by Jamie Knight
“Would you like to work with me, Tommy? If offered you the job, would you take it?”
Her eyes suck out all the air in my lungs. For a moment, I can’t breathe or speak. All I can do is sit there and stare at her.
Then, it hits me.
She offered me the job. Me. After everyone else on the legal assistants’ floor said she was impossible to please and super picky, she offered me the chance to work with her!
Come on, brain! Come on! Work! Say something!
Vanacore laughs good-naturedly as if she finds me as dorky as she does cute.
“Cat got your tongue, Tommy?”
“Yes,” I say, not realizing that I’ve actually just answered her most recent question and not the one about the job.
I shake my head out, like a computer program malfunctioning.
“I mean, yes, yes, ma’am — I’d like the job very much. If you’re offering it to me, I’d like the opportunity very much to work with you, Ms. Vanacore.”
I bring my head up and down quickly, not sure what to do or what I’m supposed to do. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect that she would be this interested in me, and this ready to offer me such a position.
Though part of my rational mind says that it probably has more to do with something other than my qualifications, I bat that thought away.
“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you so much for the generous offer,” I say.
“The pleasure is all mine,” she says, and I feel something sharp on “mine.”
It feels dangerous, though my mind won’t let me go all the way to that. It stops me short of it, just as Vanacore reaches out her hand to shake mine.
“When I was your age, a man in the business of law gave me a similar opportunity, and I’ve been waiting forty years to return the favor.”
She claps her fingers around mine, giving them a vigorous shake. She doesn’t seem to notice or care about the sweat on my palms.
Her hands, by comparison, are dry, smooth, and faintly perfumed — with sweet booze or Cologne, I can’t tell.
Her grip is a firm one — steadying, but also dominating.
“I consider this my opportunity since I have finally found the young man worthy of such a blessing.”
At some point during this, she lets go of my hand. The reason I don’t notice this right away is because of the impression her hand leaves on mine, both literally and metaphorically.
“Thank you, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am,” I say. “I’ll give you my best. I’ll give you my all. I promise.”
Vanacore’s eyes shine.
“I know you will, Tommy,” she says. “I know you will. You are just that committed.”
An odd shiver goes through my stomach and down my back at this, but I brush it away.
Charlotte pushes some papers my way with a smile.
“If you sign these, Mr. Radner, I can get your pay rate change set up with payroll,” she says, handing me a really fancy pen. “If you sign these, we can complete this interview, and you and Ms. Vanacore can get to the rest of your morning.”
“Yes.” I nod. “Fine.”
With that, I sign the paperwork, still unable to believe I’ve done it.
I’ve gotten the promotion I’ve been looking for and with a boss that no one else has been able to impress.
Again, some parts of me aren’t entirely sure I’ve earned it for the reasons I think I do.
Some part of me begins to pipe up and remind me that it seems like Ms. Vanacore might be looking at me for more than just my accomplishments and my recommendations, but again I push it away. I push it aside.
I’m just glad to be signing my name on the dotted line to my future right now.
I don’t want to mess it up with fears, especially before the ink has even dried.
Chapter Eight - Melissa
After making sure that Tommy is looking his absolute best — and not like he’s just been getting through life by the seat of his pants — I, finally, start heading to my office. But first, I greet Isabella in the coffee bar.
She follows me to our shared office and proceeds to tell me about her weekend. She complains about the crazy comments her parents made this time since, despite her being successful, they are still up in arms about her having a job.
I hate to admit it, but they sound like a lot of some of my friends back in England. The ones who were encouraging me to stay at home while my future husband brought home the bread.
I frown at her and say, “Your parents sound like a nightmare. Almost as bad as mine, though, at least mine would let me get a job. Hell, they were pressuring me unbelievably to get one.”
I unscrew the cap on my thermos of tea and take a gulp. The tea is still warm, but thankfully not scorching enough to burn my throat.
“That’s part of why I moved across an ocean to get away from them,” I add.
I’m serious enough, but Isabella just laughs.
“Melissa, you’re killing me. I don’t like my parents as much as the next young person but across an ocean? Halfway around the world? Now that’s commitment!”
I hum, tightening the lid on my drink container again. I don’t know what it is, but I have the feeling someone’s going to call any moment now.
Curiously, I’ve built up a sixth sense around the phones. Somehow, I just know when someone’s going to call, or when I should call someone else.
It’s part of the reason I’ve begun to feel that I was made to be a secretary while working here. It’s part of the reason it’s been easy for me to work here for ten years when most people would probably want to get moved up in the company or move on.
Sure enough, my phone does ring. I quickly put on my headset, wave at Isabella as she sits down at her own desk and press the answer button. Without missing a beat, I say the words I’ve said thousands and thousands of times by now.
“Mr. McKenzie’s office, how can I help you?”
As I listen to the caller’s request, I see Dennis — the photo I have framed of him — out of the corner of my eye. As I look into his eyes, study his mouth and face, part of me returns to our conversation earlier. He seemed so out of touch, cranky, and grumpy.
The person on the phone wants to leave a message, so I send them through to the voicemail of the person they’re looking for. I’m not sure how, but somehow, I managed to hit all the right buttons, say the right words, even while distracted.
Even with my mind on my boyfriend, I’m able to do my job seamlessly. I know this is only thanks to the muscle memory I’ve built up over so many years and hours of doing this job.
Unfortunately, though, it’s this muscle memory that also allows me to spend more time thinking about my boyfriend than most secretaries would be able to while working. As the next few calls come in, I’m again wrapped up in thinking about Dennis and what could be causing his bad attitude.
He seemed so disconnected, dare I say it — disinterested in our relationship, in our routine — though I can’t say how. I don’t want to think too hard on it since my mind is already coming up with a plethora of excuses. I keep thinking of reasons why he would be so unloving, and unromantic. Maybe it is stress and demands related to his work, but even so, part of my heart worries and frets.
Something in me is beginning to wonder if someone else has captured his interest. Someone else could be vying for his attention and his time, but I quickly bat that thought away. I bury it in another round of phone calls and paperwork.
Stop thinking that way, Melissa. You’re being silly. You’re being oversensitive.
I tell myself this as I finish transferring yet another call to Kane’s office and sit back in my chair. I look at the beautiful picture I have of Dennis. I treasure the way he’s smiling at me. I love how tender and supportive his smile is.
He’s having a rough time of it. He’s going through so many things that you don’t even know about, and yet through it all, he still tries to call you. And he has every
right to be upset with you. After all, you weren’t planning to not see him for so long. You weren’t planning to go so long without seeing him or without traveling to him for some holiday, and yet you haven’t managed it. Not once.
I sigh, feeling bad. I’m upset with myself for being so upset with Dennis, when I know, I’ve been upsetting him, too.
“Long weekend, honey? Or not long enough?” asks Isabella, scooting her chair over to my desk.
She’s eating a bit of muffin she’s picked out from the cafeteria and is now holding between her perfectly manicured fingernails.
I look at her, and before I can come up with some other answer — one that doesn’t have anything at all to do with my boyfriend or the awkward video chat we had this morning — she reads me like an open book.
“Boyfriend do something?”
When I try to give her a look like “no way, you must be out of your mind,” she adds, “You’ve been looking at that photo like a crystal ball or tarot card, or something. And whenever someone looks at a photo like that of someone we love, it can’t be good.”
“I wouldn’t say he did something,” I say.
“It’s what he didn’t do,” she says, “isn’t it?”
When I give her a look of surprise, she gives me one back. One that says, “really?”
She takes another bite of her muffin and says, “Look, you and I both know it’s not the things that people do that make us look that way. It’s what they don’t do that does, Melissa.”
She picks at her muffin, picking out her next little morsel.
As she pops it in between her shiny, red lips, she says, “so what didn’t he do?”
“He was a little late to our video chat this morning, and I was worried he had forgotten or found better things to do,” I say, surprised and mortified at how jealous and irritable I sound.
I sound like a woman who just got broken up with, not made to wait for a video chat for ten minutes longer than I expected. I sound like a perfect queen and not the good kind.
“Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I’m the one being too sensitive and hormonal about it.” I sigh.
“But he didn’t seem that interested. He seemed more excited at the prospect of getting off the video chat than he seemed about being on it,” I added, realizing that that’s the thing that’s been disturbing me the most. Dennis looked so happy when I said I needed to cut it short.
Isabella shakes her head, and I enjoy watching her dark, tight curls of hair bounce as she does.
“That’s not good. That’s not what you want in a boyfriend whose ass is late to your phone call — your digital date,” she says, saying what I felt like saying to Dennis but didn’t have the courage.
He really did hurt my feelings by being late, and then looked so disinterested. He just lectured and yelled at me.
“He even got after me for not coming to visit him,” I say, getting more and more frightened with how forthcoming I’m being.
Isabella and I talk about a lot of things, but I haven’t talked to her about my boyfriend too much. I don’t talk too much with anyone about him as it is. I don’t think just anyone deserves to know about my love life, even Isabella.
“Why doesn’t he come to visit you?”
I smile.
“I asked him the same thing.”
“And?”
Just then, the phone rings on her desk.
She holds up her finger, scoots over, and does her spiel.
While she’s on the phone, I hear her say, “Mr. Smith? No, he’s not available right now. I see that he’s in a meeting with HR. No, I think he’s busy taking part in an interview process or something.”
She pauses.
Hearing the words “interview” and “HR,” my thoughts turn to the legal assistant, Tommy. I suspect he is currently in that interview with Ashton.
“Listen. The best I can do,” says Isabella over my thoughts, “is to patch you to his office, and you can leave a message.”
She pauses again.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t know when he’s going to be available.”
Another pause.
“Sir, do you want to leave a message with him or not?”
My mind wanders back to Tommy and his interview. I start to wonder how it went for him or how it’s going for him since it seems his potential boss is still in the conference room with him, Ashton, and HR.
I think about his clothes, how disheveled and sweaty he looked, but how determined he looked as well. My heart warms, remembering how grateful he seemed for my time and attention.
Dennis never let me help him get ready for work. He never let me help him straighten out any of his clothes or help him get styled.
I frown, remembering what an asshole he could be. How, once, he slapped my hand away. He would get so upset over the smallest of changes to his hair, the way a piece of clothing sat on him, or a piece of jewelry was oriented.
He never seemed grateful for any bit of attention I tried to give him or his clothes. He always ended up yelling at me. Never once said thank you, and when I tried to offer, he would always come back with “no, I only know what I like. You don’t have any clue, and I’d rather you didn’t get your hands all over it when I’ve gotten it just the way I like.”
In my head, I see Tommy’s face light up with happiness and thankfulness with everything I tried to do for him. I remember him soaking up my comments to him that he is better looking than the clothes he wears, and that he deserves better.
He’s like a thirsting plant that’s never been watered, whereas Dennis is like an overgrown, overstuffed garden. He’s gotten way too much attention from everybody, so much so that he doesn’t even express any gratitude for it anymore.
That’s what happens when you’re super attractive. You don’t think anyone deserves a word of thanks because you’ve never known what it’s like to go without.
I hope things are going well for you, Tommy. I hope people see you for who you are. How sweet and dedicated you are, even though you look the way you do, and shallow people are often turned off and away by that. I hope you know how handsome you are, and that you hold yourself with a bit more confidence today. Get that job that you deserve, and don’t let anyone put you down ever again.
I smile.
And thank you for making me feel useful today. Thank you for your gratitude and appreciation. I know you had no way of knowing it, but that really made my day. I hope you come back and tell me how things go. I hope tomorrow I don’t see you getting off on a lower floor. I hope I see you riding up past the eighth floor and going to the legal floor. After five years of working here, you deserve nothing less.
Isabella’s exasperated sigh pulls my thoughts away from Tommy.
“These people,” she says, “they think we receptionists run the whole dang universe.”
She pauses, laughing.
“Well, we sort of do in the universe of corporations, but come on! I can’t make magic happen!” She shakes her head.
“If the person you want to see or speak to isn’t in the office, I can’t just make him appear for you!” She sighs again. “Anyway, the boyfriend, back to him. You told him he should come to see you if he wants to see you that badly, and what did he say?”
I hate to have my thoughts brought back to Dennis when it felt so good to remember how appreciative Tommy was for my wardrobe help, but Isabella’s one of those people who likes to finish the conversations she starts, even if they are uncomfortable.
“He said he wouldn’t. He doesn’t want to even come to visit.”
“Then let him be a grumpy Gus about everything, and don’t worry about him today.” She smiles. “I know it’s easier said than done, but Melissa, honey, he doesn’t get to get mad at you for something he won’t do himself. He doesn’t get to ruin your mood because he’s deciding to be moody.”
She puts her hand on mine, though she has to reach over the little bit of my desk
to do so. “Think of something else. Something that makes you a little happier for a while.”
I have no objection to that. Just as another phone call comes in, I think of Tommy and the possibility that he’s signing papers with Ms. Vanacore at the moment, and therefore, getting his promotion.
A bit of a smile starts on my lips, just thinking about him. How handsome and sweet he looks, even with his tall stature; I think about his doe eyes, and his charming smile. It’s the kind of smile Prince Charming would wear if he grew up as a poor boy and was only beginning to dream of the crown he could wear.
Good luck, Tommy. You deserve every bit of what this world can offer you.
I hang up from the latest transfer.
And I’ll count myself lucky if I’ve even contributed to a bit of that luck in the smallest way.
Chapter Nine - Tommy
Once the paperwork is all signed on the dotted line, and in triplicate, I feel like how people must feel on their wedding day, or night: full of jitters.
I’m feeling free and yet bound. These feelings overwhelm me as I leave the conference room and follow Vanacore toward an elevator. It’s one of the newer ones, added to this side of the building to accommodate the expanding partner floors, and the greater usage of offices up here.
When the elevator arrives, Vanacore holds it open for me. Awkwardly, I walk under her arm, ducking low, and feeling again like some kind of bride.
As Vanacore comes in behind me and pushes the button for what I assume is our floor, she says, “I’m looking forward to working with you, Tommy. Greatly.”
In the elevator, there’s a palpable energy between us. I’ve never felt this kind of energy before. It’s both heavy and light or excited and suffocating.
Briefly, I wonder if this is what people mean when they say certain people have “chemistry” with each other. If that’s the case, I’m not sure what kind of “chemical” reaction is going on between us, but it’s like nothing I’ve had since growing up and becoming an adult.
Vanacore is older than me — much, much older. Old enough to be my mother, and yet she has this way about her. She has this aura that’s equally charming and domineering.