One Bride for Five Brothers

“Wait, are you serious? No progress at all?”

“It's not that there's no progress…” I start again, shifting my eyes off to the side. “I mean, I have calls out. I should know by, um, maybe tomorrow.”

She breathes deeply for a few moments, then taps the back of her pen on the cubicle wall like it is some kind of punctuation. “Okay, that will work. I have a follow up conference call tomorrow afternoon, so just let me know by then, okay?”

My eyebrows go up. “Conference call? Do other people know about this?”

She glances down at me again, squaring off slightly. “I'm in frequent communication with the board. Just normal protocol to keep them apprised of new business, Dahlia. You don't have to be in on the call or anything.”

“Um, okay, that's good,” I stammer. The noise in my brain edges upward, drowning out rational thoughts.

“Where is Derek?” she asks suddenly, pointing her pen in the direction of his cubicle. “It's already nine AM. Is he always this late?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” I lie. Yes, Derek is always late. If she's making a list of people to fire, he should be near the top of that list. Also, he smells like onion bagels almost all the time.

She sighs deeply, her breath flaring her nostrils. “Okay,” she announces, clearly distracted, “just keep me up-to-date, Dahlia. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble as she walks away, somewhat afraid to be left alone with my thoughts now.

My phone buzzes again.

My brain swirls like a hurricane. Everything is going from bad to worse. I hate this feeling. I really don't know what to do, and sinking like a stone underneath it doesn't seem to be an option. I’m going to have to do something.

My fingers tremble as I reach out to flip over my phone. I've got dozens of notifications, but they’re almost all from Bunny.

Scowling, I thumb through the text messages. Also, I see she followed my fake Instagram account too. Well, that's subtle. She's using a lot of punctuation. She wants to know what's going on. Did I text him back? How did I finish the story that she started with him yesterday?

Oh yeah, that story.

Apparently, she started acting like we had met before. It was kind of confusing, the way it sounded like she was talking about Kirkman at first, but immediately she started telling him about this dream I had of him one time. I made the mistake of telling her about it in the first place. She was teasing me as usual about my inexperience and hesitation about men, and I thought I was defending myself, explaining the extremely naughty dream that I had about August one time.

And there, in the direct messages, she totally spilled the beans. She mentioned my hands on his body, trailing down. She mentioned that I wanted to touch him, which is exactly what I told her.

And then she told him she would tell him more later, and handed the phone back to me.

I open the Instagram account and click on August’s profile. He doesn't post that often, and it's a little strange too. It's like the men's magazine version of him, not the real August. Not the guy who sits silently next my dad while they watch sports on TV. Not the guy who helped push start my car one time. Instead, it's food pictures, drink pictures, a couple of sunsets and sunrises on the ocean. He likes to run in the early mornings, I know that. Other than that, this whole account would be unrecognizable.

I see the last message. More later, Bunny promised him when she was pretending to be me… or, pretending to be me pretending to be somebody else? I don't even know. It's so confusing.

But the things she was telling him was a real thing. A real fantasy. He certainly sounded intrigued.

Good morning, I type.

I stare at the phone for just a second, then slap it facedown back on my desk. Actually I have a half dozen emails I should be responding to. I could be doing all kinds of things. Database updates, for instance. I haven't quite gotten the hang of those yet. I should look into that…

My phone buzzes.

And my chest gets instantly tight. I feel excited, like I know there's a treat waiting for me in the kitchen. It doesn't make sense, but I feel it anyway.

Good morning to you, he writes back. Are you at work already?

Yes, I reply honestly.

…

What kind of work do you do?

He's profiling me, I suppose. He wants to know what kind of woman is texting him. Maybe thinks he knows who this is and is trying to narrow it down. Maybe he thinks I'm a man or a stalker or a Russian plant.