Out of Her Comfort Zone

by Nicky Penttila

  Elliot set me up. This is his idea of a joke. Put the shy girlfriend to the test. A grand experiment, a performance piece.

  And I fell for it. And I loved it. And I’d do it again.

  What have I done?

  How could she have dreamed she’d stay anonymous? She always knew people by how they walked, how they stood. Of course others would recognize her the same way.

  She sank onto the warmed tile of the shower. She was the biggest idiot in the universe. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t breathe.

  She looked at the clock. Eleven-thirty. Her throat was dry from sobbing. She was so hungry. She had ten minutes to get out of here.

  She whipped the towel around her body, drying as fast as she could. It touched her nipples and she jumped so hard she nearly slipped on the tile. She left her hair still in the ponytail from hiding it under the wig, not taking the time to brush it out.

  In the bedroom she didn’t even turn on the light, but she had to flick the overhead on in the closet. Her travel bag, complete with its TSA-approved collection of toiletries, stood at the ready as always. She popped it open and pulled everything black off hangers and out of drawers and threw it in the bag. She was out of the closet with five minutes left.

  She spent three minutes in a frantic search for her messenger bag, the one with her wallet, phone, and work deck. She found it hiding behind the closet door, and now there was no time to leave a note. She decided he deserved nothing but an e-mail. He doesn’t deserve even that.

  With less than a minute to go, she was out the bathroom’s other door, into the hallway to the spare bedroom and down the stairs to the garage. She pushed open the outside door and didn’t stop moving until she was more than two blocks away at a taxi stand on

  Market Street

  . She couldn’t remember if she’d waited for the lights at the corners or not.

  Her phone started to buzz. She pressed ignore, and dialed for Josh and Ginny’s land-line. An older lady answered, and Emily remembered the couple was on their anniversary weekend in Napa. She apologized and clicked off just as another call came in. She hit ignore on that one too, looking up and down the street. Where? Where?

  “Where to, lady?” It was the taxi driver.

  Her phone buzzed again. She remembered Elliot had its tracking code. She turned it completely off.

  “Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  Tourist Central. He’d never think to look for her there.

  ****

  The next day and night were a blur, complete with dreams of Mona Mother-in-Law dripping diamonds and disappointment as she dissolved into a Dali-esque stream. But by Sunday afternoon Emily couldn’t stand the cement-walled Wharf motel room one minute more and went to see the seals on the nearby pier. She could usually watch them, and the people watching them, for hours, but today everyone seemed to be tired or fighting.

  She didn’t want to fight. She didn’t want to feel. She didn’t want to know she was the biggest dupe in all the universes.

  By Sunday night, after an entire nacho salad and two margaritas, she was ready to fire up the electronics. According to her phone record Elliot made only one more call after the three she’d disconnected Friday night. On principle, he always refused to leave voicemail, but he’d left one this time.

  “Where are you?” His voice was tight, controlled; she could hear the party in the background. She deleted the message. What did he care? He was probably glad to be rid of her. I had it right the first time, at the coffee shop. I am such an idiot.

  But his e-mail was somehow harder to ignore: “Please tell me you are safe and well.” Still smarting, she answered: “I am safe and well. We are through.”

  She stayed up half the night trying to decide whether to ask for her things from his apartment or just write them off. She would miss her flute, but it’s not as if she’d played it in a decade. And there was no time like the present to give formal notice to her tenant. Looked like she’d need a new place to crash.

  Finally she gave up on sleep and went to work. At four-thirty, she was the only one there save for the Allie, the other coder with insomnia. As she sank into her work, the sun, that old reliable, started to rise, warming the room and settling her nerves. If only it could reset her heart.

  ****

  Elliot’s first IM arrived at nine o’clock sharp.

  “Late for work?”

  “Early. Coding now.”

  “Please call when break. Please.”

  She cut off the app, which felt a bit like cutting off arm or a major tree root or something, and realized she had to pee. Dammit. Now her concentration was broken. After depositing the old coffee, she picked up a cup of fresh joe and settled back down to the mess on her screens.

  It didn’t work. As she was trying to roll the tightness out of her shoulders, Josh’s head and shoulders popped over her half-wall. He looked the worse for wear. She tried to guess at his troubles, but, you know, politely.

  “So the anniversary went well?”

  “See the gossip page today?”

  Shit. Heart in her throat, she typed in the address for the Daily. Sure enough, the Page Three photo was from the party. Scalding hot, and most definitely inappropriate for minors.

  The photo was shot through the window. She knew it – that flash behind her eyes had actually been from the outside. But how?

  Josh came round the wall into her guest chair, tossing the paper version on her keyboard. “Looks like your beau’s got some ’splaining to do. Or maybe not – I see you’re already missing a certain fancy ring.”

  Her ass was one-third the picture, with a slightly fuzzy but still very recognizable Elliot leaning over, readying to smack. Her thong was front and center, her legs slightly apart.

  Smart to go for the extra-special wax job, whew. No bumps.

  Emily tried to shrug it off, show she didn’t care, but it turned to a shiver instead. The motion shook loose a sob.

  “Hey, hey. It’s just the Daily, nobody will see it who matters.” He waggled his eyebrows the way that always made her smile, and she hiccupped. “And if they do, they won’t care. They’re consenting adults in the privacy of their own home. So to speak.” He frowned. “But – and isn’t it a big butt, sorry I had to say it – he’s not the right guy for you. He’s not old enough yet to appreciate a good woman.”

  She looked at the photo again. Her ass looked great at that angle. And her Elliot, well, she’d never seen him look happier.

  “He seems to appreciate me plenty,” she said.

  “Obviously not. He’s not ready to settle down. A stag party, at his age? Maybe he never will be. I knew it all along.”

  “You are not five years older than he is.”

  “And me with two kids already.”

  “Neither over four years old.”

  “Is this about me or him?” Josh reached out and put a hand over hers. “It’s about you. How do you feel?”

  “Confused.” Could Elliot have been right about her having a bit of a hang-up? She did feel differently about her body now, more objective, less critical. She looked gorgeous in that photo – she loved it. Maybe she should get a wax every week.

  “Makes sense to me,” Josh said. “I say let him stew in his own juices for a week and see what happens. Ten to one he flakes and you’re rid of him.”

  “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do. But I like you better.” He patted her hand again and started to stand.

  Emily’s desk telephone burbled, outside line. She stared at the classic Vox, bewildered. Who ever would have that number? She reached for it, but Josh was faster. He picked up the handset and answered.

  His eyes widened. “It’s him,” he mouthed at her. Elliot? The man who refused to use landlines because they might be bugged?

  Josh grimaced. “She doesn’t have time to talk to assholes today. Maybe tomorrow. Leave a message?” Emily grabbed for the phone, but Josh spun his arm out of her reach. “Roger that. Over.”
/>   He hung up, and winked at her. “The guy’s sweating bullets. Make him pay.”

  Emily’s head was spinning. “So now you like him again? What could he possibly have said?”

  “He said he would be waiting on your call, if it took the rest of his life.”

  She sat back, a jumble of thoughts and emotions. It wasn’t Elliot’s fault his stepdad was a creep, or at least made terrible jokes. It wasn’t his fault she was shy about her body. The least she could do was talk to him. After all, how many guys actually wanted to hash things out?

  “Is the conference room booked?”

  Josh looked across the sea of cubicles and shook his head no.

  “Now it is.”

  ****

  She closed the conference room door, clicked on the tabletop sound blocker, and punched up Elliot’s number on her phone. He clicked in on the first ring.

  “Are you coming back?” His voice was heavy, like he’d been carrying loads of coal with it.

  “No.”

  He sighed, long. She pictured him rubbing his morning-stubble chin, like on Sundays when he was trying to work out why she didn’t want to go see Saw 8. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “You lied.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Sure.”

  He paused, took in a breath. “But you liked it.”

  “I did. It was a thrill to be so public. But I counted on you to protect me. You changed the rules.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “Right.”

  Silence, and all her fears were answered. He did do it on purpose. Then a shuffling on the other side, as if he was shooing people away. She heard a door close. “Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t plan to hurt you.”

  “You don’t even like your stepdad, but you invited him?”

  “He had a standing invitation, but he’d never taken me up on it before. And he won’t again, unless he wants another cracked tooth. This party was a comedy of errors. More like a tragedy. But Em, I... I love you.”

  He hit someone, defending her? She hardened her heart; it did not obey. But her mouth did. “Love means listening.”

  “I’m listening now.”

  “Great. Glad to be of service to your next fiancée.”

  “Don’t be that way. Please, what can I do?”

  She thought a moment, watching the sun warm the chop on the water and the shiny commuter snake clogging the BayBridge. She pressed her palm into the glass of the window, as if to pull warmth from the sun. Here she was in another windowed room, another fishbowl. If she married him, she always would be. Anyone could see. “You put me out there, El, and let people make fun of me.”

  “They thought you were beautiful.”

  “They made me feel crass.”

  “I’m listening,” he said. “You felt crass.”

  “Right. Like I’d just shared something with the world that I only ever want to share with you.”

  “You felt exposed.”

  “Betrayed. I wanted to step out of my comfort zone, but I guess this was a step too far.”

  “I see.” He paused, and she felt the familiar tug on her heart. I want to hear what he has to say. I always do. I love how he discovers things by talking them through. I’ll miss that.

  But this silence dragged, and she realized he had nothing to say. She’d been clear, and cogent, and, for once, irrefutable.

  “Sorry, El, I don’t think you can talk your way out of this one.”

  He groaned. “Will you see me today, tonight? After work?”

  “Maybe in a couple days.”

  “OK. Ah, one more thing.” He stopped. “You coded right through the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “But I saw the paper.”

  He made a choking sound. “Switch, Em. Two clicks.”

  She punched up her phone’s security app and clicked two clicks across the bandwidth, cutting the call in case anyone else was listening. “I’m here,” she said.

  “You know she had worse they could have printed. She was after me, not you.”

  “How?”

  “Drone camera. You know, the project I helped fund two years ago.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “Doesn’t it just. But in all those hundreds of frames, all those angles, she didn’t recognize you. Nobody did.”

  Emily went silent. It wasn’t his fault he was a little bit kinkier than her. It wasn’t his fault that she could be timid and fly to the worst conclusion and enact a final solution.

  And it wasn’t his fault when an experiment went bad. Or partly bad.

  And man, hadn’t most of it been fantastic?

  Had she overreacted? Run when she should have stayed and talked? She needed to get some space, but Elliot did deserve some sort of explanation. He didn’t deserve an email with one line.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What is it, really, my love?”

  She went silent again. She couldn’t say. She could hear his shallow breaths. He wasn’t going to hang up. He’d wait her out.

  She screwed up her courage. “I liked it,” she said in a whisper.

  “You liked it.” His voice was just as soft.

  “More than I should.”

  “You’re surprised at yourself.”

  “Disgusted.” She frowned as she said the word.

  “Really?”

  “No” came out without her permission. But it was the right word.

  Now Elliot paused. Emily sank to the floor, her hand leaving a trail on the newly cleaned window. She’d liked it. She’d like to do it again. Was there any way, in this day and age, they could do it again?

  Elliot cleared his throat. “I think I did see the camera’s flash. Like shooting stars. But it’s always like that with you.”

  She closed her eyes. “It’s always like that with you, too.”

  “Meet me after work?”

  She opened her eyes. “I have to think about things. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Maybe tomorrow then.” He paused. “Love.” That was how he always signed off.

  She held her breath until she heard the empty void of the connection dropping.

  “Love,” she said.

  ****

  Emily struggled with the code for yet another mobile interface for the rest of the afternoon, but her conscience didn’t let her loose. At five she was beat, the specs dancing in her head around the molten pools of emotion bubbling about her heart. Outside, the car traffic was starting to bunch up, the beginning of the commuter crawl. Funny how the slower the cars were moving the louder it sounded, even through closed windows.

  But there was more shouting than usual. A gaggle gathered at the front of the office, looking out over

  Market Street

  . “What’s up?” Josh called out, following the trail to the windows. Suddenly nearly the whole company was at the windows.

  “Boss,” Josh shouted to her across the room, “You have got to see this.”

  Out the window, across the street, four lanes filled with stalled traffic growing ever more congested, three people were waving signs. A man and a woman stood in full geek dressage: blue Oxford shirt and nicely pressed khakis. They held poster-sized signs above their heads with an arrow pointing to a man between them. His sign read, “I’m an idiot.” He was wearing a classic black Playboy bunny outfit, ears to cotton tail.

  “He’s having trouble standing in his heels,” Emily said.

  “Sure is. But look at those gams.” Leave it to Josh to notice that.

  Hold on. Emily could have sworn she’d seen that hip sway before, and those blonde arms. She leaned closer to the window.

  Elliot.

  Oh. My. God. She ran back for her purse and her sweater and headed for the stairs. Taking them three at a time – thanks heavens she was wearing flats – she was out the door in less than a minute.

  In that time, Elliot and his friends – his driver and his security chief, Emily could
now see – had drawn a crowd, most on this side of the sidewalk. The trio was backed against a parking garage. Emily prayed his car was in there and he didn’t take the BART in that getup.

  She waved her sweater at the nearest car as if it were a bull. Seeing the driver nod, she passed in front. Traffic was so stalled she had no trouble speeding across all four lanes. She didn’t hear sirens yet, but then again it was San Francisco. But she was damn sure there were cameras in every phone. By the time she got across she’d terrified herself that she’d driven her lover around the bend.

  She stopped directly in front of him, as if she could block anyone’s view of him anyway. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What’s good for the goose,” he said, grinning, and tilted the sign down so she could see it more clearly. She read it and looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “An idiot?”

  He signaled to his driver, on her left, who flipped her card. “Please.” Security man on her right flipped his card, “Pretty please.”

  Elliot – “my reputation is everything” Elliot – wiggled his shoulders and hips, almost cabbage-patching with his card. Emily heard wolf whistles from the crowd behind them. He turned his card.

  “Come back?”

  After he was sure the whole world had time to read it, he handed the card to his driver and spun around. He clicked on an ancient boom box, and a heavy beat rolled out into the street. Starting to shimmy, he dropped his shoulders, his chest, and put his hands on his knees, ass in the air. He wiggled it, making the bunny tail dance.

  The whistles grew shrill. Still rhythmically swaying his hips, he turned his head to look back at her. He was grinning, but there was something about his eyes only Emily could read. He was unsure. No, scared. But she couldn’t help her answering smile, and his grin grew to spectacular wattage.

  He lifted a hand from his knee and brought it round to pat his ass-cheek. He raised a brow, as if to say, would she?

  Would she ever. Emily shouldered her purse and rubbed her palms together, getting her own cheer from the crowd. Taking the stance, to the side, she circled his cheek with her palm, grateful for his sake that the men’s version of this outfit has quite a bit more coverage in the rear. And then she whacked him, a nice little ricochet smack. She shouted her approval along with the crowd.