Remember When 2

by T. Torrest

  Finally, armed with my “Rachel” haircut and a deflated ego, I submitted resumes to every single printed rag in the city. Now! Magazine was the only place willing to take a chance on a bright-faced, wide-eyed girl from the suburbs, fresh out of school and ready to take on the world.

  They assigned me to their reception desk.

  After a few months of dropping not-so-subtle hints to anyone within earshot that I was looking for a writing job, I was tipped off to an opening in the copywriting department. It’s where I’d been ever since. But it didn’t mean I had to like it.

  I looked at Devin Fields, ten years my senior and lord of my destiny. If he was a less hard-headed supervisor or a more encouraging mentor, I may have had a shot at doing a lot more than just writing ads by then. Oh, I knew I’d get my chance eventually. I’d seen him move some talented writers up the ranks once they’d finally paid their dues. Devin knew I was hungry and that he couldn’t hold me back forever. But it just felt like it was taking so long. Why oh why did he have to be the one responsible for whether or not I made it in this business?

  And why did he have to be so damned good-looking?

  I crossed my arms, but managed to answer his question without further antagonizing him. “Crystal.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.” He swiped the pages off his blotter and handed them over. “Here. You’ll probably want these for your files. And Layla?”

  I didn’t even try to hide my discontent as I answered, “Yes?”

  “The piece was very well-written. Nice job.”

  I went back out into The Showroom: a mile-wide expanse of linoleum, cubicles, and human misery accented with fluorescent lighting.

  Okay, fine, I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t as bad as all that.

  The lighting was actually halogen.

  My desk had recently been moved to within Devin’s line of sight, so I tried not to look sullen as I took a seat in my chair, just in case he was watching.

  I saw a pair of eyes slowly ascend over the cubicle wall to my left, with Paul Slovak’s voice attached to them. “What’s the infraction today, Warren?”

  Paul was a huge pain in my ass. He was a typical brown-noser who could never mind his own business. He wore gigantic, coke-bottle glasses which made his big, creepy bug eyes look even bigger, creepier and buggier. I referred to him as Sleestak behind his back.

  I ignored his question and instead changed the subject. “Paul, did you happen to get in touch with Dave at The Sneaker Hut yet? He hasn’t approved our copy and I can’t send it to print without his go-ahead.”

  Sleestak procured the yellow post-it note I’d left on his desk an hour before. He mumbled something unintelligible before slithering back to his cave and letting us both get back to work.

  I refreshed my computer screen and tried to concentrate on the words in front of me. But, as so often happened lately, I found my mind drifting whenever I caught the sparkle on my left hand from the light of the monitor. I absentmindedly fiddled with the diamond ring there, still getting used to the feeling of it on my finger.

  My boyfriend—excuse me—my fiancé had only just popped the question two days before. I didn’t normally sleep over at his place on a weeknight, but it just so happened that our anniversary fell on a Wednesday. We’d only been officially dating for one year, but we’d been on and off for quite some time before that, so it’s not as though we were rushing into an engagement.

  I was still pretty damned surprised when he asked me, though. And if I was surprised, I couldn’t even begin to imagine how shocked my co-workers would be. It’s not as though I had a bunch of close friends at the office, but I found it pretty strange that no one had noticed, much less even asked about the big, fat, diamond ring on my finger. None of them even knew that I had a boyfriend, never mind a serious, semi-famous one. Which was a good thing, actually, because I really didn’t feel the need to divulge my relationship to any of those people.

  Sleestak poked his head back over the cubicle wall. “Dave at Sneaker Hut said we’re go for launch.”

  “Thanks, Paul. I’ll drop a note on Devin’s desk on my way out.”

  My mention of leaving made Sleestak take notice of the time, unnecessarily announcing to me that it was after five. He quickly shut down his computer, grabbed his man-purse and made a break for the door.

  I decided it was time I high-tailed it out of there myself. I only had two hours to get back to my apartment to tweeze, shave or bleach every hair on my body, take a shower, and pour myself into a knockout beige knit dress that I’d bought the day before for the occasion. I had reservations waiting at Ocean, for me and my future husband.

  Wow. It was going to take longer than two days before I’d get used to saying that.

  I closed down my workstation and headed off into Devin’s office. I was hoping he wouldn’t keep me any later than necessary.

  I gave a quick tap on his open door before sauntering in.

  “Devin, I’m going to cut out of here. Here’s the copy for Sneaker Hut. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”

  Devin gave me the “one-minute” finger as he finished scribbling something on a piece of paper. He dropped his pen on the page in front of him and looked up at me then, offering a sheepish smile. He knew I was still angry with our latest encounter, and I guessed the awkward grin was meant as some sort of apology. Not that he’d ever actually admit it.

  “No, thank you, Layla. That will be all. Have a nice weekend.”

  I started to turn on my heel and was almost home free when his voice stopped me in my tracks. “Actually, Miss Warren? There was just one quick thing I needed to go over with you.”

  It was never quick with Devin. I’m sure my shoulders visibly slumped as I turned back around and took a seat in one of the club chairs.

  He came around and sat on the edge of his desk, sneaking a hasty glance out to the floor before asking, “We still on for dinner tonight?”

  I met his eyes, not trying to hide my disappointment at our latest argument, but answered, “Of course. We are celebrating our anniversary, are we not?”

  Devin’s lips curled back into a playful leer, his perfectly straight, white teeth gleaming down at me. “I’d like to think we did a pretty good job of celebrating the other night.”

  I ran my fingertips over the diamond ring, blushing inwardly at the memory of just exactly how we’d spent the night “celebrating” our anniversary. I smiled in spite of myself, but didn’t indulge his leading comment. “No way, Fields. You’re not robbing me of a meal at Ocean. I’ve been looking forward to their sea bass all week.”

  He smiled, gave another quick peek toward his door and risked a chuck under my chin before dismissing me back to my desk.

  Public display of affection between two employees, especially when the couple is comprised of a senior editor and a lowly copywriter, was not at all acceptable at Howell House.

  Chapter 3MISS CONGENIALITY

  Once I finally got home from work, I raced into my room, stripped out of my work clothes and replaced them with my favorite, ratty, Duran Duran T-shirt in order to start my ready ritual. I glimpsed the reunion postcard on my nightstand, and was suddenly reminded of the crazy dream I’d had about Trip that morning. Weird that such a vivid dream could have been brought on by nothing more than the news of a high school reunion. I hadn’t even seen him in ages, at least not in person, anyway. He and I had exchanged a bunch of letters the first few years I was in college, but they’d started coming less frequently, eventually stopping altogether.

  I was pretty heartbroken that my high school sweetheart had gone off and found some Big New Life to attend to, and that I hadn’t ranked as something important enough for him to hold onto from his old one. Anytime I allowed myself to think about it, it felt like breaking up with him all over again. Which was stupid to think, because he and I hadn’t even been anywhere near each other for years by that point.

  But it still hurt. I’m not going to lie and say it d
idn’t.

  The few boyfriends I’d had in college never quite measured up. They were normally good-looking, decent, fun guys, and most of them were fine, really. But sooner or later, I’d find myself making comparisons. Either their hair was too blond or not blond enough. Their eyes were not quite the right shade of blue, or their laughs were just a bit too flat. It was truly pathetic, and trust me, I knew what I was doing to myself. But I couldn’t help it. My abandonment issues ran too deep, and I’d only recently gained some semblance of control over my OCD.

  Finally, after a few years of putting those poor, unsuspecting guys through the wringer, I decided to just stop comparing. After dozens of failed evaluations, I realized the system just might be skewed and I needed to recalibrate the standards. There was no substitute for Terrence Chester Wilmington the Third. There never would be.

  But the fact was, Trip was gone and he wasn’t coming back. I mean, he was my high school boyfriend, and high school was over, right? Didn’t that mean that we were, too? At least that’s what I told myself.

  I seized onto a deception, turned our love into myth. Tried to believe that our relationship had simply been exaggerated, overblown, teenaged fantasy. That a love like that couldn’t have been real, that it didn’t really happen. I may have been lying to myself, but I did what I had to do in order to get me through another day.

  The days turned into months; the months turned into years. The more years that went by, the more life just happened. By the time I’d graduated college, I’d already fooled myself into believing I had moved on.

  And then I met Devin.

  * * *

  I’d only been working at Howell House for a few months before Devin started flirting with me. I’d found him attractive since the first day we’d met, but never allowed myself to dwell on it. The man was my boss for godsakes, and how utterly cliché would it have been for me to have a crush on him, never mind how self-destructive it could be to my career. I kept my head down and our relationship strictly above-board.

  But Devin was ruthless in his pursuit. I think the thrill of the chase was his motivating factor, not only because of the breach we’d be committing against company policy, but because I never gave him an inch, determined to treat our association as strictly professional. I was always respectful and businesslike in my dealings with him publicly, even though privately, I actually found him intriguing, powerful and utterly gorgeous. My complete refusal to partake in his flirtatious banter elevated me into the perfect challenge in his eyes. The more I evaded his advances, the more he poured on the charm. He must have known I found him attractive, because otherwise, he’d have been setting himself up for one hell of a sexual harassment lawsuit!

  It wasn’t until Marty Robinson’s retirement party that I finally let my guard down. We’d all had cake in the conference room and then a dozen of us decided to go out for drinks afterward. I’d been working at Howell House for a whole year by then, and that was the first time I’d ever socialized outside of the office with my coworkers. It’s not as though I was against making friends at work. It’s just that most of the people there were much older than me, and I didn’t have anything in common with the few who weren’t. Rajani Singh from the art department was the only person in the whole building that I had any sort of a friendship with. But even then, our camaraderie was mostly confined between the hours of nine to five.

  That night, however, she and I had split a taxi on the way to Down the Hatch, a hip little dive down near my neighborhood in Greenwich Village. It was an uncharacteristic choice for the older crowd I worked with, but I soon learned that Devin had been the one to suggest it. We grabbed a booth near the tables where our fellow employees had already congregated and joined Marty in a shot.

  Devin was standing near us at the time, and I used the opportunity to check him out from head to toe. He was wearing a casual maroon golf shirt and grey slacks to replace his usual suit and tie, and I remember thinking that he looked even more delicious than he normally did at the office.

  Before long, Rajani decided to get home to her husband. Devin managed to claim her seat in our booth, where he stayed for the remainder of the evening. After a few drinks and then a few too many more, the rest of our group thinned out until it was just the two of us there alone. Devin showed no sign that he was planning to leave, and I was having fun, so I stayed, too.

  After all those drinks, I guess I was feeling pretty loose. That night, whenever he’d make a flirty comment, I allowed myself to smile and become almost as playful. Whenever his eyes would linger for a few extra seconds, I’d meet his gaze instead of turning away.

  At one point, he reached across the table and took hold of my hand, and I don’t know if it was the sultry summer heat, the many drinks I’d consumed, or the way he was looking at me, but I let him do it.

  Before I had time to think about what was happening, we were back at my apartment and tearing each other’s clothes off.

  The following morning, I woke up with a huge hangover and an even bigger case of regret. I’d never been much of a casual-sex kind of girl, even during my college days, but I had to go and have a drunken one-night-stand with Devin Fields. My boss! I berated myself in the light of day, lying there in my bed naked after a night spent screwing my editor. What the hell had I been thinking?

  Devin’s arm slid around me then, and I turned to see his head half-buried in the pillows, a smile plastered on his sleepy face. Without even opening his eyes, he’d said, “Good morning,” and pulled me closer against his naked body. I guessed that he wasn’t feeling quite so regretful.

  We allowed ourselves a few minutes to spoon before getting up and scrambling around each other, trying to get ready for work. He’d managed to squeeze in a shower while I blew out my hair, and afterward, had no choice but to dress in his clothes from the previous evening. I kept wondering how he was going to show up at the office in his casual attire without raising suspicions. He’d all but be announcing the fact that he never made it home the night before. The rumor mill would have had a field day, putting two and two together, realizing that I was the last person to be seen with him.

  When I finally asked him about his clothes, he assured me that his driver would have a clean shirt waiting for him in the car, and could he interest me in a ride to work? I originally considered taking him up on his offer, thinking that he could drop me off a block away from our building so that we wouldn’t be seen showing up together, but then dismissed the idea. There was no way I was willing to chance getting busted by one of our coworkers, causing gossip to spread like wildfire.

  He understood, but wasn’t pleased with my rebuff. “Well, then, can I see you tonight?”

  I looked at him, with his sexy, unshaved chin and his shower-damp, finger-combed hair, and resisted the urge to throw him back into my bed. “Devin, I’m not really sure that this is a good idea.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You and I... dating.” It was the least vulgar way I could describe what had happened between us the night before.

  But Devin hadn’t read into my word choice and instead took me literally. “I happen to think that you and I dating is a fantastic idea.” He put his arms around me and pulled me against his chest before continuing, “And one that has been long overdue, in my humble opinion.”

  I was shocked, but flattered that Devin was looking forward to more than just a roll in the hay with me. But it was certainly going to make for some high risk at the office.

  We spent the better part of the next year in a casual relationship, indulging in the occasional date, but mostly just kicking our flirtations up a notch. We had to be fairly stealth about it, which was draining and nerve-wracking, but in truth, I have to admit, was mostly just exciting. I loved the thrill of him sneaking up behind me in the breakroom, feeling him quickly running a hand down my arm or sidling up against my back, risking a stolen moment away from the prying eyes of our co-workers. I loved the way he would come over to my desk in the middle of th
e day, turning his back toward Sleestak and engaging me in work-related conversation; his tone professional, but the expression on his face leering and sensual. Deliberately trying to throw me off guard like we were playing some sort of game.

  A whole year of that! A whole year of trying to keep things casual, only going out on the intermittent date, the occasional capitulating romp between the sheets. One night after such a cave-in, Devin lay in my bed, out of breath and defeated. He looked over at me and just said, “This is ridiculous, Layla. Can’t you see how good we are together?”

  I’d thought a lot about how if I’d met Devin under different circumstances, I wouldn’t have been so wary of being in a relationship with him. Fact was, he was right. We really were good together. He was a great guy, we had a lot of fun, and the sex was pretty damned amazing. We’d started seeing each other more regularly after that night, but even still, I never considered us a legitimate couple.

  I guess, that is, until he popped the question a year later.

  We were just sitting on the couch at his apartment on a not-quite-random Wednesday night. It had been two years to the day since the first night we’d slept together, the date we unofficially considered our anniversary.

  We were enjoying a bottle of wine in acknowledgement of our special day, when all of a sudden, a tiny, square box appeared on the coffee table. I sat there staring at the thing, not registering what it was doing there, when Devin laughed, “Well, are you going to open it or what?”