by Emily Duvall
All of Me
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright © 2019 by Emily Duvall
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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Printed in the United States of America
For N.D., man do I love that kid
Chapter 1
Maren
I have always loved alarm clocks. They signal change. Night to morning. Time to pause and start again. A beginning and an end. I peek one eye open at the clock on my bedside table. Four more minutes.
“I’m here,” my sister Libby calls from the kitchen. She lives one floor below and swings by every morning. “Are you awake? Dressed? Almost done? Are you eating breakfast? Maren? Do you hear me?”
I do not move. My favorite part of the alarm is the wake-up sound I have selected.
“Maren?” Libby swings the door open. She stands in the doorway with her eyes wide and her mouth parted. “You’re not even out of bed? I thought we talked about this.”
I hold up my index finger. The numbers on the alarm tick to round out the hour and the beautiful noise of loose change dropping fills my ears with a satisfying sound.
Her hand grasps and slides over the doorknob like it’s holding her in place. “You need to set the time for earlier.”
“I will be ready in exactly twenty minutes,” I say and get out of bed.
Ten minutes in the shower. Five minutes for blow drying my hair. Thirty seconds for mascara and clear lip gloss. Four minutes for selecting my clothes. Entering my closet is the final step to completing pre-work activities. My wardrobe is organized by season and my shoes are in boxes with a photograph of each taped to the outside. The less time I spend picking out clothes, the more time I have to play a game on my iPad, Countess Coins. I grab an outfit and put it on.
I step out of my room and confront what I know is waiting: Libby’s scrutinizing gaze.
She looks me over from head to feet. “You wore the shirt yesterday and the pants…” She gives my legs an extra second of scrutiny. “Stretch pants won’t work for the event tonight.”
Ugh. That’s right. The event for her work that we’re going to. “It’s Friday,” I remind her. Fridays are for coming home and being lazy.
“We’ve been over this.” Libby rolls her eyes and sets her mug on the counter. “You’re not a kid anymore. Just change your shirt and pants.”
“I’m twenty-five-years-old. There are 365 days in a year, which means I’ve been breathing for 9,131 days. Stop being obsessed with my outfit choices. I’m not changing.”
Libby’s mouth turns small and pointy. My words don’t go over well.
I’m working on paying attention to how Libby sounds and looks when she speaks. There’s so much more to words than what you say. Body language is supposed to clue me in to what a person really means when they speak, but seriously? There’s a lot to process. Take Libby for example, folding arms over her chest and smiling. The whole folded-arms-thing means she’s not happy and she’s standoffish. The smile is what throws me off. Is she happy and unhappy? It’s a lot to process at six-thirty in the morning.
“Don’t be stubborn,” Libby says, drowning her coffee with coconut creamer. “It would mean a lot to me if you could dress…professional for the museum event.” She sips from her big mug and watches me. “You’re a pretty woman, Mare, you’ve got to highlight your features. Looking your best is important every time you step out of this apartment and even more crucial when you have somewhere to be.”
“You mean when I have to be somewhere with you.”
Libby’s lips form a straight line. “Come on, Mare. Do this for me. I really want you there. I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”
The prospect of making cash revs up my interest. “Make it fifty.”
“Twenty.”
“Okay. Fine. But I’m not changing outfits.”
Her hand clenches the mug handle. “Just get something to eat. I can’t be late, and neither can you.”
I go straight for the freezer and grab the box of Eggos.
“Again?” More judgement. Unsaid expectations. “You know eggs will take two minutes to cook.”
“And you know I think they’re gross.”
“You’re missing out.” Libby doesn’t mention eggs again. Thank God. She ties her straight blonde hair in a half-assed bun. “Mom called,” she says while I situate the waffles in the toaster. “They want us to visit in August.”
“Summer in Florida will be during the highest heat index month. I won’t go until the fall.”
“I agree. I told her to come up here.”
Our parents live on the Atlantic side of the state in a private community. They wanted me to move with them, but my home is in Arlington, where I grew I up. I know the streets, the bus routes, and the maps. Maps, maps, maps, maps, my body reacts. My senses skyrocket. The grids. The directional markers. North, East, South, West—all the combinations. I know each exit off I-495 by heart. Don’t even get me started on latitude and longitude.
“What’s got you all excited?” She places her mug in the sink and rinses it out.
I squeeze my fists ten times and take a deep breath. “I was thinking about maps.”
“You should be thinking about tonight. This is important to me. My firm hosts this cocktail hour once a year and I missed it last time. Family and friends are invited, and I want you to be there with me. You might even enjoy yourself.”
“That’s doubtful.” Maps come to mind again. The streets are organized on a quadrant system with the Capitol in the middle. Travel east to west and the street numbers increase. Go north to south and the letters increase.
“Maren!”
My gaze jumps to Libby. “What?” I say innocently.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I blink. “No. I didn’t.”
“I said, I can’t meet you at your office. My colleague, Caleb Allan, will come to your office and get you. He’ll bring you to the museum. I’ll meet you there.”
“Caleb Allan? He has two first names?”
“Please. Do not mention that when you meet him. He’ll be by your office at six.”
“You do realize I can get there on my own?”
“I know, I know, but your office is on his way and this way you don’t have to show up alone.” Her lip tugs up, but her smile is short-lived.
Visiting the art museum and listening to people compare colors and textures is as appealing as eating lettuce. I grab my tote and mumble annoyance at the situation, but I need to show my therapist I’ve tried purposeful interaction this week. Unfortunately, work doesn’t count.
My job is at Cloverleaf, Williams & Stine, an accounting firm. The building is nestled between several hotels. I spend a full day isolated in front of a computer as an investment analyst. I read numbers and interpret their meaning. In short, my dream job.
We ride the Metro and she checks her phone. I check mine, although I have no texts and no messages. We part ways, and she gives me a long look, like our mother does when she’s got more to say. I rush by her to avoid any such scenario and hop on the escalator which takes me
street level.
Downtown Arlington has a skyline that’s pleasing to the eye. High rises soar up. Trees are embedded in sections of the sidewalk. My office is in a brick building with four stories, twelve exits, one-wheel chair ramp, and 315 employees. I scan my ID card at the entrance. The soft beep and robotic, “Good morning, Ms. Cole,” makes me laugh. The artificial intelligent voice never gets old. Nobody else seems to think she/he is funny and if I bring it up with my coworkers, they stare at me.
The fifth floor is my home for the day in a small space shared by Charlotte Rye. My officemate has framed photos of her friends and family on her desk. She’s got a rainbow of pens and I have all black ones in a nondescript jar on mine. I don’t keep pictures on my desk or knick-knacks.
My eyes hone in on the cupcake sticky note on my keyboard. It’s from a representative from disability resources. She’s left another message asking me to call. She wants me to spearhead a brown bag lunch discussion about overcoming obstacles in the workplace. Never mind the fact that nobody in the office brings their lunch in a brown bag, I would rather eat eggs for breakfast than speak in front of large groups. I wish this woman would save the earth of more sticky notes and take the social and team-building activities out of our schedules.
“Good morning to you,” Charlotte says, entering the office with a sigh.
“Good morning, Charlotte.” I take in what she’s wearing. Bright pinks and florals intersected by bold lines. She’s a brave woman with all those patterns. The effect is too much on my eyes. I recoil.
“The flowers are supposed to be this way.” Charlotte stretches out her shirt to demonstrate and drops dramatically in her chair with a smile as big as the flowers on her shirt. “I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
She wants to talk, which means, I should listen. I click on a report and watch it download before turning my chair around. I frown. “He didn’t want to sleep?”
Charlotte laughs to herself and sighs with a dreamy quality to her eyes. “He likes to stay awake.”
I know that she’s talking about sex, but I haven’t been with a guy in years, except for a few bumpy roads of bad dates. What does she want me to ask? I go with what feels safe. “Eight hours of sleep is essential to staying healthy. Research shows the benefits of improved memory, the ability of your immune system—”
“Don’t you ever live a little?”
“I live a lot. I’m breathing, aren’t I?”
“You know what I mean.” She waves me off. “Ask me a question about him.”
Charlotte likes for me to ask her questions. She says friendships aren’t a one-way street, which makes me picture asphalt and dotted yellow lines down the middle. My thoughts zoom back to the organization of the street grids in D.C. “Did you know the city planners skipped J Street when they created the city?”
“Not sure how you got there, but I’m not talking about streets.” She smiles with a laugh. “I had the best sex of my life.” She flops back in her chair and her smile touches her ears. “Haven’t you ever had a night like that?”
“Err—” I glance at the screen. “My report is finished.”
I turn my back to her and dive into the safety net of analytics. No guessing game here. Numbers are straightforward. They never change sequence or order unless manipulated. “I wonder why the city planners skipped J Street.”
Charlotte sighs with a laugh and I hear her chair turning back around. She puts her headphones on and listens to music while she looks over her reports. We work for a good hour and I take a break for my ten o’clock snack. My office drawer has a stash of Pringles and fruit bars.
“I’m starving,” Charlotte announces, swiveling around in her chair. “Do you mind if I bum a bar off you?”
I do mind. This is my snack supply, but she’s my friend and friends share. I open the drawer. “Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” She comes over and roots around, looking for the best option. “I’ll pay you back.”
She never gives me money for snacks and she owes me. I pull out the pad of paper in my drawer and add the new total. I circle the number and show her.
“I really owe you twenty-five dollars for snacks?”
“Yup.” I tap my pen to show what she needs to pay.
Charlotte doesn’t look annoyed, but her smile is gone. “Guess I’ll pay you on Monday.”
I write it down.
Monday. Charlotte. $25.00.
Now that the business of her debt to me is over, I get through the day according to my schedule. Afternoons are full of meetings. Mr. Spencer holds them every Friday for my team. They’re not helpful. He says the same thing. We look at the numbers. We analyze earnings. We find ways to make them better. I think we need more clients, but when I point this out, my coworkers go quiet.
I stick to the numbers.
I keep to my routine.
Six o’clock rolls around and there’s no Caleb Allan. Where is he?
“Want to walk with me to the Metro?” Charlotte says, packing up her bag.
“I’m waiting for a guy.”
She perks up. “Oh. Who?”
“Someone named Caleb Allan. He has two first names.”
Charlotte edges to the end of her seat and rests her head on her hands. “Where are you and Caleb Allan going?”
“City Art Museum. He was supposed to be here at six.”
“Is this a date?” She’s hanging on my every word.
“No. He’s Libby’s coworker and he’s late.”
“I’m always fifteen minutes late to any event.”
“How though? Everyone has a clock on their phone.”
Charlotte twists and clips her long brown hair. “Don’t punish him for tardiness. Maybe he got busy or held up in a meeting. Do you want me to wait with you?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine. You go ahead.”
A flick of her wrist and she checks her watch. “I’ll see you later then. Have a good night.”
At 6:17 I pick up my phone and call Libby. I’m staring at the screen, at the numbers, and press the re-dial icon.
There’s a knock at my door and I look up to the man standing in the doorway. He’s quiet as a statue and checking his phone. He could walk with a stack of books on his head he’s got such great posture and he’s crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you Caleb Allan?” I ask.
“I am,” he confirms, putting the phone in his back pocket. “I got the wrong office number. Sorry I’m late.”
“Why would you have the wrong office number? Didn’t Libby tell you the right one?”
“I must not have been listening.” He gives a flippant glance at the watch on his wrist.
“There’s nothing more important than listening.”
He looks sharply at me. “Thank you for the character lesson. Are you ready to go?”
“I’ve been ready since 5:40. Why do you keep looking at me? Am I supposed to say something? Do you know that Caleb Allan is two first names?”
He scratches his jaw, never taking his gaze off me. “No one’s pointed that out since I was five.”
“That’s disappointing.”
“Huh. Not really.” He gestures to the door and I zip past him.
The other offices are mostly empty with it being the end of the work week. We pause in front of the elevators until they open and then step inside.
Caleb, I notice, is much taller than me. I’m five-foot-six and I study his height, contemplating the differences.
Loosening his tie, he glances at me with eyes that are not expressive. He clears his throat. “Is there something of interest to you?”
“How tall are you?”
He flashes a sideways glance. “A little soon for such personal information.”
“Oh. Sorry.” My lips purse together.
“Maren, I’m kidding.”
Oh. A joke. I nod solemnly. I wish I could detect those better.
“I’m six-foot-three,” he says. “Not an inch taller.”
“That’s a di
fference of nine inches.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t think so…Why would our heights be an issue?”
“No idea. You’re the one asking about how tall I am. Is that your opening line when you’re trying to meet someone?”
“No,” I say, offended.
“It could use some work if it is.” Checking his phone, he sighs. “Thanks, Libby,” he slips in with too much breath.
There’s no chance for me to ask what he’s thanking Libby about. The doors open, and Caleb walks ahead and through the lobby.
Outside, the pathway is lined by young trees and provides a straight shot to the sidewalk. I turn left and go on, realizing that Caleb does not follow. “Metro’s to the left,” I point out.
“I’m walking to the museum,” he announces. “I’ve been in my office all day.”
What? Walk? No…no…NO. Not take the Metro? My heart races. Panic rises in my chest and tinges my voice. I catch up to him and grab his arm. “The Metro’s faster.”
He tears his arm away. “What are you doing?”
The anger in his voice takes me aback. “I was stopping you. We’re taking the Metro.”
“Are you kidding? It’s crazy crowded this time of day. It’s going to be hot and full of stank because people can’t figure out how to wear deodorant.”
“Deodorant is easy to put on. Maybe if you showed them how to use it?”
His eyes narrow. “Are you for real?”
“Yes? So? Are we taking the Metro?”
“Ugh,” he groans. “Forget it. Not worth my time. We’ll go your way.”
Why would anyone not be excited about the Metro?
The reasons for riding the Metro are all positive, like the screech of the rails and the letter boards with the time for oncoming trains. The opening-and-closing of the doors on the cars. The maps of the D.C. transit system in bold colors and of course, the escalators leading to the track. Caleb moves a few feet in front of me and doesn’t answer any of my questions. Maybe he doesn’t hear me? I repeat myself, except louder.
“We should time how long it takes us to get the museum. I can use the stopwatch on my phone.”