Besides, she didn’t have the option of backing out. Not with so much to lose at work. Roger had made it clear that she needed to be here if she wanted the art department gig, and so here she was, exes be damned.
Nina bumped her hip, jolting her out of her thoughts. “You good?”
“I’m fine.” Charlotte nodded curtly to reinforce the lie. Nina didn’t push.
Charlotte tried to pay attention to her friends, she really did, but her brain got stuck on Reece. Her heartbeat pulsed like radar as she tracked his party longitude and latitude. She caught glimpses of the back of his head until an amoeba of bros absorbed him. She didn’t want him to see her—dreaded it, even—but some part of her needed him to be as aware of her presence as she was of his.
It didn’t matter that she was now twenty-seven. It didn’t matter that five years had passed since she’d last spoken to Reece, six years since she broke up with Ben, and she had lived what felt like a dozen lives since she was last on this campus. Her face burned.
She felt small and pathetic and twenty-two years old again, the same jerk who left Reece behind without saying good-bye.
In that moment, there wasn’t a single thing she wouldn’t trade to be back in Brooklyn alone, wearing her sweatpants and watching reality television on her laptop.
—
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO JACKIE SLAUGHTER, 6:18 PM: Have you landed yet? This is awkward.
(Message not delivered.)
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO JACKIE SLAUGHTER, 6:19 PM: Thomas Irons owns a boat now.
(Message not delivered.)
“Private installations are where the real money is. Celebrity clients pay way more than what I made at TrackVest on the trading floor empowerment mural.”
Annika Gronlund had an irritating habit of gesturing with her wine as she rattled off accomplishments. Charlotte wanted to stab herself in the eye with a paintbrush, just like she did when they had Studio Art 311 together as juniors.
“That’s great,” Charlotte said blandly. If this conversation continued for much longer, she might move on from impaling herself to killing Annika. But then what other white woman would paint pseudo-progressive slogans inside Amazon’s warehouse?
She scanned the crowd for an escape route or a familiar face to flag down. No dice.
Annika tapped her cushion-cut diamond engagement ring against her glass. “What about you? How is your craft evolving?”
“Great!” Charlotte coughed, the lie catching in her throat like an allergy. “But I’m an assistant these days.” She left out where she worked. Maybe Annika would leave her alone if she thought Charlotte wasn’t worth her time.
Annika’s lip curled predictably. Score one for snobbery.
“Mind if I cut in?”
Reece’s voice was gentle and warm at the edges like flannel in the depths of New England winter. Charlotte’s mouth went dry as she found him by her side.
She had forgotten how tall he was. He smelled divine, like coffee and linen with just a hint of nice aftershave.
“Sorry to interrupt, Annika,” he said. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?”
Annika blinked at them, struggling to square Reece’s politeness with the firm ejection from conversation. “Oh hey, Reece. Yeah, of course!” She stalked away in search of more fertile networking opportunities.
Charlotte’s cheeks burned as she rediscovered the advanced human ability of speech. “Reece. Hi.” She bit back a nervous laugh. “Thank you for that.”
And then Reece was looking at her, right in front of her, finally. She felt all magenta and rose.
His eyes pored over her face for a long beat before he cleared his throat. “I was hoping you’d be here.” His words were refreshingly honest, no bullshit or playing coy. Confused hope sang in her chest. She had expected Reece to loathe her. She deserved it. “Jackie said she wasn’t sure when you were coming.”
“Oh yeah. It’s kind of complicated with work.” She waved her fingers with the what can you do exasperation Roger used at the office to convey his importance.
“Right.” Reece nodded. “Are you still at The Front End Review?”
Charlotte blinked. How did he know where she worked? Had he been keeping up with her life on social media? She wasn’t an active poster, maintaining a bare-bones Twitter presence for her career and an inactive Instagram of her old illustrations. Or maybe he asked their mutual friends about her?
Torn between flattery and embarrassment, she tried not to worry about what else he might know. “Three years now,” she answered. “What about you?”
“I’m working for my mom again.” He ran his hand through his hair, which had begun to escape the hold of his styling gel. “Mostly clerical stuff, but I like it.”
Reece’s mother ran an animal clinic in St. Louis. During breaks from Hein, he had worked at the front desk checking in patients and selling heartworm medication. His family often fostered rescues, and Dr. Krueger kept Reece supplied with puppy pictures throughout the school year.
Charlotte smiled at the idea of Reece in a set of paw-print scrubs. The job suited him. “That must be wonderful, being around animals all day.”
“Yeah!” Reece gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. She tried to think of a question that would let him change the subject, but he surprised her by leaning forward and lowering his voice. “I’m not telling people this yet, I don’t want to jinx it, but I’m thinking about going back to school. There’s a good vet tech program nearby.”
“You want to become a veterinarian? That’s amazing!” Charlotte raised her beer.
“A vet tech,” he corrected her, his face a little red. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’m nervous.”
“What do you have to be nervous about?” This older version of Reece didn’t have the brash swagger of the boy she once knew. She wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Any school would be lucky to have you. You grew up in an animal hospital.”
He shrugged. “My grades here kind of sucked.”
Oh right. Grades. In her field she could skate by with Hein University on her résumé—goodness knows it was the only reason Roger had hired her—but technical programs cared about numbers.
