Jet lag is a major drag. I never really understood that until last night. I tossed and turned for hours before slipping into a fitful sleep.

After coming to the decision that I have to put my career first, I decide I can’t let these little setbacks affect me. I roust myself out of bed, power down two cups of scalding-hot coffee, and make my way to work like it’s my job.

It is your job, Presley. Wow, I must be tired.

The click-click of my heels on the office floor is a familiar sound. Yes, this is what I need—a consistent and predictable work environment in which I can be the best version of myself. Not an undefined relationship with a man whose mood changes so dramatically that I wonder if he’s really two people. The first, a charming, funny, considerate man. The other, a loathsome asshole with no consideration for the feelings of others.

No, I don’t have time to juggle my work and a man who can’t decide who he is. I’m still figuring out who I am.

My determined stride across the office falters as I spot Jordan, packing his personal items away into a box. Why?

“Jordan!”

“Oh, hey, Prez,” he says in his usual chipper way. But his dimpled smile doesn’t reach his big blue eyes.

“What’s going on?”

The others already packed

though I’ve been dropped into the cold, dark ocean. Like the plane I disembarked

box, then turns back to his almost empty desk, once covered in his alma mater’s insignia, pictures of his dog, and an assortment of bobblehead dolls. “It’s reassuring to have Bill Gates and Elon Musk nodding at me in

prick my eyes. “Jordan

you’ll get a paying job in no time. And who can resist this face?” He

I can

bought in college. They’ve been glued back together so many times . . . if

start collecting my own things. I don’t have much—a Brown insignia pin, a picture of Michael, a stained coffee mug, some miscellaneous business books, and a preserved sticky note my mother wrote for me back in middle school.

only get me so far, Mom. But if I’m anything, it’s sentimental. I can’t throw

the pieces of me go into the box, which gets

“Oh, you’re here already?”

recognize that

empty desk kitty-corner to mine that once

turn around. He doesn’t deserve my attention, the bitter little girl in me insists.

am,” I say over

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