already working for free. Now I have to surrender my fucking social life, too?

That’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is the idea of Mia being subjected to spending a night with some of the scumbags I’m sure use Boomerang strictly for hookups.

Mother. Fucking. Bullshit.

Adam breaks off whatever he was saying. “Do you have a problem with this, Ethan? I’d never force an employee into an uncomfortable situation. In fact, I had my assistant Lena schedule your dates at the same location and time, thinking you two might find it easier, more like any other work assignment. It would allow you to compare notes afterward. And, I’ll admit I’m a little old-fashioned on this point, but I like the idea of you keeping an eye on Mia.”

Adam smiles, lifting his glass in her direction. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Mia. I know you can handle yourself, but I would feel more at ease knowing Ethan is there.”

“Having Ethan there is a great idea,” Pearl says, looking at me with those sharp eyes.

“Yes,” agrees Mr. Galliano. “That would ease my conscience too.”

Uh-huh, I think. You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew I was parked between your daughter’s legs ten minutes ago.

Suddenly, I’m swimming in anger and lust. My eyes fall to the wine glass in front of me. I tip it back, needing something to chill me the hell out.

“Um . . . when is this all happening?” Mia asks.

“Wednesday night is the first one. I think there are two more scheduled later in the week as well.”

“Oh—kay,” Mia says. “That sounds—great.”

“Three dates to look forward to!” Nana chirps. “How wonderful!”

Adam nods. “Could provide just the edge you two need to come up with the perfect displays for the conference.”

“Oh, it’ll definitely provide some edge,” I say.

Mia shoots me a warning look, and then says, “Hey, did you know Ethan learned to play soccer in a bowling alley?”

That sends the conversation in a completely different direction. I was at the brink of letting Adam know exactly how I feel about his idea. Mia sensed it—and saved me.

Everyone is delighted when I tell them that I learned to shoot on bowling pins. How charming, they say. But really it was just a lack of options. I couldn’t always afford to play in indoor leagues or traveling teams, so I played soccer where I could.

I know Mia meant well by bringing up this anecdote, but all I want to do is get up from this goddamn table. I don’t even taste the food, but the wine goes down just fine.

Once our meal is over, I help Mia bring the dishes into the kitchen, then Mr. Galliano produces dessert—a crème brûlée that he torches at the table, which Adam swears is the best he’s ever had.

Suckup.

Mia and I stand to take dish duty again, but as soon as we set the plates down, she grabs my hand and tows me into a little alcove, hidden away from the dining room. We share the space with a sculpture that looks like the discard pile at an auto shop.

“Are you okay with this?” she asks.

“The dates? Hell no. Are you?”

She shakes her head, but there’s something in her eyes I don’t like.

“What is it, Mia?”

“This job, Ethan. You need this job.”

I’m not crazy about the way she says need. It hits too close to home.

I don’t have a house like this. I don’t own a pile of metal that’s probably worth a million bucks in a special alcove. I literally don’t even own the shirt on my back.

“You’re right. I do need it. What about you, Mia? Why are you doing this? You don’t need it for your grandma’s documentary. You’re obviously not strapped for cash.”

Mia’s mouth drops open. “Ethan . . . Am I supposed to justify myself to you? Just because I’m not desperate for the money doesn’t mean this job isn’t important to me. It could mean my career, something I build on my . . .” She shakes her head like she doesn’t want to go there. “Look. I’m just confused by all this.”

“I’m not,” I lie. I don’t know what I want anymore. I’m pissed. So fucking pissed. And the goddamn gallon of wine I drank during dinner is making my head spin. “There’s no problem here, Mia. We got carried away earlier. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“We agreed we wouldn’t have any romantic attachments with people we work with, and we haven’t broken that rule. We messed around a little, but it wasn’t anything . . .”

Wasn’t anything what, Ethan? Amazing? Incredible? You fucking liar. It was all of that. All of it.

But I can’t stop. I’m not her ex. I don’t backpedal or waver on shit, and I’m not starting now.

So I try again. “What I’m trying to say is that what happened between us was nothing . . .”

“Nothing,” she repeats flatly, but I see the hurt in her eyes.

“Nothing we can’t bounce back from, I mean. We just have to get back to what we’re both really after. The job.”

I don’t know what the hell I’m saying. I want to kiss her again. I want her against me. I want me against her against the wall.

I do not want her dating other guys.

A sick taste crawls up the back of my throat, and an ache builds in my chest that I haven’t felt in weeks. In two months, to be exact, when I walked into Alison’s apartment and found her in bed with her research assistant.

And I realize, suddenly, what’s got me so fucked in the head.

I do not share nicely.

And I’m not putting myself anywhere near that kind of shit again.

Mia

Q: Are you a lover or a fighter?

I march into the Boomerang office Monday morning like I’m going to war. I’ve got on an emerald bandage dress in clinging jersey, black leather stiletto boots, and my hair hangs loose, in glossy fat curls slicked into obedience by Skyler. I walk the rows of cubicles, carrying a gargantuan box of just-baked fritters and pastries that I dole out to my co-workers en route to my desk. I leave behind a trail of doughy sweetness and the groans of foodgasms.

Let the games begin.

Because he could have said anything. That’s what I keep thinking. We’ve got this amazing language just loaded with words, phrases, even entire sentences. Ethan had a choice of thousands of them, a verbal cornucopia, and he said it meant nothing.

Our hot, dreamy moment in my mom’s studio. The charge of connection—not just sex—that passed between us. The feeling of being right, in the right place, with the right person, doing the exact right thing—all of it.

Meant nothing.

Which translates to I mean nothing.

At least that’s what I heard as I walked away, my throat squeezing around sudden tears I refused to shed. And after they left, when I lay on the sofa in the living room with my head on Nana’s lap, that’s what kept drumming through my mind: nothing, nothing, nothing.

To think I’d been within a breath of giving up this internship—for him. Because I wanted Ethan more than the job and because the idea of going out on “field research” dates made me want to puke into my purse.

Now, though, I plan to enjoy it. My life, post-acting-like-an-idiot-over-some-boy, is going to be a box of chocolates, and I’m going to take a bite out of each and every one.

Ethan’s already at our desk, tablet open before him. He’s wearing the same suit he dressed in for our first day of work, and my mind wants to shoot me right back to that morning, to waking in his bed, laughing with him as we tried to locate my clothes.

I clamp my mind shut around the images and hold out the box.

“Morning,” I say, my voice as bright and fake as neon. “Bear claw?” That’s all that’s left, other than a nub of cruller.

“Good morning.” He looks in the box and then up at me. His eyes are shadowed. “Thanks. I’m good.”

I spin away and put the last pastry on the kitchen counter then stuff the Stan’s box into the wastebasket, crushing it viciously beneath the toe of my boot. Returning to my desk, I settle in and switch on my tablet.

“Mia, look—” he begins.

At the same time I say, “Big day today.”

We both say, “Sorry, what?”

“You first,” I tell him, calling up my Boomerang profile and trying to decide if I need new photos. Maybe I should wear something sexier than the silk blouse I wore on my first day of work. Maybe get a little more cleavage going. And have Ethan take the pictures.

“Just . . .” He rubs the back of his neck. “What I said the other night? It came out harsher than—”

I put up a hand to stop him. It’s bad enough I had to hear it in the first place, that I spent a weekend feeling dumb and miserable and used.

And I already know he’s sorry. I saw it all over his face the minute he said it. But that doesn’t matter. It’s the seesaw I can’t stand. The whole up-and-down, back-and-forth, endless torture of it. My heart just can’t take the ride.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Really. You were right. We just—let ourselves get carried away, and it was fun, but . . .” I can’t quite seem to look at him, so I focus on the spot between his straight, expressive eyebrows. “Let’s just put all that in a box and tuck it away, all right?”

“All right,” he says. “Great.”

The hiss of the espresso machine fills the awkward silence for one long moment. I don’t know what I wanted him to say. I do know it wasn’t that.

“What were you going to say?” he asks.

“Oh, just that it’s a big day today. We get to pick our first Boomerang dates.”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Fun.”

“It might be.” I scroll through some of the profiles and land on the smarmiest-looking dude I can find—mirrored shades, giant margarita in one hand and his arms draped over the shoulders of straw-blond Amazonian twins. Who he kept in the picture. “Like, here’s someone: ‘RobbyDTF.’ ” I turn the tablet in Ethan’s direction. “What do you think?”

“RobbyDTF,” he says, giving me a look. “Subtle.”

“Well, why bother with subtlety? Isn’t that the whole promise of the site? ‘Play hard. Throw it back,’ right? Robby looks like the kind of guy who can play hard.”

Ethan winces. Or maybe I imagine he does. “And weren’t you the one talking about all the great experiences Boomerang members can have? The memories they can create? Does that guy seem like he’s going to give you a great memory, Mia?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I turn the tablet back around and pretend to consider. Robby’s orange tan reminds me of a basketball, and his teeth have a menacing glint, like a shark’s. “Maybe some nights aren’t about making memories. Maybe they’re just about hooking up and having fun.”

Now we lock eyes, and I see hurt and frustration in his. But the snowball’s already rolling downhill.

Paolo, the art director, comes over and drapes himself over the edge of my desk, back to Ethan. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, rolled up to reveal white socks and red Converse. He’s compact, with red-framed glasses, immaculate dark stubble, and golden-bronze skin that makes me want to take him out in the sunlight and film him.

“Dope fritters,” he says and holds out his fist for a bump.

I laugh and touch my knuckles to his. This is his first visit to Intern Gulag, other than to pass by on his way to the coffeemaker.