Free How Long You Should Wait to Have Sex: a Novel by Monique Sorgen Page A

direct affront to my boss. It would jeopardize their relationship with him. It would be like passive-aggressively saying, “I don’t care that Samantha called you an asshole in front of everyone, because she was right. You are an asshole.” Who would want to make him think that? He’s a powerful guy, and most of the people here need him on their side in one way or another. No, they’re not gonna help me. It wouldn’t be wise. And I wouldn’t do it if I were them either.
    So, I am completely beholden to what my boss decides in this moment. My entire career depends on his ability to feel empathy for me, which frankly, I’ve never found to be his strong suit.
    Once the tension in the room has grown to a level that is almost unbearable, Henry finally gives in to breaking it.
    “You seem remorseful, Samantha, and I believe that you didn’t really mean it.” The room lets out a communal sigh of relief. It’s looking good for me, until he continues, “But since it’s your birthday, I’m going to base my decision about your job security on whether or not you really can fix any problem.” I can. I think. I hope. What ridiculously impossible problem is he going to suggest?
    “So,” he goes on, “did you meet the love of your life, last night?”
    All eyes on me. I smile victoriously. The room begins to relax.
    “If you stick around long enough, you might just meet him tonight!” I win!
    “See everyone!” Henry announces to my co-workers, “this is the kind of go-getter attitude that puts you in a power position. I really wanted to fire Samantha right now, but I can’t because she’s just too good at what she does.”
    Since these are most of the same people I called yesterday to set me up, they actually know what we’re talking about, and pretty much none of them can believe it. Several people chime in to ask if I met their guy, the one they sent. Other people chime in to ask how it’s possible, since their guy reported that I didn’t show up, and according to their source, “They couldn’t find a single person in the whole bar who was wearing purple.”
    “I was there,” I reply to the room, “but the purple dress turned out to be more on the pink side, and the guy I met was random.” They all react by seemingly discussing amongst themselves who they sent, how great of a single guy he is, and how they wished they could find a great girl for him. This conversation gets the party started. Most of my unexpected guests get into it amongst themselves, while some of them take the opportunity to rush me to ask privately about this guy I met, starting, of course, with my parents.
    My mom and dad want to know all about him. What do his parents do? Where is he from? Which political party does he belong to? What’s his last name?
    “I don’t know. Seattle. What does it matter? Hollister,” I try to rattle off answers as quickly as they ask them.
    “Oh, so he’s probably of English descent,” my father assesses. “The English usually have manners, so his parents probably raised him right.”
    “That’s a lot to deduce, just from a last name, Dad,” I say, ready to move on to the other friends who are crowding around to ask me about John Hollister, and wish me a happy birthday.
    I still feel a little anxious, like there’s something I’m forgetting to do, but when Darien Campbell comes over to say hi, I remember that I don’t have to go to the Chronicle after all. She hasn’t finished her book. She’s in town for her grandmother’s 80th birthday, which is a brunch being held tomorrow. And several of the people who would have reviewed her upcoming, not-yet-existent book, are in this room as we speak, so again, no need to go anywhere to get it to them, if it did exist, which it doesn’t. I can relax. As can Lacey, for that matter, who knew all along that she wouldn’t have to buy me an expensive birthday dinner. Now I’m wondering why she bothered mentioning that the restaurant we would go to