As the man I loved approached my office, the image of a
deer being hit by a truck came to mind. I was the deer,
metaphorically speaking, and Mark Rousseau was the pickup
truck of doom.

But here’s the thing. The deer always freezes, as we all
know, hence the expression like a deer caught in the
headlights. The deer and I (Callie Grey, age thirty as
of 9:34 this very morning) are well aware that the pickup
truck is going to hit us. But we just stand there, waiting
for the inevitable, whether it’s a pickup truck or a man
walking athletically toward me, perpetual smile in place,
his brown hair carelessly curling, those gorgeous, dancing
dark eyes. I waited, doe-eyed. It was all really too bad,
because outside of Mark’s influence, I was not at all a
deer about to be run down. I was much more of an adorable,
perky hedgehog or something.

“Hey,” Mark grinned.

Bam! We have impact. The sunlight streamed through the
windows of the old brick office building in which Mark and
I worked, illuminating him so that he looked like something
painted by Michelangelo. To make him even more appealing,
he was wearing an old sweater vest his mom knitted for him
years ago, shapeless and faded but something he just
couldn’t part with. A good son and a sex god.

It was as if there were two Callies…the smarter, more
sensible self (I pictured her as Michelle Obama), and the
dopey, in love part…Betty Boop. Would that Michelle could
detach right about now and administer Betty Boop a brisk
slap, followed by some vigorous shaking. Alas, Betty just
sat there, enthralled, as the First Lady, not usually prone
to violence, snorted in disgust.

“Hi,” I said, feeling my face warm. You’d think that four
years of seeing him almost daily would have built up some
tolerance in me, but no. My chest prickled with longing and
love, my throat turned Saharan, my feet and fingers
tingled. My expression was probably somewhere around
Pathetic Adoration, though I was trying hard for
Intelligent Coworker.

Mark leaned against my desk, which meant his crotch was,
oh, let’s see, about a foot and a half from my face, since
I was seated. Not that I noticed, of course. “Happy
birthday,” he said, making it sound like the most intimate,
most suggestive phrase in the world.

Face: nuclear. Heart: racing. Callie: half inch from
orgasm. “Thanks.”

“I got you a present, of course,” he murmured in that voice…
God, that voice. Low and soft and velvety…the same voice he
used in the bedroom, as I well knew Yes, Mark and I had
been together. For five weeks. Five wonderful weeks.
Almost five and a half, if you really analyzed it. Which I
had.

From his back pocket, he withdrew a small, rectangular
package. My heart flopped as my brain raced with
contradictory thoughts. Jewelry?Betty squealed.
That means something. That’s romantic. So romantic! Oh!
My! God! On the other hand, Michelle advised caution.
Calm down, Callie. Let’s just see how this plays out.

“Oh, Mark! Thank you! You didn’t have to,” I said, my voice
breathy.

On the other side of the glass-bricked wall that separated
our offices, Fleur Eames slammed a drawer. The wall only
went up ten feet; the ceilings were twelve, perfect for
eavesdropping, and I guessed she was trying to snap me out
of my daze. Fleur, a copywriter here at the firm, knew
about my crush. I guess everyone did.

Clearing my throat, I reached for the package in Mark’s
hand. He held onto it for a minute, grinning before he let
go. It was wrapped in cheerful yellow paper. Yellow is my
favorite color. Did I tell him that once? Had he filed away
that little fact the same way I filed away everything he
ever told me? I mean, really, it could hardly be
coincidence, right? He smiled down at me, and my racing
heart stuttered, stalled, then revved into overdrive. Oh,
God. Could it be? Did he finally want to get back together?

I’d worked at Mark’s firm for the past four years. We were
the only advertising and public relations agency in
northeastern Vermont. Our staff was small — just Mark and
me, Fleur, the office manager, Karen, and the two pale
computer geeks in the art department, Pete and Leila. Oh,
and Damien, Mark’s personal assistant/receptionist/willing
slave.

I loved my job. Excelled at my job, as proven by the large
poster on my wall, which had very nearly won a Clio, the
Oscar of advertising. Said Clio ceremony took place eleven
months ago out in Santa Fe. And in that beautiful, romantic
city, Mark and I had finally hooked up. But the timing
wasn’t right for a serious relationship. Well, that’s what
Mark said. Honestly, has a woman ever said that? Not a lot
of twenty-nine-year-old women truly have timing issues when
it comes to being with the man they love. No. It was Mark’s
timing that wasn’t right.

But now…now a gift. Could it finally be that the time was
right? Maybe now, on the very day my thirties began and I
entered into that decade where a woman is more likely to be
mauled by a grizzly bear than get married…maybe today
really was the start of a new age.

“Open it, Callie,” he said, and I obeyed, hoping he didn’t
notice my shaking fingers. Inside was a black velvet box.
Squee! I bit my lip and glanced up at Mark, who shrugged
and gave me that heart-stopping grin once more. “It’s not
every day my best girl turns thirty,” he added.

“Oh, gack,” sniped Damien, Mark’s assistant, who appeared
in the doorway. Mark glanced at him briefly, then turned
his eyes back to me.

“Hi, Damien,” I said.

“Hi.” He stretched the word into three syllables of
contempt…Damien had once again broken up with his boyfriend
and currently hated love in all its forms. “Boss, Muriel’s
on line two.”

Something flickered across Mark’s face. Irritation, maybe.
Muriel was the daughter of our newest client, Charles
deVeers, the owner and founder of Bags to Riches. The
company made outdoor wear from a combination of grocery
bags and natural fiber. It was our biggest account yet, a
huge deal for Green Mountain, most of whose clients were in
New England. I’d only met Muriel once, and then only
briefly, but Mark had been flying back and forth to San
Diego, where the Bags to Riches was based. As part of the
package, Charles had asked that Muriel come to Vermont and
work as the account exec, so he could have someone close to
him keeping tabs on things. And, as Charles was paying us
gobs of money, Mark had said yes.

Mark didn’t answer Damien, who was quivering with the joy
of running Mark’s day. “Boss?” Damien said, a bit more
sharply. “Muriel? Remember her? She’s waiting.”

“So let her wait some more,” Mark answered, tossing me a
wink. “This is important. Open the damn box, Callie.”
Damien sighed with the heavy drama that only a gay man can
pull off and hustled down the hall.

Cheeks burning, I opened the velvet box. It was a bracelet,
delicate silver strands that twisted and turned like
ivy. “Oh, Mark, I love it,” I whispered, running my finger
over the intricate lines. I bit my lip, my eyes already
misting with happy tears. “Thank you.”

His expression was soft. “You’re welcome. You mean a lot to
me. You know that, Callie.” He bent down and kissed my
cheek, and every detail was immediately seared into my
brain — his smooth, warm lips, the smell of his Hugo Boss
cologne, the heat of his skin.

Hope, which had been lying in ashes for the past ten
months, twitched hard.

“Think you’ll make it to my party later on?” I asked,
striving for perky and fun, not lustful and ruttish. My
parents were throwing me a little bash at Elements, the
nicest restaurant around, and I’d invited all my coworkers.
No use in pretending; I was turning thirty, might as well
get some presents.

Mark straightened, then moved a pile of papers from the
small couch in my office and sat down. “Um…Listen, I need
to tell you something. You met Muriel, right?”

“Well, just that once. She seems…very…” Hm. She’d worn a
killer black suit, had great shoes…kind of intense. “Very
focused.”

“Yeah. She is. Callie…” Mark hesitated. “Muriel and I are
seeing each other.”

It took a few seconds for that to register. Once again, I
was that stupid deer, watching mutely as the pickup truck
hurtled down the road. My heart slammed to a halt. For a
second, I couldn’t breathe. Michelle Obama stood by,
shaking her head sadly, her fabulous arms crossed in
regret. I realized my mouth was open. Closed it. “Oh,” I
heard myself say.

Mark looked at the floor. “I hope that doesn’t cause you
any…discomfort. Given our past involvement.”

There was a white, rushing sound, like a river engorged
with snowmelt and hidden debris. He was seeing someone? How
could that be? If the timing was okay for Muriel…why not…
Oh, crap.

“Callie?” he said.

Here’s the thing about being hit by a truck. Sometimes
those deer keep running. They just bound into the woods,
sort of like they’re saying, Whoo-hoo! That was close!
Good thing I’m okay. Um…I am okay, right? Actually, you
know what? I’m feeling a little strange. Think I’ll lie
down for a bit. And then they wake up dead.