by Claire Adams
“That’s why I don’t go to Central Park,” she says.
“Yeah, but what about the top of the building?” I ask. “We’ve been up there a few times now, and except for last night, every time, we’ve had an audience.”
“Parents keep their kids away from the windows in the city,” she says, “especially in this neighborhood. You never know what you’re going to see or who’s going to catch you looking at them.”
“You’ve really put a lot of thought into all this, haven’t you?”
She laughs again, and my trepidation starts to thaw.
“I guess you could say that. Look,” she continues, “there’s a way for me to get all the, in your words, kinky shit out of my system without putting my job or any young eyes in jeopardy. Sometimes it takes a bit of creativity, like last night at the stadium. It actually made me pretty nervous being out in the middle of everything like that, you know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Seriously,” she says. “Did you ever bother noticing how I was making sure that you were covered at all times from an outside viewpoint? I mean, sure, someone might have walked up and saw my head in your lap, but I’m sure you would’ve noticed before they saw too much of anything.”
“You know, I was kind of worried about this,” I laugh, “but I think this just might be the best decision I’ve ever made.”
“Take it easy there, Tonto,” she says. “We’re dating exclusively, but that doesn’t mean we’re married. Pull it back a bit, will you?”
She’s smiling.
This is the first time I’ve ever really seen her smile in the daylight.
The woman I went to bed with isn’t the woman I woke up with, and for once, that’s not a bad thing.
“So, you wanna fuck and get some coffee?”
Or, you know, maybe she’s the same woman and I’m just getting to know her better. That’s probably closer to the truth.
She kisses my chest, and I feel something that I’d completely forgotten.
I feel cared for.
She lifts her head, asking, “Or do you want to do the coffee thing first?”
I chuckle.
“Maybe some coffee,” I tell her. “Otherwise, I don’t know that I’m going to make a good showing.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?” she asks.
I’m about to tell her the truth, but the look in her eyes is so innocent, so—what’s the word?—concerned, and I can’t bear to hurt her feelings.
“I slept all right,” I lie. “I think I’m just getting used to having another person in bed with me.”
“I’m in bed with you all the time,” she teases.
“Not sleeping,” I tease back.
“All right, I’ll go get some coffee on,” she says, actually going as far as to cover herself as she reaches over the side of the bed for her bathrobe.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s cold,” she says. “I’m used to your body heat. I’ve been sleeping with it all night.”
This is what a relationship feels like. I almost can’t remember feeling it before.
It’s not a bad feeling.
Wrigley’s hair is disheveled and hilarious as she walks out the door on her way to the kitchen, and I’m starting to wonder what I thought was so scary about settling down for a while.
I don’t know if things are going to work out or not, but this is probably the best morning I’ve had in a few years.
“So,” I call through the open doorway, “what time do you go to work today?”
“I’m off today,” she calls back. “And will you get your lazy ass out here? I’m freezing.”
I smile to myself. This is quite the turnaround from last night.
Last night, she was storming out of my rental car because I’d only suggested that we go out on a real date, and when she got in that cab… I guess I don’t really need to go back over that right now.
Last night was a very different world with very different people in it.
I’m up and out of bed, morning wood kicking in, though I haven’t slept, so I don’t bother with pants. I just check the top drawer of her dresser for a towel. We tend to go through quite a few of them on any given occasion.
Wrapped up, but hardly hiding anything, I walk out of the bedroom and find Wrigley putting bread in her toaster.
“Hey there,” I say as I walk up, wrapping my arms around her.
“Well good morning to both of you,” she laughs. “Did you change your mind on coffee?”
“Nah,” I answer.
“So, there is something I think we should probably talk about,” she says. “I don’t want to put it all on the line or anything, but I just want to know where you stand.”
“Okay.”
“Your roommate,” she says, “what is the deal with the two of you?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, the first night we got together, you shouted her name as you were coming. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging or anything.”
“Yeah, didn’t you shout your name about that same time?”
“Yeah, but whatever,” she says, leaning back into me. “I just need to know what kind of relationship the two of you have. Like, are you just roommates, are you roommates that fuck, are you hung up on her, what?”
“We’re just roommates,” I tell her. “We’ve had a near miss or two—actually, now that I think about it, just the one, but it was kind of drawn out—but no, nothing’s ever happened.”
We’re in a relationship, and people in relationships are supposed to be honest with each other, right?
“Okay,” she says. “You’re being totally honest, right? I’m not going to impale you with a meat thermometer if you tell me the two of you have bumped uglies.”
“You know, that’s one of my least favorite terms for it,” I laugh.
“I’m serious,” she says. “This is the free pass for both of us. You can say pretty much whatever here, and as long as it’s not way too fucking overboard, it’ll slide.”
“Really,” I tell her, “nothing’s happened.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I heard you the first time, but are there feelings there or what? Guys don’t usually call out the name of their roommate when they’re slogging someone else’s snatch.”
“Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?”
“Answer the question,” she says, pulling away from me to butter the toast she pulls from the toaster.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I thought there might have been something there, but she’s with some other guy now. It doesn’t matter.”
“So if she weren’t single…?”
“Nothing happened when she was,” I answer, starting to get a little tired of this particular line of questioning. I understand where Wrigley’s coming from, but I wasn’t prepared for it this morning.
“But if she weren’t single now, would you be here with me?”
“What does it even matter?” I snap. “I’m not there, I’m here. Can we just drop it?”
“No,” she answers calmly. “I think you should be honest with yourself before you really decide to jump into something with me. Am I the woman that you really want to be with, or am I just a decent second choice? You’re really not going to hurt my feelings unless you lie to me.”
“How do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Just stand there and calmly ask me if I’d rather be with someone else?”
“Well, it does seem like something that might make things difficult for us in the long run, and if that’s the case, I’d like to be prepared for it. I don’t see any reason to begrudge you your feelings if that’s what they are. Is that what they are?”
“I don’t know, okay?”
That’s probably not the most romantic thing I’ve said to a woman in the morning.
“Okay,” she says. “Are you really ready to have a re
lationship with me, or are you just trying to run away from the fact that Leila’s with someone else?”
“When did you turn into Dr. Phil?”
She just laughs.
“I don’t know where my mind is, and I don’t know what my feelings for Leila are, but I do know that from the moment you woke up this morning, everything in the world felt so much better.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess,” she says. “Toast?”
Chapter Thirteen
Screening
Leila
Back in the office again, and Annabeth is getting on my last nerve.
I made the stupid mistake of telling her what happened last night with Dane and how he just took off with barely a word. Now, she’s giving me her, “You know what you gotta do?” routine, and after the 12th repetition of the question, I’m starting to boil.
“It’s not that simple,” I tell her. “Dane and I have never really broken the ice. I mean, we have, but something’s always happened to cause it to freeze back over again.”
“You do love your metaphors,” she says, the smoke coming out of her mouth in short puffs.
“I really don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I tell her. “Any news on the job front?”
“Nope,” she says. “One of these days, I’m going to get the phone call from somewhere. I’m just trying to keep my sanity until it happens, ya know?”
Yeah, I know.
This morning, Kidman asked me if I wanted a raise. Stupid me, I said yes.
“Elderly men shouldn’t be allowed to grab their junk in public,” I say, without sharing the context.
Annabeth laughs. “What?”
“Kidman,” I answer. It’s the only answer I need.
“I’ve got that all figured out,” she says, and tosses me a pen.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask.
“Just don’t say anything to get yourself in trouble,” she says vaguely. “So, what are you gonna do about your roommate problem?”
“We’re back on that? Seriously, I don’t even know what happened. For all I know, the phone call could have been his mother saying she’d broken a hip or something.”
“Nah,” Annabeth says. “It sounds to me like he was off his game as soon as he saw you and that friend of yours macking on the couch. You know what you gotta do?”
“Annabeth, I swear if you utter that phrase one more time, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”
“Easy there, girl,” Annabeth says, spitting her cigarette out of her mouth in the process. “I was just gonna say that you should just talk to the man and see what he has to say. If you and him aren’t gonna talk, you’re just gonna end up going past each other, wasting all the hours of your lives wondering what the other one is thinking.”
She has a point, but I’m not quite ready to admit it.
“I really thought you would have heard something back on one of your applications by now,” I tell her. “You’ve got the grades and the pedigree. I wonder what’s holding it up.”
The glare on her face seems pretty out of context, but maybe I’ve overstepped again. I have a tendency to do that when I’m trying to lead a conversation away from something I want to avoid.
“We should probably get back in,” Annabeth says, leaving her half-smoked cigarette smoldering on the ground.
We make our way back inside and don’t say a word to each other on the way. When we’re back to our floor, we just part ways, and I’m starting to think I can’t do anything right.
“Tyler!”
I swear to all that is holy that if this geezer makes one stupid comment, I’m going to lose it.
“Yeah?”
Well, he’s not grabbing himself, so we’re off to a good start.
“Did you put this on my desk?” he asks.
“Did I put what on your desk?”
“This!” he shouts, and holds up a file.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “What’s in it?”
“In my office!” he shouts.
It’s not all that common for anyone working on this floor to even bother looking up when Kidman starts screaming at me. This time, though, I’m not the only one that can tell this rant is going to be different.
I’m not even in his office before he’s telling me to close the door.
I follow instructions and try to prepare myself for what’s about to happen.
“Do you know what’s in this?” he asks.
“It’s a folder,” I answer. “I don’t know—”
“Did you put this on my desk?”
“Sir, I honestly don’t know which folder that is. I’ve put a few folders on your desk today, but without knowing what’s in that one, I really couldn’t tell—”
“Do you think you’re funny?” he asks. “I get that I’m not the easiest person to work for, but this is so far over the line you’re in another country.”
“Sir?”
He slams the folder on his desk.
“You know, I’d expect this from that friend of yours, but coming from you—this is really too much.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him.
“You mean to tell me that you’re not the one who printed off a copy of my bank statement, put it in a file, and set it on my desk?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He takes a breath.
“You really didn’t know what was in this, did you?” he asks, starting to cool down a little.
“No sir, I didn’t. Why would someone—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “You can go.”
“Sir?”
“I said go!” he shouts. “I’m not going to tell you again!”
So I go.
With the door closed behind me, I try not to look at all the faces looking at me. Although I’m technically off the hook, this office is great at one thing and it has nothing to do with finance.
As I make my way toward Atkinson’s office, as I have absolutely nothing else to do right now, and I’d really like to take my mind off of everything, I can hear the not-so-hushed voices.
“Yeah, he just came in screaming. I think she’s going to get fired.”
“Look at her—no, not now, she’s looking over here. She looks like she just got fired.”
Somewhere around the eighth utterance of the word “fired,” I’ve had enough.
“Oh, will you all just shut up?!” I shout. “Every time someone leaves the room, you’re all pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick, pick as if your lives are such a pretty picture!”
“Leila?”
“What?!” I yell, spinning on my heel.
I turn around, and standing there like a scolded child is Mrs. Weinstock, one of my five bosses.
“Mrs. Weinstock,” I say, “I am so sorry.”
“Would you come and talk to me in my office?”
“Sure,” I answer, my voice suddenly small again.
Kidman is the filthy old man. Atkinson is the drill sergeant that wants you to scrub the floors with a toothbrush—although, to be fair, he’s only had me do that once. Iverson keeps calling me Kayla and hasn’t once given me clear directions on anything, so when I invariably screw up, he’s always got something to say about it. I still haven’t met Mrs. Beck.
Mrs. Weinstock, on the other hand, she is the master of the guilt trip.
With that soft-spoken tone and those big eyes, made even bigger by the thick glasses she wears—I swear, for the sole purpose of adding to the puppy effect—she can make you feel worthless just by looking at you.
Once I’m in her office, she asks me to close the door behind me.
“Have a seat,” she says.
She’s the oldest 40-something woman I’ve ever come across in my life, and somehow, that only makes her entreaties all the more gut-wrenching.
I sit and wonder whether she’s got me in here to make me feel terrible about yelling at everyone in the office, or because Kidman told her that I put
that file on her desk or what.
“How are you doing? You seem a little stressed,” she says.
“It’s been a rough day,” I tell her. “Then last night, there was this whole thing with my roommate…”
Even though I know better, those big brown eyes just make me open up. I can’t help it.
“I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” she says. “I just got a call. Someone from Claypool and Lee—did you know they’d be calling me for a reference?”
“Yes,” I answer. “I thought we talked about that.”
“Well, we did,” she says, “but I didn’t think you’d actually go through with applying somewhere else. I thought we’d made a nice home for you here.”
“Ma’am,” I start, “it is absolutely nothing against you. I’ve just been looking for something more permanent.”
“I thought you’d want to stay here,” she says. “But you’ve never once asked me if we had anything open for you. Why is that?”
“To be honest, ma’am,” I start, “I haven’t had the greatest experience here. I really don’t get the feeling that anyone really wants me around.”
And now she looks like she’s going to cry.
“I’ve always been so nice to you, Leila—”
“What did you tell them?” I interrupt, as I’m starting to get the feeling that she just torpedoed me.
“I told them that we sure didn’t want to see you go,” Mrs. Weinstock says.
“Did you give them any reason not to hire me?” I ask.
“Now, why would I do that?”
Yep, she’s actually crying now. I really hope I got that other job; otherwise, I might just end up getting fired by Rose Nylund.
“I didn’t say that you did, Mrs. Weinstock,” I answer, but she’s too busy wiping the tears from her eyes with a tissue to pay me much attention.
This is torture.
Right now, I kind of wish I was back in Kidman’s office.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just hate to see talented people like you go.”
“Well, they’re just calling references,” I tell her, hoping that might comfort her enough to get her to stop the sobbing. “I probably won’t get it. Annabeth’s up for the same job and she’s the likely choice.”