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the truth. Sam did seem legitimately concerned, which made his silence all the more weird.

Why had I even told him about it? Well, because he asked.

After lunch—it was a quick meal out with Jack, of course—Sam finally approached me again.

"Effie, you're sure you're all right? That story you told me was really rough." He seemed more distraught about the situation than I was.

"I'm fine, really. Just a bump on the head." When he didn't even seem to notice that I had spoken, I inquired. "Sam, is everything okay with you?"

"The man upstairs is giving me a hard time about this Jack Teller/Lexy Brown shit."

"Is that supposed to be a religious reference?" I asked jokingly.

Sam just stared back at me disapprovingly and continued. "I've still heard no word about it, and that worries me because it probably means he signed with someone else. Who knows how much longer I'll be around here. This might prove to just be the one deal I couldn't afford to lose. She's blowing up on college radio and we're missing out on all the action."

I sipped my coffee and smiled at him. "I'm sure he's just taking his sweet time making the decision. He's an artist type—you know how indecisive those guys can be."

"You're sure he's just taking his time?" he snapped. "How the hell would you know that? He's probably just too busy fucking Lexy to make a decision."

My cheeks flushed a little red, partially out of irrational jealousy, partially as a defense mechanism. "He would never do—" I trailed off, not sure where I was going. "He didn't seem like that type to me."

"What? You really don't think he's the walking hard-on type? I've met hundreds of guys like him and they're all exactly same. If it's hot, they'll fuck it and never turn back." Sam ran his hands through his already-messy hair. "Why do you think I'm divorced?"

I was close to boiling over at that point. Thankfully, Jack had discussed his views on promiscuity with me, otherwise I would have probably started crying. "I don't know why you're divorced, Sam. You tell me!"

"Because some hot-shot musician like Jack Teller couldn't keep his hands off my goddamn hot wife!"

I really didn't know what to say to that. We both fell silent for what felt like an eternity, me trying to decide the right words, Sam trying not to explode like a bomb. I guess his miserable experience just came with the territory.

"I'm sure it's just indecision. Let it go, Sam."

He retorted with lightning speed. "Not Jack! He didn't get where he is because he couldn't make decisions. Goddammit, Effie, haven't you learned anything at this job?"

"Sam, that's cruel. And I'm sorry about your wife."

"It's the truth," he insisted. His face looked more weathered and tired than ever. "I'm better off without her," his words sounded as if he were reading them from a script. This was hugely sensitive turf for him, turf that was making him behave unpredictably.

I decided that I needed to bring this down a few notches before it turned into something even more serious than it already was. "Sam, you need to relax. Why the hell are you yelling at me about this?"

His volume suddenly dropped to almost a whisper and his eyes squinted. "I think you're hiding something from me. I really do. Something doesn't add up here."

"What the hell are you talking about? That's ridiculous," I said. "What the hell would I be hiding? Drop the conspiracy theory bullshit." In that moment, I almost felt like admitting it to him, breaking down my walls and entering the realm of full disclosure. I didn't, however. I wanted to talk to Jack about this first.

"I don't know what's going on here around my back, Jacobs, but I'll figure it out sooner or later." He turned around and angrily stomped back to his office. If we had been in the desert, there would have been a trail of dust following behind his shadow.

"Are we like a high school sports team now, Beckermann?" I shouted back, invoking his last name like he'd used mine. He didn't say anything back, most likely because he didn't hear me. That was probably a good thing. I didn't need to deal with this all day.

"He's been mad all morning," one of the interns said to me as she passed by. "And paranoid. Don't sweat it. Or take it personally."

I shook my head and frowned. Even though Sam was right, he didn't have any proof. And even then, what difference did it make? I wasn't that familiar with the legalese surrounding my position, but I figured it was fine just as long as I didn't influence the decision. If he had been throwing a fit all morning, that probably meant he was just lumping me in with everything else that was peeving him.

My vision suddenly caught the wilted roses that were still sitting on my desk from the previous week. They felt like a scarlet letter, especially given Sam's impromptu inquisition, and I felt incredibly stupid that I hadn’t dealt with them sooner. I wasn't sure how I had managed to ignore them the whole day until now.

On my way out of the office, I angrily tossed them in the hallway trashcan. There was something cathartic about leaving them where Sam would see them for sure, and it was something I really needed in that moment. Hopefully he'd feel bad about yelling at me and pushing me to throw away the "anonymous" gift.

I decided that I wouldn't say anything to Jack about throwing his gift in the trash.

After work, I stopped at my preferred—which also happened to be the closest—indie coffee shop and grabbed an Americano. My coffee habit seemed to rise and fall in tandem with my stress levels and that meant I was probably spending more money than I should have been. In moments like these, however, I felt like an addict that could never say no.

Jack hadn't made any definitive plans with me yet, so