Wanderlust by Thea Dawson Page B

another pair as soon as I could. I thought of my ten-thousand dollar nest egg, and how much better I’d feel if it were bigger, but winter in Chicago is not the time to skimp on outerwear. I kept my hands deep in my pockets, taking them out only once in a while to breathe on them, and made it to the L station before frostbite had a chance to set in. Fortunately for me, a train was waiting, and I jumped right in. Rush hour was just about over, and I was able to find a seat. Huddled on the hard plastic seat, I checked my phone.
    My dad had called, no doubt to ask again if I was going to take the job he’d offered me. I sighed. Chip was right: it was time for action, any action. I just couldn’t quite convince myself that moving home was the right course, though.
    Slightly better was an email from Chip:
     
    To: Jason Moretti
    From: Chip Brewer
    Re: That lead I mentioned
     
    Jason,
     
    Katie sometimes goes to the Silver Basin Spa in Evanston—manicures, facials, etc. She LOVES it, all her friends love it. Awesome service, great atmosphere, etc. But their rent is going up, and the owner told Katie that she’s probably going to have to find a new spot, which would be too bad because they’re in a great location now—and it’s just across the street from Katie’s office, so you’d be doing us a favor if you could help them stay in place :)
    Anyway, they need more revenue if they’re going to stay where they are, and I bet they could use a good marketer like you to help them out! The owner’s name is Jenny. Give her a call.
    I clicked through to the Silver Basin’s website and shook my head in disbelief. Not optimized for mobile, first mistake. I put the phone in my pocket; I’d look into it more when I got home.
    In the meantime, I could sit and think more about my run-in with Monica that morning.
    In the back of my mind, I’d always thought of Monica as my One That Got Away. Even after things went so disastrously south with Meghan—something that had hurt like hell just a few months ago, but now felt more embarrassing than painful—it was Monica I thought of when I thought of real loss.
    I still felt guilty about what I’d tried to get her to do with Amber. I found myself squirming uncomfortably in my seat, thinking of the hurt in those big brown eyes that night. I wondered if it was too late to apologize and beg her forgiveness.
    I’d sometimes wondered, actually, if our relationship had really been as great as I remembered. It had been more than ten years ago that I’d met her, so maybe I was just remembering her through a haze of nostalgia. Every so often I’d try to imagine what would happen if we met each other again—would it be love at first sight all over again? Or would we wonder what we’d ever seen in each other?
    And now we had met again, and I wasn’t sure what I felt.
    It shouldn’t have surprised me that she was engaged, of course. She was gorgeous, smart, sweet—it was a wonder she hadn’t gotten married years ago.
    Yet somehow I was surprised that she was engaged. Illogically, irrationally, indefensibly surprised. When I’d fantasized about running into her again, it had never occurred to me that there might be another guy in the picture. Maybe it was some primitive, politically incorrect part of me that just couldn’t accept that she belonged to someone else now. Or maybe it was a more civilized, sentimental side that had always unconsciously assumed that someday, somehow, we’d get back together.
    Whatever it was, it left me feeling grouchy and annoyed at the world. I sat in the cold, damp, train car, angry at Chicago, the weather, my job, my boss, websites that weren’t optimized for mobile, this asshole Monica was engaged to, and most of all with myself. Pretty much everyone and everything.
    Except Monica.
    I stared into space for the rest of the ride, and was jerked back into reality only when the train pulled into my stop, and I had to hustle off quickly before the doors