Phoebe: Reason #381 why I’m happy to be a lesbian.
Phoebe: Goodnight.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Martin is no longer at my desk. Instead, he’s leaning against the wall, fiddling with a piece of nylon rope in his hands. The bottle of wine and two empty glasses remain untouched.
“You waited until now to murder me?” I point to the rope. “I mean, you had so many opportunities to do it earlier that would have been infinitely better.”
“I tie knots.” He holds up the cord. “It’s a nervous tic of mine.”
I desperately want to bring up his knot-tying TikTok channel but decide against it. His brows are slanted with worry, and I get the sense that admitting to stalking him would only add to his uneasiness. That’s the problem with stalking people on the internet. There’s rarely ever a good time to admit it.
“I hope you know I didn’t plan for any of this to happen,” he says.
“My grandmother secretly growing weed?” I chuckle. “Yeah, I didn’t see that one coming either.”
“Well, yes, that. But also this.” He motions to me. “I’m having a good time with you. I’m actually having a good time with your whole family.”
“Did my mother not send you the script?” I plop down on my bed and pull a chenille throw blanket over my legs. “I can let you borrow mine, if you like.”
“Do you always use humor to defuse situations that make you uncomfortable?” He smirks.
“It’s my version of knot tying.” I point to the rope that he’s tangled into what looks like a pretzel. “What’s got you nervous?”
“The fact that I’m in my boss’s daughter’s bedroom, for one.” He untangles the knot in one easy move of his hand. “Oh, and I made out with my boss’s daughter. That’s got me pretty nervous too.”
My stomach flutters.
“I mean, he’ll probably fire you once I tell him about that biting thing you did,” I tease. Martin’s cheeks flush with heat. “Unless you’d rather I keep that bit to myself.”
“I’d consider it a big favor.”
“All kidding aside”—I pat the bed—“you really don’t need to be nervous. I think my parents would be thrilled if they knew I kissed a man they hand selected. You must come from excellent breeding stock.”
“That’s the thing.” He starts to pace. “I don’t. I’m from middle-of-nowhere Kentucky. I went to school on a track scholarship. My parents live in the same starter house that I grew up in, and the only thing remotely fancy about them is the Fancy Feast my mom insists on feeding her cats.”
“I’ve seen those cat food commercials. They’re very high class.”
“I hate golf. I think the idea of spending thousands of dollars on a membership to a club is a ridiculous waste of money. I buy most of my work clothes from outlet stores, and if I’m being really honest, I lied about my address when your dad hired me.” He pauses next to the wine bottle and palms the glass. “You were supposed to be different.”
“I was?” I take the glass from him and hold it while he pours. “What exactly were you expecting?”
“Someone like Phoebe.”
“A lesbian?”
“No.” He pours himself a glass. “Phoebe is . . . well . . . look, I’m new and I don’t work with her that much. She’s in accounting, and I’m not. But the few interactions I have had with her have always been a little . . .”
“Mean? Cold? Aloof?”
“Exactly. I mean, she ratted out your grandmother, for crying out loud.”
“Phoebe’s a rule follower,” I say. “She always has been.”
“Can I ask you a serious question? Why didn’t you want your ex-husband to know that you’re single?”
The truth is, I wasn’t really thinking when I said it. I was reacting impulsively, just like I was when I kissed Martin. Knowing that Smith had my old ring to propose to someone new made me question why I wasn’t remarried. I mean, I know why I’m not married. You have to date someone seriously in order to get married, and all of my serious relationships post-Smith have been with the male characters I’ve created in my books. And all of that seemed OK. My life in San Francisco with Jackie and Chelsey and our future bookstore felt like more than enough because when I’m there, I’m not in competition with my family. I’m free to just be me.