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I had almost forgotten that he had been looking for me at the event. If only I remembered, it wouldn't have come as so much of a shock to see him sitting in the lobby when I waltzed into the large reception area to fetch the freelance writer my boss hired for a project.

He was wearing the same trademark outfit that suited him well: a semi-fit dark blue sweater (even in the blistering heat of the midday sun, no less), jeans, and Nike sneakers. He was wearing his hair a bit shorter than I remembered but his eyes looked the same to me.

"Hi, Veronica," he said

There they were—the two words that should have sent me packing. But I was stuck there. The receptionist was looking at me strangely when it took me a while to reply.

"Hi, Matt," I said.

And it felt weird. No, wait, let me rephrase that. It was torture to be sitting across him inside the conference room as the project manager explained the project to us, along with my boss and two graphic designers. It felt horrible to see him studying the PowerPoint presentation intently without him even realizing that the girl whose heart he broke years ago was sitting there, too. It was frustrating because I was starting to tear at the edges until my boss said something that reminded me that I was in control.

"Matt, this is Veronica, our senior copywriter," my boss introduced. "You will be working directly under her for this project."

My boss' words brought me back to reality and I simply had to fight the urge to laugh at the irony. The project was for a big shot cosmetics brand whose target market were teenagers. They were having a big event the following week, so they hired the ad agency to work on creative deliverables. And since I didn't know how to write a technical event script, I suggested we hire a freelance writer who could work on it so that I could concentrate on the event's audiovisual presentations. It just never occurred to me that it could be Matt.

Of course it never occurred to me. Last I heard, Matt was doing well as a contributing writer for the lifestyle section of a broadsheet after he was fired from the managing editor post in a men's magazine. I heard nothing from him for almost three years, so I had no idea what had become of him except that he went to the Vatican to help him regain his faith.

"So, how have you been?" he asked me.

"Sam died," I said. Both of us were taken aback by what I just said. I didn't know what made me say it, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.

"Oh," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry to hear that."

He didn't press me for details, so I started to brief him on the client's background and what needed to be done. I explained the tone, the lists of words to be avoided, and the deadline.

I'm in control, I kept thinking. I'm in control now.

But when I got home that night, all I could think of was Matt and how he neglected to tell me that one word I'd been waiting to hear from him for so many years: Sorry.

The next morning, I woke up to five missed calls and two messages. They were all from Logan. The first one was asking me where I was and the second one was telling me good night. I had forgotten that I was supposed to meet him for dinner at Racks the night before.

What the hell is wrong with you, Veronica?! I kicked the bed frame. Seconds later, I screamed in pain and stupidity.

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Related Blog Entries

• Epilogue: Logan And Veronica
• Under The Stars Part 1
• Lost And Found
• Under The Stars Part 3
• It's A Small World After All

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