by Lucy Lambert
“Maybe,” I said.
I turned and walked away again. Near the end of the block I couldn’t help myself. I turned and looked back.
He was gone.
I DIDN’T DO THE MARKETING myself. I didn’t work out what ad campaigns to run, or give presentations to prospective clients.
I took care of the firm’s online presence. A Twitter account, a Facebook page. Also such arcane things as search engine optimization for the ad campaigns.
And I enjoyed my job, for the most part.
But that Saturday I sat at my desk with my chin resting against my fists. The glow from my monitor washed over my face. I stared through the monitor rather than at it.
That glow bothered me today, cutting right into my eyes.
It was a nice office. Pretty modern, thanks to the firm wanting to spruce up its image.
The cubicles all had walls that went most of the way to the ceiling for privacy and a sense of your own space. Light spilled in through the gaps.
Air in the summer, heat in the winter. And it always smelled lightly of cologne, perfume, and aftershave. The firm had a pretty strict dress and hygiene policy that no one seemed troubled with.
The computers were all chic and new, flat screen monitors everywhere. Wi-Fi access the whole way through.
Normally I liked spending time here.
My eyes strayed once more over to where my phone sat, propped up against a black wire rack for assignments and mail.
Will he call?
I kept replaying our little run-in over and over in my head.
Especially the part where I took out some paper and gave him my number. I frowned at the memory.
Wouldn’t it be just the thing if I not only wrote down the wrong table at the dating event but also put down the wrong phone number?
But I’d double checked before handing it to him.
Did you? Are you sure? It’s pretty easy to make a 5 an 8 if you’re going too quickly.
That voice of doubt wormed its way into my mind so that every time I glanced at my screen to try and get some work down I thought of it.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of navel gazing, I put my fingers on the keyboard and typed out 200 characters about something or other.
I scanned the tweet, checking for spelling errors.
Then my phone buzzed.
I jerked upright in my chair.
Greedily, I snatched my phone from its resting place, my heart switching from normal to ludicrous speed in an instant.
Please tell me we’re still on for Serendipity’s tonight?
It was Suzy. My racing heart ran into a guardrail.
Of course it’s Suzy. There’s no way Neil would text so quickly. He probably won’t even text at all. He probably asked for my number to be polite about the mix-up at the dating thing.
I looked from my phone to my monitor. Saw how much work I’d done since I got in (none) and realized that I needed to answer.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek as I did, I tapped out my reply.
Sorry, can’t. Really behind. Will make it up to you, though! Something crazy happened today. Will tell you the story in person. Promise.
I sent the message away into the ether, and received a new one moments later.
:( better be a good story!
“Oh, it is,” I muttered. Then I looked around, hoping no one saw me talking to myself. Again I was thankful for those high partition walls. And the fact that it was Saturday and that the office was almost empty.
Someone tapped their keyboard softly a few cubicles down. The janitor’s wash bucket sloshed while he moved down the aisles. It was pretty dead.
I put my phone down and got back to work, analyzing Facebook and Twitter statistics graphs and charts, checking the progress of a few AdWords campaigns.
I had to come in on Saturday because my boss’s boss wanted a report on all this stuff on Monday. I figured I could get in good with both of them by doing it, so why not?
I was deep into some charts about user demographics a while later when my phone buzzed again, breaking me from my work stupor.
Gotta be Suzy giving it another try to get me to come out, I figured. So I looked away from the charts that were telling me that the largest number of clicks on an ad campaign for a new probiotic yoghurt came from middle-aged white men in New England.
It wasn’t Suzy, though. It was an unknown number. I read the message.
Tell me you’re free tonight.
Neil, I thought. Hot and cold shivers of excitement ran rampant all over my back. I sat there with my phone propped up in my hands until the little rectangle of plastic and glass started feeling warm.
Why should I tell you that?
I sent back. I pondered added a winking smiley-face emoji to that but decided that might be too cutesy.
I don’t know if the reply actually took forever, or just seemed to.
Because we both know you want to say yes.
I smiled in spite of myself. This guy sure had some nerve. Self –confident bordering on arrogant. Yet somehow it worked for him, even over text.
Charming, that was the word I was looking for.
I started tapping out a reply right away, but stopped. I bit my lip against that smile and glanced back over my shoulder, assuring myself that no one stood behind me.
It was a silly thing. There were only two other people in the office, and I knew neither of them cared about my love life. And the janitor sure as hell wasn’t going to reprimand me for texting on the job.
Still, it felt so weird to be doing something so personal during work hours.
Work hours? It’s Saturday! No one will care if you get up and walk out right now and you know it.
My phone buzzed against my palms. I looked up from my half-typed reply and saw another message from him.
I’m fun. I promise. ;)
The winky-face got to me. I deleted my first reply and typed out a new one. Tingles ran up and down the front of my stomach, and my breath burned in my lungs.
I stole another glance over my shoulder, still feeling guilty about doing this at work. It was totally not like me at all. Not like the recent me, at least. The one concentrated on her career.
Maybe that’s just what I need.
I sent the message.
You seem pretty sure of yourself. :P
What do you have planned?
The reply came quickly. My breath caught in my throat when the phone vibrated, and my eyes drank in the words.
You’ll have to find out for yourself after you say yes. So what will it be?
I swallowed. I forced myself to breathe and tried to ignore the little tremors of excitement that made the phone shake in my grip. I licked my lips and resettled in my seat, trying to center myself and failing.
My thumbs tapped out quickly. I sent the message before I could second guess myself.
Ok, ya. Tell me when & where. :)
He replied again. I didn’t know how I could get back to work with the evening’s plans in my mind.
FOR ONCE, I LEFT WORK early. A funny thing to say, since technically it was Saturday and I didn’t have to be at work in the first place.
But still, when I called the elevator to take me back down to the lobby, guilt twanged in the pit of my stomach.
I pulled my finger away from the lit call button, my reflection hazy in the brushed steel plate surrounding it.
I looked back at the office, its rows of high-walled cubicles.
What am I doing? I should just go back to my desk, get those analytics finished for Monday. My manager, Mr. Diehl, wasn’t expecting that report to land in his inbox until Wednesday, and I wanted to impress him.
He was in his late 50s and had been working for the firm longer than I’d been alive. And he’d given me the distinct impression, on more than one occasion, that he didn’t believe my job was suited to a woman.
And I wanted so badly to prove him wrong.
I turned around fully at th
is point, just needing that one final push to set my feet walking back down the short, gray carpet towards my cubicle.
I told Suze that I couldn’t meet with her tonight. If I can’t meet her, how could I meet him?
She’d understand. She’d probably be the first one to tell you to do it! the answer came back. I ignored it, or tried to at least.
I chewed on my lip, my eyes looking into the cubicle farm but not really seeing anything.
And it’s not just Suze, I’m afraid. Excited, but mostly afraid.
Because I knew I was going to screw this up somehow. He wouldn’t like my laugh. Or I’d be too concerned with being self-conscious, wondering if I was walking the way I usually walked.
Then I’d walk straight into a door and he wouldn’t be able to look at me straight the rest of the night.
But that was only half of it. Maybe not even half.
What if it goes well?
I’d sunk myself into my job, into my new life, committed myself to it. I hadn’t done any planning for having a guy in that life. Not for a while, at least. Not until I got myself really established.
I was so deep in my anxious thoughts that I didn’t hear the chime of the elevator doors sliding open behind me.
“On or off?”
In that deepness of thought, I didn’t realize that that voice didn’t come from my head.
On or off? On or off?
Just give it a chance. It’ll probably go badly, then you’ll have an excuse to tell Suze and the others that you just can’t waste any more time with guys right now. Not with how that date went.
“Miss? On or off?” This time, the voice came with a gentle tap on the shoulder.
I started badly, energy rushing through me, leaving me shaking when I turned to face him.
He stood half in and half out of the elevator, one hand inside, presumably pressing the button that kept the doors open.
“Sorry,” he said when he saw my reaction.
“Not at all,” I said, ignoring the way my whole body jittered. “And on.”
I stepped into the elevator, where we both stared politely straight ahead while the doors closed.
And I wondered.
This was New York. No one held the elevator. Especially not that long.
The superstitious part of me wanted to take that as a sign.
Chapter 4
NEIL
It was late summer, verging on fall in New York. So by seven in the evening it was still light out. But the skyscrapers of Manhattan cast long shadows across the island.
I stood in front of one such building. Not mine.
Mine was farther down Madison. Three blocks farther down, actually.
No, this one was the one where Rachel worked.
I pulled the cuff of my jacket back so that I could steal a look at the face of the Mariner watch strapped to my wrist.
She wasn’t late yet. I was just anxious.
When was the last time I felt anxious about meeting a woman?
I thought perhaps that was part of my problem. The type of woman I had become used to seeing, the ones who haunted my social circles, no longer gave me any sort of nerves.
They never had, really.
Then I saw Rachel emerge from the revolving front door of the office tower.
She saw me, smiled and waved. I waved back. My heart revved in my chest, and I smiled in return.
A few pedestrians passed between the two of us while she closed the distance. She got to me, glanced up into my face, then back down again. That same lock of hair from the speed dating fell across her forehead and she again brushed it back into place with that well-practised gesture.
“So you’re really not going to let me go back to my place and change?” she said.
I put my hands in my jacket pockets, elbows out, and shrugged. “Well, you could. But that would throw off my timing. And you look just fine. Better than fine, actually.”
I turned, meaning to start walking. I gestured with the elbow closest to her. She hesitated a moment, then slid her hand down into the crook formed by my arm.
“Something’s being timed?” she said, “Color me intrigued. Care to share?”
At first, she kept her hand on me only loosely. As we walked, she relaxed and held me more firmly. Unconsciously, our bodies moved closer together.
By this point in the date, the type of woman I was used to seeing and being seen with would be asking which five-star place I had a reservation at. Oh, and had I remembered to get the chef’s table?
She’d also be wondering why we were walking down the street rather than gliding down the avenue in my limo, sipping champagne.
“If we’re late, the line will be too long,” I said.
“The line to what?” she replied. She kept glancing at me, and the corners of her mouth kept trying to turn up into a little smile which she only somewhat successfully suppressed.
“The best place to eat in the whole city, of course. Not to get your hopes up too much,” I said.
“Consider my hopes realistic in proportion,” she shot back.
We continued down the sidewalk another couple of blocks. I liked the warmth of her hand on my arm. I also liked that she didn’t make any move to slip that hand out from the crook of my elbow.
“So you picked me up from work and you’re not going to ask what I do?” Rachel said when we stopped at a red light, the push of pedestrians piling up behind us.
“No,” I said.
If I ask you, then you’ll ask me. And I’d like to keep work out of this for as long as possible, I thought.
For once I wanted a woman to know me for myself, rather than for my bank account or my position.
“Why? Afraid I’ll find it too interesting?” Rachel said.
I saw the white walk signal come on and I led us across the intersection.
“The opposite, actually. I do corporate stuff. If I want to go to sleep at night, I begin describing my job to myself in my head.”
“You know, that sounds like a good talent to have. When I was little I used to wish that neck pinch thing from Star Trek was real so that I could do it to myself on Christmas Eve, or on the night before my birthday... I think you get the point.”
“That you were a nerd as a child? Yeah, I do,” I said. I gave her a playful nudge with my elbow and she laughed.
She had a lovely laugh. And the smile that went with it was even better.
“What?” she said, suddenly self-conscious, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re nice to look at.”
The spots of blush on her cheeks spread. I swallowed hard, resisting the urge to gather her up in my arms and lay one on her right there on Madison Avenue.
I thought I could get away with it, too. But I also thought that it was too big a risk to take. I really wanted to see where things could go with Rachel.
I knew women. I knew that with some, like Rachel, pushing too hard too fast could make her recoil. Make her stay away. And that I was the last thing that I wanted.
I wanted things to be different.
“I wasn’t a nerd,” she said. Her hand tightened a little on my arm and we started walking again. “My brother is. He loves all the Stars: Star Wars, Star Trek, Battlestar...”
“Your ‘brother,’ right,” I said with a wink, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I can’t believe you!” she said, giving me an accompanying playful sock on the arm.
“You, on the other hand, are very believable.”
She laughed again, those rosy spots on her cheeks still there. A breeze caught in her hair and stirred it around her shoulders and again that urge to kiss her almost overcame my defenses.
“Are we almost wherever we’re going?” Rachel asked.
I’d become so focused on her that I hadn’t really been paying attention to exactly where our feet took us.
Then I smelled it on the breeze and my mouth watered.
“We’re here,” I said,
“Best food in all of Manhattan. Brooklyn and Queens, too.” I held my hand out to indicate the princely source of the smell.
“You mean that hotdog stand?” Rachel said.
I put my hand over my heart, as though mortally wounded. Or clutching a string of pearls.
“Not just a hotdog stand, I’ll have you know,” I said, “But the hotdog stand.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Rachel said, playing along. She couldn’t suppress that smile any longer. “However, I feel like I have to add that the best hotdogs in the city can be found about a block up from the Guggenheim.”
I clutched my chest harder, my fingertips pulling divots into the jacket above my heart, “You wound me. And you wound Rob.”
Rob was the proprietor of this particular hotdog stand. He looked like a New York stereotype: shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, a pack of smokes held in one, said shirt covered by a large apron (surprisingly clean) and both those articles of clothing covering a large stomach.
A derby cap sat pushed forward down his forehead, presiding over a broad face. Rob kept himself busy chewing on the stub of a thick, unlit cigar.
He noticed Rachel notice the cigar.
“I never lights it. Used to smoke but the wife made me quit years ago,” Rob said. Years came out as Yee-ahs. “Suckin’ on it helps with the cravings. The usual, Mr. Big Boss?” He directed this question to me.
“Two of them,” I said, finally removing my hand from my jacket to hold up two fingers, “And make them good ones: your honor and mine depends on it.”
“Sure thing,” Rob said. Shoo-ah.
Chapter 5
RACHEL
I had to admit, it was a good hotdog. A very good one. Such that I wondered if Rob had laced it with something highly addictive. Heroin or nicotine, perhaps.
We finished our hotdogs and started for the curb to hail a taxi. Mostly unconsciously, I looped my hand through the crook of Neil’s elbow again. He didn’t mind.
But he did do a double take when he looked at me.
“What?” I said.
“You have some mustard on you,” he replied.