Delia Suits Up

by Amanda Aksel

  Same year. Same major. We had a lot of classes together. It’s only been a handful of years but it feels like a lifetime ago. Do I even remember a class we had together? Then I see it in my mind—the first week of fall semester, Shannon’s slightly sunburned nose, my glossy new white MacBook, and a professor with patchy tufts of gray hair. I snap my fingers at the memory. “Yeah, remember Financial Reporting with that guy that looked like Fire Marshal Bill?”

  “Oh, yeah! Dr. Lawrence.” She bursts out with a big laugh and playfully shoves my shoulder, letting her hand linger for a few extra moments. “That’s so funny. My friend and I used to call him Fire Marshal Bill. I thought we were the only ones.”

  We were. “Well, the resemblance was uncanny.”

  “It really was.” Her gaze falls slowly to my mouth, then my chest.

  Hey, my eyes are up here!

  “So what’d you end up doing after college?” she asks.

  “I was at Howard Brothers Group for a while—”

  “No way!” She grins. “That’s where my friend works. The Fire Marshal Bill friend. Do you know Delia Reese?”

  Oh, shit.

  My ears begin to burn. It’s like I’ve been caught red-handed. “Um, yeah.” I bounce my knee and stumble through a jittery laugh. The truth closes in as if to strangle me with the least-threatening-looking tie on the planet.

  Should I tell her the truth? That I’m not Richard, I’m Delia with a dick, and I haven’t worked at Howard Brothers Group for months now?

  I glance around me, playing out the possibility in my mind.

  No. That’s a bad, bad idea. Besides, as much as I adore Shannon, she’s not really a keep-your-secrets kinda girl.

  I’m really going to need another backstory if I run into anyone else I know today.

  Or better yet, just keep your mouth shut, Delia.

  “Small world, huh?” she says.

  So. Freaking. Small.

  “So, where are you now?”

  “Huh?” I manage with my dry mouth.

  “You said you were at HBG for a while, then what?”

  Amanda’s Maid Service.

  Nope. That didn’t make the resume.

  “Monty Fuhrmann,” I say casually, trying it on for size. I think it fits. Even if it is a lie.

  “Nice. I’m a trader at the stock exchange.” She sits up straight with pride. And she should. She’s one of a very small percentage of women who work on the exchange floor. That job never interested me. Too chaotic. But Shannon loves the energy, which she has an abundance of. I should know. Back in the day, she’d keep me out dancing all night just to burn it all off.

  “You’re a trader?” I ask. The last time I talked to her she was still a trading assistant. A promotion like that is a big deal. Get it, girl!

  She leans away and purses her mouth. “What? You think I can’t be a trader?”

  I blink, shaking my head a little. “Huh? No, I didn’t mean . . .”

  She glares, watching me squirm. If I tell her I thought she was a trading assistant she’ll hear I’m stalking you or Women can’t be traders. What’s a man to do in this situation?

  Apologize?

  That might be a first.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “That came out wrong. I’m sure you’re great at it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” Her chin lifts and it’s clear my apology doesn’t penetrate.

  My throat is thick with guilt. She must think I’m a chauvinist asshole. But I’m not. I’m just like her. Was just like her. The train slows down, and I peek through the cloudy window at the station name. My stop could not have been more welcome. I rise to my feet. “Well, it was nice running into you.”

  She opens her paper again, giving it her full attention. “See you later, Richard.”

  Well, she might call me Richard, but she definitely thinks I’m a dick.

  Remember, Delia, you’re a man now. Or at least that’s how the world sees you. I take a deep breath and shake off the run-in. My heartbeat picks up as I climb the steps to the street on the way to Todd Fairbanks’s apartment. There’s a very good chance I’ll meet him today. I wonder what he’ll think of Richard. My stomach buzzes at the thought.

  Wait. That’s not a buzz. It’s a tingle. And that’s not my stomach.

  Stopping in my tracks, my gaze falls to my pants. Uh-oh. Little Dickie’s awake. I start up again, slowly at first. Meeting Fairbanks is exciting, but is it this exciting? Do I secretly want the rich slob to be my lover too?

  No, my body’s wires must be crossed. Any chance I can invoke the warranty and return it to the miracle store? Walking in this concrete jungle has never felt more dangerous than in this moment. What was I thinking leaving the apartment with a beast in my pants?

  You’re doing this, so get it together, Delia!

  I let out a deep breath and imagine scrubbing dried-shit-colored vomit from a toilet. The closer I get to his building, the more vivid the toilet tales become. It’s working. I think Little Dickie’s calmed down.

  Whew. I shake my head and roll my shoulders back, adjusting my suit before approaching. The doorman greets me with the same respectful nod. I pass the front desk and take the elevator up to Fairbanks’s apartment. My heart pounds, hitting my chest harder with every ascending floor. I step onto the floor, wiping my damp palms on my pants as I approach 29A. My hairy-knuckled fist rises as I suck in my breath. Before I can knock, the door swings open.

  A woman about my age with long, wavy brown hair and wide-frame glasses winces and steps back. She looks at me like I’m about to sell her a set of steak knives or tell her about the word of Jehovah. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m De—DeRichard.” Shit! What’s so hard about Richard? I’m Richard!

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m Richard!” I blurt out, extending my hand.

  She disregards my gesture and narrows her eyes like I’m a weirdo, which is the understatement of the year.

  I clear my throat. “Sorry, are you Todd Fairbanks’s assistant?”

  “Yes.” She drags out the word in a leery tone.

  “Great. I left—” Not you, Richard! “I mean, the cleaning professional left her phone here last night. She asked me to pick it up for her.”

  “Oh, right. I have it. Come on in.” Her face relaxes some. “Are you her personal assistant or something?”

  I step into Fairbanks’s foyer. It smells so much better in here than yesterday when I arrived. Looks good too. “I don’t think cleaning professionals have personal assistants.”

  “This is New York. Anything’s possible. Now where did I put that phone?” She taps her finger against her Berry Fuchsia lips and knits her brow. “Wait here. I’ll find it.”

  I stuff my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels. Footsteps patter on the wood floor in the other room. Not the same sound as the assistant’s clunky bootheels.

  “I’m heading to the Hamptons tomorrow,” a deep voice resounds.

  Wait.

  Is that . . . ?

  I step lightly, peeking in the other room. Todd Fairbanks, technology wiz extraordinaire, veers over to the corner of the living room near the window wall. I gasp, unable to take my eyes off the back of his thick-haired head.

  “Early. I’m canceling the Monty Fuhrmann pitch.” Fairbanks turns on his bare heel, and I jet back around the foyer wall. Did I hear that right? I engage my ears as best as I can, considering my heart is pounding against my eardrums.

  “It’s that guy Becker. I don’t trust him to play nice with the other banks.”

  Oh my god. Ezeus has been doing business with Monty Fuhrmann for years. And now, he’s actually going to snub them!

  “Yeah, they’re out. The last thing I need is some kind of scandal.”

  “Holy shit,” I mouth to myself.

 
“I have another call with S.G. Croft at ten. I’m giving them the lead on this. I know they’ll run this IPO aboveboard. Then I’ll call Becker.”

  He’s giving the job to S.G. Croft? That’s Monty Fuhrmann’s biggest competitor. Talk about insider information. I need to warn Eric.

  Oh my god, Eric. How is this the first time I’ve thought of him all day? And—

  “Here you go!” Todd’s assistant appears out of nowhere with my phone in hand.

  I flinch, then quickly recover. “Um, thanks,” I say, reaching for the phone with an uneasy smile.

  “Sure.”

  I crane my neck a bit toward the sound of Fairbanks’s voice, but the conversation’s shifted. Not to mention, his assistant is holding the door open and shooting me a droll look.

  “Thanks again,” I say, slipping out the door with Fairbanks’s words swimming in my head. The door slams, startling me again. My fingers tremble as I unlock my almost dead phone to send Eric a quick text.

  Make that an impossible text. How am I supposed to type on this tiny keyboard with these colossal thumbs? Finally, I get the message out. Thanks, autocorrect.

  DELIA: I need to tell you something about the Ezeus pitch. Can you talk?

  I stare at the phone. “Come on, come on.”

  My phone jingles, and an image of Eric at our favorite bar smiles back at me.

  I swipe the screen and place the phone to my ear.

  Wait a second! I can’t talk to him with this tenor!

  “Hello? Delia? Are you there?”

  I cover my mouth and hang up as fast as I can. “Shit!”

  That was stupid. What was I thinking? I type another message, my oversized ape hands shaking even more.

  DELIA: Can’t talk now, but soon.

  What does that even mean? I know that’s what he’ll be thinking. There’s got to be another way I can tell him what I’ve just heard. Email? No, paper trail probably isn’t the best idea. Hmm, I could send a stranger in with the message.

  Richard perhaps?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I’m a block away from Monty Fuhrmann, contemplating how I’m going to get the message to Eric with this body in tow. He sent five texts before my phone died two blocks ago—four to coax out of me whatever it was I needed to tell him about the Ezeus pitch, and one to wish me a happy birthday. I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip, remembering the sweet taste of his dark chocolatey gift. I know Eric was never meant to be my boyfriend, and for the most part I’ve come to terms with that. But now, I’m this! What if yesterday was my last real moment with him? Will I have to come to terms with that too?

  One thing at a time, Delia.

  Focus.

  Okay, I have about an hour to give Eric a heads-up before Fairbanks cans the firm. Why did I have to tell him it was about the pitch? I could’ve just said, I need to tell you something. I really need to remember to think things through before I act today. So stupid. Am I supposed to just show up as Delia’s messenger boy? He’ll think it’s totally bizarre. No, I need something clever. And clever does not happen while there’s this growing pain in the middle of my forehead. Ugh. I know this ache. It’s the same one I get every time I attempt the latest fad cleanse or detox diet—no sugar, no alcohol, no coffee. No bueno.

  The dreaded caffeine withdrawal.

  Usually by now I’ve had at least two strong cups. There’s a café not far from Monty Fuhrmann Tower. At least one of my problems has an easy solution. Let’s see if I can get this straight. Some things have inexplicably changed—like my genitals, vision, and facial hair. And some things are very much the same—like my memories, my tattoo, my caffeine addiction—because why not? Makes. Total. Sense. I shake my head at the discrepancies of my existence. Like I said. One thing at a time.

  I need coffee.

  The robust aroma of Colombian beans hits me as I push the café door open, consoling my headache just a little. It’s almost nine. There are six people in front of me, all immersed in their devices. They’re totally oblivious to anything that’s around them until they get up to the barista and rattle off their convoluted orders. Yesterday, that would’ve been me too. But today, my phone screen’s black. I doubt there’s anything trending that’s more interesting than the fact that I woke up with a dick, anyway. Eric’s probably sent me another five messages by now. The pressure of it all is creating a venti-sized pit in my stomach.

  My leg fidgets as I pretend to wait patiently at the end of the line. I’m pretty sure the woman at the front just placed her eighth order. Damn coffee run. I glance around for a free outlet, spying several near the tables along the walls. I pull out my phone and press the button one more time in case it’s playing possum.

  Still dead.

  A yuppie sitting alone keeps glancing up at me while she nurses her cappuccino. The Spotlight Effect alarm buzzes in my brain. Is everyone staring at me again? I check the backs of my hands.

  Nope, still a dude.

  The yuppie stops staring and I shrug it off. There are more pressing matters. Like, how am I going to make it past Monty Fuhrmann’s security? What will I say if I make it upstairs? How will I handle seeing Eric when I’m not completely myself?

  I can’t think with the noise of the espresso machines, the folky-electronic music, and the microbusiness owners tapping on their laptops.

  “What can I start for you?” the barista asks, trying to look pleasant despite the flock of demanding customers.

  “Grande soy latte, please.” Better yet—“Make it a double.”

  She pulls a paper cup from the stack with her black marker ready. “Your name?”

  My name? I’ve got this.

  “Richard!” My voice booms at the same moment the espresso machine takes a break. Now everyone really is staring at me. Gotta get used to this new baritone.

  “Seven fifty, please,” she says.

  Geez. I wish I’d remembered to make coffee at the apartment like usual. Then again, these are special circumstances, so I’ll do something I almost never allow.

  Charge it on my credit card.

  I mean, Delia’s credit card.

  My wallet is understated, but I can’t imagine any guy using it. I keep it tucked away in my Gucci and pull out the plastic card. She swipes it without bothering to check the name and hands it back with a smirk. “Bye, Richard.”

  I scoot over next to a young woman waiting on her brew. With her flannel shirt, denim shorts with stockings, and dark-framed glasses, she’s more hipster geek than Wall Street.

  “Grande soy latte!” the barista calls from behind the counter. That’s mine. Thank God!

  The geeky girl reaches for it.

  “Did you order a soy latte?” I ask, and she nods. “So did I.” We stare at each other for a moment. Delia would just take the coffee and jet out of there, but now I’m Richard. With a dick. And after my interaction with Shannon, I don’t want to be a dick. “You were here first. This one’s yours.”

  “Thanks.” She smiles. “This is kind of a meet-cute, don’t you think?”

  What the hell’s a meet-cute? “Not sure what you mean.”

  The girl blushes, letting her lashes fall. “You know, a meet-cute,” she gushes. “It’s a writing mechanism, a charming moment when two characters meet. Like in a romantic comedy.”

  Romantic comedy? “Are you a writer or something?”

  She bobs her head. “A playwright. I’ve been working on a production for a small theater company.”

  “Great, nice to meet you.” I watch the workers behind the counter. Where is my coffee?

  “You too.” She smiles brightly, then covers her slightly crooked teeth with her hand before walking off.

  “Double grande soy latte!” the barista calls out. That’s right! I got a double. I grab the cup with the name Richard written in big letters. Now all the tables are full and I r
eally need to charge my phone. I scope out the place again. The playwright has an empty chair and an outlet at her table.

  I walk over and glance at the name scribbled on her cup. “Camille, is it?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes soften and her lips part. I think she likes me.

  “Would you mind if I sit and charge my phone for a bit?”

  “Not at all.” Her cheeks are rosier than her rose gold aluminum laptop.

  Oh, yeah, she does. How adorable is that? I made a girl blush!

  “Thanks.” I settle in, making sure my phone is charging. Camille watches me and it’s not the Spotlight Effect. I glance between her and her laptop. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  She wraps her hands tightly around her coffee cup. “Oh, you’re not. I’m just waiting for my computer to boot up.”

  I nod, with nothing to do but taste the steaming, foamy latte. Mmm, there’s nothing like that first sip. Camille watches me steadily.

  “So,” I start. “What’s your play about?”

  “It’s an urban adaptation of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.”

  I shrug. “I don’t think I know it.”

  Her eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. “Seriously?”

  I nod without a word and before I know it, she’s pitching the play. Camille’s words are fast and difficult to follow. If I ever pitched a client that poorly, they’d walk out before I could finish my first run-on sentence. My phone springs back to life. Eight missed messages from Eric. I swipe my phone to check them, then Camille’s next words hit me like a smack in the face. “She’s so convincing as her twin brother that no one can tell them apart when he shows up.”

  I put the phone down and hold my hand up. “Wait, back up. This play is about a woman who’s pretending to be a man and everyone believes it?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee. “Yes. Although . . . there’s one character who’s suspicious, but it doesn’t really come into play.”

  I rub my hand along my chin. Ooh, scratchy. “It doesn’t sound realistic to me. It’s a Shakespeare play?” I don’t know a ton about English literature, but I’d expect something a bit more believable from the legend.