“Cora,” Arthur finally says, sounding freakishly, terrifyingly calm, “Why. Would you shop. At Holly’s.”
There’s a horrible, bad pause. A death pause. Cora looks like she’s weighing all her options; there’s something sharp and primal in her eyes.And then:
“It’s cheaper.”
She spits the words out like the foulest of obscenities.
“You get an employee discount here.”
“It’s still cheaper. You give me a raise, maybe I’ll buy my art supplies here.”
“This is unacceptable.”
“Really? This is unacceptable?” She slams her hand down on the counter. Kristy and I wince. “‘Cause I wasn’t aware that nine bucks an hour gave you the right to tell me where I can and can’t shop.”
Oh, shit, Arthur looks pissed. Like, actual pissed-for-real, where he doesn’t even bother to cover it with composure. “Holly’s is directly responsible for running us out of business. The fact that you would be so completely insensitive—”
“Hey, Arthur, you ever think that Holly’s is running us out of business because it’s the better fucking store?”
Oh, hell no.
“Jesus, Cora, come on,” I mutter. Kristy lets out a miserable whimper.
Arthur and Cora stare at each other, western showdown style.
“Maybe you should leave,” Arthur says at last.
“Noooo,” Kristy whispers in a tiny voice.
Cora’s jaw drops. “You’re firing me?”
“I’m giving you the afternoon off to think about what you’ve done.”
“Oh.” She groans. “Oh, you did not just say that.”
Arthur folds his arms over his chest. “I’d advise that you make more of an effort with your job performance from now on.”
Cora snorts. “Whatever, dude, the whole point is that you don’t have to make an effort here. You think any of us work here because we’ve got a real passion for arts supplies?”
Kristy practically jumps over the counter. For such a happy little pixie, she’s ready to sacrifice herself in a heartbeat if the cause is worthy. She’s Joan of Arc with a really bouncy ponytail. “I like—”
“Kristy has a passion for the lint you scrape off the laundry screen,” Cora cuts in. “Kristy doesn’t count.”
I feel a surge of protectiveness, of ‘nobody’s burning my lady coworker at the stake!’ Luckily, it’s overpowered by many, many surges of unholy terror. I’m realistic enough to understand my chances, should I choose to take on a girl with a lip ring.
“I was just joking about that,” Kristy says, after a few seconds of stricken silence. “It’s nice that it’s fluffy. It’s my second favorite part about doing laundry.”
Another surge of protectiveness courses through me, this one stronger. I gotta do something. And the best thing I can think to do right now is ask, as conversationally as I can, “Is it really called a laundry screen?”
Wrong move. Instead of everybody weighing in on this fun hip new conversation topic, Cora turns her wrath on me. Fucking damn diggity. “What about Howie? You think Howie’s really bouncing up and down to sell yarn?”
“Ya know, buds, I really don’t think I’m the issue here,” I hurry to say. “I’ve never even been to Holly’s, and I’m not planning on—”
Arthur talks over me. Thanks, dude. Respect. “Howie’s managed to keep his behavior professional—”
Cora barks out a laugh. “Oh, please, you guys make out in the storage closet! I get it if that’s gonna get him preferential treatment or whatever, but don’t pretend he’s Mr. Bobby Craft Store.”
I get that I like this person. I mean, I fear this person. I cower before this person. I am haunted by the memory of this person endeavoring to chow down on my ear. But still. Overall, at the end of the line, when it all comes down to what it all comes down to, I like this person.
I look at Arthur, and I look at Kristy – who looks more crushed than ever, like she’s of the devout belief that our poorly hidden storage closet makeout romps are sacred and should be used only for good – and I have a really hard time remembering I feel anything towards Cora besides bright filthy hatred.
At least she seems to realize it. After the tensest, most miserable ten seconds in the history of mankind, she mutters, “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Kristy says, weakly and unconvincingly.
I can’t quite agree with her on that one. Neither, by the look of him, can Arthur.
“Just admit that we’re fucked, Arthur,” Cora finally says. “Just get your head out of your ass and admit it so I don’t have to be mad at you.” By Cora standards, it’s kinda sweet.
He looks at her for a long time. His face is perfectly, frighteningly blank.
Then he turns around and leaves.
“Fucker,” Cora mutters as we listen to him climb the stairs.
“Um,” I say, “thanks for that, Brutus. That was really just phenomenal.”
“Oh, shut up,” Cora scowls.
“Maybe you should go talk to him,” Kristy suggests gently.
Which, okay, real brilliant idea, I’m sure what the world really needs right now is another touching Arthur-and-Cora heart-to-heart—
And then I realize she means me.
Well.
Damn it.
“I dunno—”
But Kristy looks heartbroken, all shining big blue eyes. It’s easy to tell that even Cora feels like shit and she’s trying not to show it.
“Yeah, okay,” I reply, figuring I can go hide in the storage closet for fifteen minutes and spend the time making up a story about Arthur’s and my so-not-gonna-happen chat. It’ll be real rousing stuff.
And then Kristy pecks me on the cheek. “Thanks, Howie.”
She sounds so flippin’ earnest.
Goddammit.
+
“Come in,” Arthur says brusquely in response to my knock – the softest, reluctantest, unknockiest knock in the history of that long complicated relationship betwixt doors and knuckles.
Well, fuck. Call me an incorrigible optimist, but I was kinda hoping he’d be grumpy enough to refuse to see anybody. Just, like, lock the door and drown his pain by listening to some angry Beethoven. I’ve got this perception of Beethoven where he’s just, like, really pissed all the time. Yeah, ol’ Ludwig, he had a lot to pound on the piano bitterly about. I’m Germannnn! I’m deaffff! I’m bliiiind! My name is Ludwigggg!
Was he blind? I’m pretty sure.
Or, wait, maybe that was Helen Keller.
Was he even German?
Was she German?
Is Ludwig a name?
I’m starting to worry I’m just making shit up.
“Come in,” Arthur calls again, more pointedly this time.
‘Til we meet again in the recesses of my crazy-ass brain, Maybe-Ludwig Helen von Keller Beethoven, Deaf Blind Sorry German (?) Bastard.
I take a breath, then push the door open and walk into Arthur’s office. He’s sitting at his desk, shuffling through papers. I get the sense that the papers aren’t as important as the shuffling, with its convenient suggestion of busyness.
“Yo, boss,” I say, all jaunty. “What’s shakin’?”
“Sorting through some papers.” His voice is extra-brisk. It freaks me out. “I’m sure you’re not interested.”
“You know me. I hate papers.”
“Right.”
“Reading, efficiency … me, I just like to say no.”
“Of course.” Well, this sucks. “Does this visit have a point, Howie?”
“The ladies sent me up to talk you down.”
“Talk me down?”
“Off the ledge. The metaphorical ledge. Or, I dunno, somethin’. Bitches. Who knows what they’re talking about, right? I’m sure glad I switched sides on that one.” Jesus.
“Well, rest assured, I’m not contemplating ledges,” he replies, rapping the stack of papers against the desk and then setting them aside. He looks up at me and give
s me this flat, run-of-the-mill smile, this plain generic smile that he’d give to anybody. A random dude on the street, a pain-in-the-ass customer. Don’t I feel special. “Metaphorical or otherwise. Cora has always been troublesome.”
“Listen, she’s really sorry,” I say, feeling weirdly obligated. “I can tell she feels shitty about it.”
“I’d certainly hope so,” Arthur replies crisply. He glances over at his computer screen.
Man, he is bumming me out, old school style. I almost expect him to accuse me of trying to fistbump him.
“Maybe we aren’t doomed.” Oh, God, I can’t believe I’m being forced to be the voice of hope. Where’s Kristy when you need her? Oh, yeah, that’s right – downstairs feeling unduly guilty about her adoration of laundry lint. “I mean, sure, it looks bad, but … it’s not like we’re totally screwed yet, right? Something good could still happen. Holly’s could … burn down, or something.”
Arthur lifts his eyebrows.
“I’m not gonna burn down Holly’s,” I hurry to add.
He keeps on staring.
“Ya know, unless you really want me to.”
Goddammit, man, react!
“That was a joke,” I explain helpfully. “Arson, not really my dealio.”
“You know,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a good idea that you suggested we take a break.”
That’s it. I’m never coming upstairs because Kristy tells me to ever again.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, so cool. “Why’s that?”
“Well, Cora brought up a good point, in spite of her less-than-lovely demeanor. It is very unprofessional, and I’ve never made a habit of being unprofessional.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I get that.”
I’m lying. I get nothing.
“I’ve always worked very hard at running this place,” he continues. All I hear is ‘blah blah blah I find you secretly repulsive.’ “It may not exactly be my chosen field, or what I envisioned I’d be doing right now, but I’ve got responsibilities to my family and to this business, and just because the odds are against us doesn’t mean that I’m going to simply—” BLAH BLAH HATE BLAH.
“You know what,” I interrupt, “I think I hear Kristy calling from downstairs.”
“I’m sure you do,” Arthur replies smoothly.
“So I will just … catch you later, hombre.” And then, because there’s something in me, some virile impulse to snark in the face of getting shot down, I add, “Sorry. Was that unprofessional? Catch you later, boss. Sir.”
“You don’t have to call me sir.” Motherfucker’s still perfectly composed. How does he do that?
“Got it,” I mutter.
I make it to the door, then stop instead of going out. It’s inopportune, but I’m sort of intrigued. He’s never really talked to me about his family before. He’s never really talked to me about himself before, period. I never thought about it so much. I’ve been kind of preoccupied by the whole secretly-into-a-guy thing and what it meant for me. I still don’t really have that figured out, but hell, maybe it’s not going to matter anymore.
“What would be your chosen field?” I ask. “Like, your dream job or whatever?”
For a second, I think he’s not gonna say anything back. Then: “Practical or ridiculous?”
Easy. “Ridiculous.”
“Concert pianist.” His mouth twists into a bitter little smirk.
“Huh.” I almost feel bad for him, and something about him smirking like that makes me want to tell him it’s all gonna be okay or whatever, but – well, but he was just a total pain-in-the-ass son of a bitch to me. He maybe dumped me, and the worst part is that I can’t exactly get upset, seeing as how I started it.
So I don’t say anything, and I go back downstairs.
+
That night, Amber and Dennis and Emily and I go out for pizza. I know Amber’s nervous because she sent me seven grammatically immaculate text messages about how she’d see to it I was castrated if I ditched her, but it’s impossible to detect said nervousness once we’re all together.
“What are you, a satyr?” Amber asks Dennis as soon as we’re inside the pizza place. She points at The Goatee.
“Sure, if by satyr, you mean sex bomb.”
“Still totally deluded, I see.”
Dennis grins big and pulls her into a hug. “Long time no see, Amber May.” (He remains the only person allowed to invoke the power of her much-hated middle name, ClarkRents included. The fact that he doesn’t read anything into this? Kinda worrying. Come on, man.)
“It’s been awhile,” she agrees, squeezing him tight. “How’s doctor school? Are you really important yet?”
“You even need to ask? Seriously? Amber. C’mon.”
“Yeah, you see, I’m just not getting really important vibes yet.” She’s so smiley and sarcastic and normal and Amber. It simultaneously freaks me out and makes me kind of jealous.
“One day you’ll stop hating on me. And on that day, I’ll be so awesome – nay, so awesomely important – that you’ll feel bad for ever hating in the first place. I’m just saying. I’m just warning you.”
“Yeah, that’s cute how you think that.”
Emily looks back and forth between the pair of them with mild, quaint puzzlement, like they’re speaking a language she doesn’t know.
“And this,” Dennis finishes, slinging an affectionate arm around her, “is my girl Emily. Who’s always nice to me, may I just point out.”
“Aw, Emily,” Amber says, shaking her hand. “How unfortunate for you.”
“Not really,” Emily replies, so far out of the rapport they’ve got going that she might as well be in a different country. Frickinweirdodonia. “I find him easy to be nice to.”
“That makes one of us,” Amber says, smirking at Dennis as we sit down. She and Dennis wind up next to each other, which means I’m next to Emily. Joy, joyness. Our table’s right by a window, though, and I’ve got a prime view out of it. I figure that if I throw in a random remark every five minutes, I’ll be good. Amber’s too busy being secretly in love with Dennis, Dennis is too busy a) not noticing, and b) justifying his relationship with Emily as something that should exist, and Emily is … Emily. She’s probably daydreaming of running around fields with dead piggy Gilbert while Enya beatifically la-la-las in the background.
“Amber, do you have a boyfriend?” Emily asks.
Or not.
“Nope,” Amber replies, totally untroubled. “I am doomed to spinsterhood.”
“Yeah riiiighhht,” Dennis jumps in immediately, rolling his eyes.
“You’re questioning the spinsterhood, Doctor Jenkins? Really?”
“She always says that, but come on, look at her,” Dennis says to Emily. “Ya know, I’m of the theory that she’s had dozens of secret boyfriends over the years and she’s just not telling us. The whole spinster thing? Total charade.”
“I’ll never tell,” Amber replies, elegant and smirky.
“You know, I often used to think that I was bound for spinsterhood,” says Emily. “I never dated anyone before Dennis.”
“Oh yeah?” Amber whacks Dennis lightly on the arm. “Bastard, you’re not supposed to go around stealing my sisters in spinsterhood.”
“Didn’t mean to,” Dennis replies, grinning at Emily. “Couldn’t help it.”
He reaches for Emily’s hand across the table and kisses it. For split-second, pain flickers across Amber’s face.
“Anyway, if the parents had their way, it’d be Amber and Howie,” Dennis continues, smiling at me.
Emily’s eyes widen a little bit.
Damn it, Dennis, why’d you have to go there?
“Yeah,” Amber says, “not gonna happen.”
“I didn’t think so,” Emily agrees.
“Why didn’t you think so?” Dennis asks.
Shit.
“I think it could happen,” I leap in. I have no choice. “Whaddya say, Amber? If in, say, ten years, you’re still single, I’
m still single—”
“You’re romcom-propositioning me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Don’t. Ever.”
“Check,” I mumble.
“I’m sure there’s someone very good out there for both of you,” Emily says placidly. She pauses just long enough, then adds, “Maybe you’ve even met them already.”
I try to look a whole lot like I don’t have a secret (ex?) good-for-me person out there anywhere, especially not one that’s a dude. Amber doesn’t look at Dennis.
“I’m starved,” Dennis says, happily oblivious. “Let’s get us some pizza.”
“Yes please,” Amber says.
“Good by me,” I say.
“Would anyone mind terribly if we didn’t have pepperoni?” Emily asks demurely.
+
We eat and Amber and Dennis chat about TV and occasionally try to include Emily and me in the conversation. I switch back and forth between staring out the window and watching Emily carefully chop up her pizza into tiny bites and eat it with a fork.
Man, I wish I wasn’t here. I don’t know where I wish I was instead. Not with Arthur, hell to the no, not if he’s gonna be all distant and spurny. If I wanted that, I’d just try to win the affections of hot, out-of-my-league ladies. I’ve got years of being-spurned practice there.
The worst part is that I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault. I’m the one who started it. And I felt so damn good about it, too, for about five seconds. Now it’s just like … I dunno, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d sat down and made a friggin’ chart or a snazzy Venn diagram, puzzled out some way to balance the whole two-lives deal without having to ditch one of them.
But, well, seems like I’m too late now. I should just get over it. Move on. Quit worrying about—
“Arthur,” Emily says out of nowhere.
Oh, God, she’s got magic neo-Druidic powers of mind-reading.
“What?” I say. Maybe I snap it. “How the hell is he relevant to anything?”
“He’s not, necessarily,” Emily replies. “It’s just that he’s right there.” She points out the window.
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