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by Rainbow Rowell

  I was struck numb.

  I said, “Are you mocking me?”

  “No,” he said, “I’m asking you out.”

  “Then, I’m saying yes.”

  “Good … ,” he said, “we could have dinner. You could still sit across from me. It would be just like a Tuesday morning. But with breadsticks.”

  “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “Yes.” He was still smiling. “Now I am.”

  And that was that. We went out that weekend. And the next weekend. And the next. It was wildly romantic.

  <> Wow, what a cucumber. (Cool, I mean.) Did he know all along that you were watching him?

  <> Yeah, I think so. That’s just Chris. He never hurries. He never shows his cards. He always hangs up first.

  <> What does that mean, he always hangs up first?

  <> Like when we first started talking on the phone, he would always be the one who got off first. When we kissed, he always pulled away first. He always kept me just on the edge of crazy. Feeling like I wanted him too much, which just made me want him more.

  <> That sounds excruciating.

  <> Excruciating and wonderful. It feels good to want something that bad. I thought about him the way you think about dinner when you haven’t eaten for a day and a half. Like you’d sell your soul for it.

  <> I’ve never not eaten for a day and a half.

  <> Not even when you had the flu or something?

  <> Maybe once. What happened to your Sig Ep?

  <> Oh God. It was terrible. I didn’t remember to dump him until Sunday afternoon. I had two boyfriends for like nine hours. Not that I called Chris my boyfriend then. I didn’t want to spook him. That first year was strange. I felt like a butterfly had landed on me. If I moved or even breathed, I thought he would float away.

  <> Because he always hung up first?

  <> That. And other things, too. I never knew when I would see him or when he would call. A week might go by and I wouldn’t talk to him. Then I’d find a note slid under my door. Or a leaf. Or song lyrics written on a matchbook.

  Or Chris himself. Leaning against my door on a Wednesday afternoon, waiting for me to get back from economics. Maybe he’d stay for 15 minutes. Maybe he’d leave that night after I fell asleep. Or maybe he’d talk me into skipping classes for the rest of the week. Maybe we wouldn’t leave the room until Saturday morning when we’d finally exhausted my supply of salsa and Popsicles and Diet Coke.

  He made me nervy. I spent a lot of time looking out of windows, trying to will him to me. I rented movies about girls who chewed on their hair and had fever patches on their cheeks.

  I’ve never been happier.

  <> I think I’ve figured out why we weren’t friends in college. You were kind of scary.

  <> Not scary. Single-minded.

  <> Scarily single-minded.

  <> I was focused. I knew what I wanted in life. I wanted Chris. And it was such a relief not to be distracted by anything else. I had no boring subplots.

  Weren’t you ever like that with Mitch?

  <> Never like that.

  I mean, I was definitely head over heels. But, if anything, he was more caught up than I was, which is probably why we’re still together. I needed Mitch to wear his heart on his sleeve. I was so insecure, I needed him to bang down my door and fill my room with flowers.

  <> Did he actually fill your room with flowers?

  <> Yep. Carnations, but flowers nonetheless.

  <> Hmmm. In theory, I think that sounds wonderful. But in practice, I was drawn to Chris because he didn’t do that sort of thing. Because he would never do anything that was romantic in a traditional sense. And not just because he was trying to be different, but because his instincts were (are) so different from every other guy’s. It was like dating the man who fell to Earth.

  <> I’m glad you finally told me all this. I hated feeling like there was this major part of your life that we couldn’t talk about.

  That said, I don’t think you ever have to worry about me running away with or making a drunken pass at Chris. He’d make me insane.

  <> Ditto on the being glad we talked about this. But I can’t give you a ditto on the drunken pass thing. Mitch is a hottie.

  <> Now I’m rolling my eyes.

  CHAPTER 16

  THEY MUST BE about his age. Jennifer and Beth and Beth’s boyfriend. Twenty-eight or so. Maybe they’d all been in college together. After Lincoln transferred to the state school, after Sam broke up with him, he’d stayed in school a long time, through multiple degrees. There was a good chance he’d seen Beth on campus.

  So much for stopping. So much for what he technically, ethically, knew he should do.

  He’d meant to throw Beth’s and Jennifer’s messages away, as soon as they showed up in the WebFence folder. But then …he didn’t. He opened them, and once he was reading them, he got caught up in their stories, in their back and forth and back and forth.

  I’m getting caught up, he thought to himself after he was done reading about how Beth met her boyfriend, after he’d read through the whole story a second time and spent a few minutes thinking about it, thinking about them, wondering what they all looked like …What she looked like …

  I’m getting caught up, he thought. That’s not good …is it?

  No. But maybe it isn’t exactly all bad …

  CHAPTER 17

  From: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  To: Beth Fremont

  Sent: Fri, 09/10/1999 1:23 PM

  Subject: Herring cassoulet.

  You shouldn’t be allowed to eat fish at work. I swear to God, whenever Tony works, I go home reeking of the sea. I know he’s from Rhode Island, where they eat fish all the livelong day, but he should assume that everyone around him here is disgusted by the stink of it.

  <> I’ve seen you eat fish sticks before. And popcorn shrimp.

  <> Both of those have protective fried coatings. I’ll eat fish that’s processed beyond recognition, but I would never eat it at work. I don’t even pop popcorn here. I don’t like to inflict my food odors on others.

  <> Very thoughtful.

  I’ll trade you Tony’s orange roughy stench for Tim’s fingernail clipping any day.

  <> I thought you stole his fingernail clippers …

  <> I did. He has new ones. I’m not sure what bothers me more …the constant clip-clip noises or knowing that his cubicle is completely contaminated by tiny fingernail slivers.

  <> If we ever need any of his DNA for a paternity test or a voodoo spell, we’ll know where to look.

  <> If we ever need any of Tony’s DNA for a paternity test, one of us deserves to be pushed off a cliff.

  Hey, remember when we used to have to leave our desks to have conversations like this?

  <> I don’t think we ever did have conversations like this. I know I never ventured into reporter land unless I had incredibly good gossip or unless I really, really needed to talk.

  <> Or unless somebody brought cookies.

  Remember that lady who sat in the corner, who used to always bring cookies? What happened to her?

  <> The city hall reporter? I heard they fired her when they found out she carried a loaded gun in her purse.

  <> That doesn’t seem fair. As long as she kept it in her purse.

  <> Wow. It wouldn’t be 30 pieces of silver with you, would it? It would be cookies.

  <> No. (Yes. Snickerd
oodles.)

  CHAPTER 18

  THAT AFTERNOON, GREG introduced Lincoln to college students he’d hired to take on the Y2K project. There were three of them; one from Vietnam, one from Bosnia, and one from the suburbs. Lincoln couldn’t tell how old they were. Much younger than he was. “They’re like an international strike force,” Greg said, “and you’re their commander.”

  “Me?” Lincoln said. “What exactly does that mean?”

  “It means you have to make sure they’re actually doing something,” Greg said. “If I knew anything about coding, I’d be the commander. You think I don’t want to be the commander?”

  The Y2K kids sat at a table in the corner. They worked days mostly, between their classes, so Lincoln usually tried to meet with them as soon as he came in. He didn’t do much commanding at these meetings. The college students seemed to already know what they needed to do. And they didn’t talk much otherwise, to Lincoln or to each other.

  After about a week, Lincoln was pretty sure that they’d hacked the firewalls and were running instant messaging and Napster on their computers. He told Greg, but Greg said he didn’t give a shit as long as he still had a job on January 1.

  No one on the Strike Force had interoffice e-mail, so no one was monitoring them. Sometimes Lincoln wondered if anyone was monitoring his own mail. Maybe Greg, he thought, but it didn’t really matter because Greg was the only one who ever sent him messages.

  CHAPTER 19

  From: Beth Fremont

  To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

  Sent: Wed, 09/22/1999 2:38 PM

  Subject: Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh.

  Roo-ah-rooo-ahhh.

  <> What’s that?

  <> It’s the Cute Guy Alarm.

  <> It sounds like a bird.

  <> There’s a cute guy working here.

  <> No, there isn’t.

  <> I know, that was my first response, too. I thought he must have come in from the outside, a repairman, perhaps, or a consultant. That’s why I waited for two confirmed sightings before sounding the Cute Guy Alarm.

  <> Is this Cute Guy Alarm something you made up with your eighth-grade friends? Do I need to be wearing Guess overalls to understand this?

  Also—confirmed by whom?

  <> Confirmed by me. I know a cute guy when I see him. Remember when I told you about the cute messenger? (And I just now made up the alarm. It felt necessary.)

  <> Oh, that messenger was cute.

  <> And that’s why he didn’t last. This place can’t sustain cuteness, I don’t know why. It’s cuteness-cursed.

  <> You’re very cute.

  <> Oh, I was. Once. Before I came to this decuteing factory. Look around you. We journalists are a homely lot.

  <> Matt Lauer isn’t homely.

  <> Now, that is a matter of opinion. (And I can’t believe you went straight to Matt Lauer. Have you seen Brian Williams?) Regardless, TV journalists don’t count; cute is their job. There’s no reason to look pretty in print journalism. Readers don’t care if you’re cute. Especially not my readers. The only time I’m out in public, I’m sitting in the dark.

  <> Now that you mention it, I haven’t worn lipstick to work in three years.

  <> And you’re still too cute for the copy desk.

  <> Damn me with faint praise, why don’t you.

  Tell me more about this cute guy you’ve imagined.

  <> There’s not much to tell—beyond his monumental cuteness.

  <> Monumental?

  <> He’s very, very tall. And strong-looking. Like the kind of guy you feel standing next to you before you actually see him, because he’s blocking so much ambient light.

  <> Is that how you spotted him?

  <> No, I spotted him the first time walking down the hallway. And then I spotted him at the drinking fountain—and I thought to myself, “Now there’s a tall drink of water …getting a drink of water.” He has really nice brown hair and action-hero facial features.

  <> Explain.

  <> Manly. Kind of square. Harrison Fordish. The kind of guy you can picture negotiating for hostages and also jumping away from an explosion.

  Do you think it’s scandalous that someone in a committed relationship like mine is checking out guys at the drinking fountain?

  <> No. How could you not notice a cute guy around here? That’s like spotting a passenger pigeon.

  <> A passenger pigeon with a sweet ass.

  <> Why did you have to go there?

  <> To bug you. I didn’t even look at his butt. I never remember to do that.

  <> I’m going back to work now.

  <> You seem a little testy. Is everything okay?

  <> I’m fine.

  <> See what I mean? Testy.

  <> Okay, I’m not fine. But I’m too embarrassed to talk about why.

  <> Don’t talk, then. Type.

  <> Only if you don’t go repeating what I’m about to tell you. It makes me sound unbalanced.

  <> I won’t. I swear. Cross my heart, needles, etc.

  <> All right. But this is really stupid. More stupid than usual. I was at the mall last night, walking around by myself, trying not to spend money, trying not to think about a delicious Cinnabon …and I found myself walking by the Baby Gap. I’ve never been in a Baby Gap. So, I decided to duck in. On a lark.

  <> Right. On a lark. I’m familiar with those. So …

  <> So …I’m larking through the Baby Gap, looking at tiny capri pants and sweaters that cost more than …I don’t know, more than they should. And I get totally sucked in by this ridiculous, tiny fur coat. The kind of coat a baby might need to go to the ballet. In Moscow. In 1918. To match her tiny pearls.

  I’m looking at this preposterous coat, and a Baby Gap woman comes up to me and says, “Isn’t that sweet? How old is your daughter?” And I say, “Oh, no. She’s not. Not yet.”

  And she says, “When are you due?”

  And I say, “February.”

  <> Whoa.

  <> I know. I just lied. About being pregnant. If I were really pregnant, I wouldn’t be at the Baby Gap, I’d be sitting in a dark room, sobbing.

  So Baby Gap lady says, “Well, then you’ll want one for next season, size 6 to 12 months. These coats are a steal. We just marked them down today.”

  And I agreed that a faux fur coat for only $32.99 was indeed an irresistible deal.

  <> You bought baby clothes? What did Mitch say?

  <> Nothing! I hid it in the attic. I felt like I was hiding a body.

  <> Wow. I don’t know what to say. Does this mean you’re softening on the baby issue?

  <> I think it means I’m softening on the sanity issue. I’m viewing this as a dysfunctional appendage to my general psychosis about babies. I still dread getting pregnant. But now I’m buying clothes for the child I’m terrified to have, and guess what, it’s a girl.

  <> Wow.

  <> I know.

  CHAPTER 20

  SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, Lincoln walked up to the newsroom. It was mostly empty. There were a few nightside copy editors left, poring over the next morning’s newspaper. Someone was sitting at the city desk, listening to a crackling police scanner and working on tomorrow’s crossword.

  Lincoln walked to the other s
ide of the long room, where he assumed the Entertainment staff worked. Back there, the cubicles were full of movie posters, concert flyers, promotional photos and toys.

  He stopped at a printer and opened it, just to look like he had something to do. Which desk was he looking for? Maybe the one with the R.E.M. stickers. Probably not the one with the stuffed Bart Simpson and half a dozen fully poseable Alien action figures …but maybe. Maybe. Would Beth have a Page-a-Day cat calendar? A potted plant? A Sandman poster? A Marilyn Manson press pass?

  A Sandman poster.

  He looked back at the copy desk. He could hardly see the copy editors from here, which meant they could hardly see him. He walked over to Beth’s cubicle, to what he thought was her cubicle.

  A Sandman poster. A Rushmore poster. A three-year-old flyer for Sacajawea at Sokol Hall. A dictionary. A French dictionary. Three books by Leonard Maltin. A high school journalism award. Empty coffee cups. Starburst wrappers. Photographs.

  He sat at her desk and lamely started to take apart her computer mouse.

  Photographs. One was a concert photograph, a guy playing guitar. Obviously her boyfriend, Chris. In another frame, the same guy sat on a beach. In another, he wore a suit. He looked like a rock star even without the guitar. Slender and slouched over. Never quite smiling. Always looking past the camera. Shaggy. Roguish. Handsome.

  There were family pictures, too, of angelic dark-haired babies and nice-looking, well-dressed adults—but none of them seemed to be Beth. They weren’t the right age, or they were standing with what were clearly husbands or children.

  Lincoln went back to looking at the boyfriend. Looking at his not-quite smile and his sharp cheekbones. At his long, twisting waist. He looked like he had a get-out-of-jail-free card in his back pocket. If you looked like that, a woman would forgive you. She would expect to have to forgive you now and then.

  Lincoln set the mouse down and walked back to the information technology office. Lumbered back. He could see his dim reflection in the darkened office windows along the hall. He felt heavy and plain. Lumpy. Thick. Gray.

 

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