Crushing

by Kelly Kay

  She crosses her legs in her misshapen and dingy gray leggings.

  I squint. “Is that jelly on your pants?”

  “Dropped the toast.”

  “And you just left the stain there? What do you mean, you're a hacker?”

  Her gruff voice fills my office as she leans forward. “Look, lady girl.” I roll my eyes as she continues, “I do shell sites, dark web, credit card hacks, NASA, SEC, and online gambling rooms. They couldn’t prove it was me, I’m that good, but they did know it was me, and after they come knocking on your door—at an address you thought you’d scrubbed from the public record—and warn you. You rethink your career trajectory. I thought I should try something legal for a while. I'm banned from tech and global research companies.”

  My eyes are wide as this paradox of a woman pulls something out of her teeth and then rearranges her ample breasts in her bra. I blow out a long breath and sit back. She salutes me and says, “And yes, I’ve read all your emails. Habit. Sorry.”

  My cheeks instantly blush, as she continues, “Come on. It’s not like they’re juicy. You barely have friends. Your love life is dull, and you’re a cart loader. Just buy the shoes, don’t leave them in the cart hanging there like a promise.”

  This is why we need an actual HR department. And I don’t window cart shop too much. Do I? How did this meeting end up like this?

  I exclaim, “Hold up! That means you knew I wanted to fire you.”

  “For like three months. Evan wanted me gone long ago. Not sure if I’m still here because you’re too pussy to fire me or you believed I’d turn it around.”

  “For your information, it was the latter. You’re very creative, you bring good energy to the office, and you don’t mind working insane hours.” Not a pussy.

  The shaggy, russet-colored-haired woman holds her fist up like we’re sisters in some kind of club. “That means a lot.” Then thumps her heart with the fist like she has heartburn.

  “Okay, then. Thanks so much for all your odd dedication. And stay out of my server.” I outstretch my hand to indicate that this bizarre meeting is adjourned.

  “I’ll try, but sometimes I get bored and hacking you is a legal gray area.”

  I stand, smoothing down my silk Prada wrap skirt. I extend my OPI Chick Flick Cherry red manicured hand to her. She stares at me. I need her to go so I can save the account, see what Asher said, and apparently up our cybersecurity.

  She points at me and gestures up and down. What she doesn’t do is shake my hand and leave. “You just made sure you looked perfect for firing me. And I mean, you seem to be the only person who can pull off chartreuse.”

  “Cryptic and odd, but thank you.”

  “Your white flowers in your office never die. Do you secretly replace the wilty ones?” I shoot my eyes to the peonies on my desk.

  “How do you not know I have a standing order with a florist?”

  “Never hacked your phone. Out of respect.” And her fist goes back in the air. I halfheartedly mimic the gesture.

  “Thank you. I guess.”

  “Your bag always matches your shoes but not too matchy. They always go together cleverly. And never a stray hair.”

  I straighten my frame as I realize she’s evaluating me. My hair was stuck in my lipstick last night. I’m not perfect. I’m exact. I am taken aback by this former felon and her assessment of me. “Another reason I kept you was your attention to detail, and I liked how you could instantly read the client. Not that you’d listen to them and do as they asked, but you’re intuitive. Now please stop turning that eye on me and take care.” I try again for a handshake. I shift my weight and cock my head to the side waiting.

  She continues but doesn’t get up. “You’re not spontaneous at all. Have you ever thrown a couple of pairs of underwear in a bag and run off for an adventure spur of the moment?”

  “To be fair, no one packs a couple of pairs of underwear and just takes off.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “I have.”

  “And that was a good vacation?”

  “Terrible, but you never know. Your office is supposed to feel badass bitch, but then there are these hints of girly charm to remind people you’re feminine. Your couch is black leather, but your desk is white and scrolly. You have a pink desk chair. Your whimsy is calculated.”

  I defend my favorite color. “I like pink.”

  “I think it’s because it matches the inside of your bookshelves and that pink makes the green from your eyes pop, and the blonde of your hair feels more sorority girl golden than harsh platinum corporate bitch.”

  “Slow up there, sister. I don’t have to explain any of these things to you.”

  “Everything’s in its place with a twist. You’ve calculated a wrench in everything to be not perceived as perfect. It’s kind of genius. But I look forward to meeting you when it all falls into the shitter.”

  “You can go now.”

  “You can only hold on to so much before it slips, and I can’t wait to see who you are when it all cracks.”

  “You don’t know me.” And now I begin to pace a bit in my office. I’m drumming my fingers on the desk trying to figure out what to do next.

  She continues speaking at me in her crazy babble. Mel leans forward on her knees as if she might get up, but she only places her hands there. She sits in the chair with her legs spread as if she’s on her own couch. “You’re like the Persian rug makers, purposefully weaving a mistake into their work, so they’re not too perfect in the eyes of God because it would be arrogant. I’m your Persian rug flaw so you’re not a controlling perfectionist.”

  I hustle around the back of my desk and grab my phone and purse. I look at her as I step lively towards my own door. “Great feedback. If you’re not leaving my office, then I am.”

  She’s leaning backward over the chair, glancing at me and gesturing with one arm. “I’ll miss you, you nutty control freak! You’re my favorite disaster waiting to happen. If you need anything in the future, I’ll be there.” And then there’s a finger gun. I react as if she means to stalk me.

  “Not like that. Just I’ll be around if you need some computer help or something. You wanna grab a burrito some time?” I cringe at the thought of salsa and guac spilling from her mouth and onto her shirt. And worse, she would leave it there. I shake my head to indicate that sharing nachos is off the table.

  “Thanks for all of that.” I circle my open palm at her to indicate everything she just said is rolled into a slice of crazy.

  I walk down the stairs of the converted brownstone that I purchased with my parents’ money. This was my second foray into owning my own firm, and the one that I did right. The first one was a bust from the beginning.

  Evan and I lived on the top floor of this building for three years before we expanded the office. My bedroom became a conference room, and Evan’s bedroom became my office. His office used to be two closets and an ironing board cubby that we made into a light-filled art director’s dream. It was us against the world.

  We did all the historical reno we could. It’s on a tree-lined street between Broadway and 6th. South of midtown but just north of the Flatiron Building. I found this far-from-perfect building when no one was buying in Koreatown/Murray Hill.

  My dad always said your value is in the land, so I sacrificed everything to possess my own chunk of Manhattan. I own this building and my apartment. Five years after we opened our doors, I refinanced and paid for full renovations. That’s when we finally stopped having to put pots out for roof leaks. And yes, some of our wood trim is my favorite shade of pink: Benjamin Moore Rhododendron, #2079-50. It’s the perfect pink, not too icy and not too warm. It’s bright and cheery and makes me happy.

  There are modern touches, like water and light fixtures, colors, and furniture, but the rich history of this house built in 1906 was preserved. We exposed the brick where we could and patched and painted the tin ceiling. The character of this house matters more than being perfect. See, I’
m not perfect. Things just need a plan.

  When our first local client wanted to meet at our office, it sent us into a frenzy of home renovations. When Antique Party and Events arrived, we’d worked nonstop for a week making sure their path to my makeshift conference room, the old dining room, looked perfect. I sanded and stained only the portion of the floor they’d see; it’s all I could afford. Evan patched and painted only the walls in their path, hanging floor to ceiling curtains over the parts that were beyond patching. I conned a construction company into loaning me scaffolding. We put it up with draping to hide the rest of the house, pretending the workers were taking a break during our meeting. For the next year, we’d move the scaffolding to mask the untouched parts of the house as our business expanded quickly and the reno moved slowly.

  Fake it until you make it was our mantra. Friends and neighbors sat in on different meetings to round out our fake staff. They’d pretend to take notes, and it worked. We did all the work. We looked like a company. Appearances do matter, dirty underwear vacations do not.

  After I convinced Alan Cummings to throw an Antique Event’s turn of the century birthday party at the Edison Ballroom, not only did I keep that client but to this day Antique puts on all my events. They were responsible for putting Asher in my life. They threw that dinner for me.

  My building is far from perfect, and we have yet to find a plumber or an electrician who can make sense of our systems. Perfect. Fuck off, you ridiculous wild-haired woman. I painted, I grouted the bathrooms, and I sanded my own damn floors. My chair can be any color I fucking choose. I don’t usually take that kind of shit from anyone, but I don’t want a lawsuit. I just want her gone.

  I slam the door as I exit because if you don’t, it won’t close. The original door is warped, but I don’t care. See, there’s perfection in the imperfection.

  I storm down the block to Birch Coffee, and as I enter, I listen to Asher’s message. The baristas wave at me and begin to prepare my half-caf americano with an extra shot of decaf and oat milk. It’s the coffee I’ve learned to drink, not the one I like.

  “I’ve been thinking about you. I’d really like to see you again. I’m judging a competition this weekend in Guerneville, and then I have a dinner in Healdsburg. I’d love for you to join me. Separate hotel rooms, of course. Come and let me show you my Cali.”

  We spoke last week, and he invited me to Tahoe. I felt that was presumptuous, and I didn’t know how to deal with something that spontaneous. He’s a gentleman. It’s not a text or an email. No one’s swiping anything. It’s a call, with a message. A voice telling me he was thinking about me. Fuck Melissa for getting in my head. I can be spontaneous.

  “Well, hello. That was faster than I thought you’d respond. How are you?”

  “Asher, I’m well. Yes.”

  “Yes! You’ll come to visit me? That’s wonderful.”

  “Separate rooms would be lovely. Thank you.”

  I grin that he wants to be with me enough to withstand my strangeness of not jumping in bed with him. Other than googling him and sharing some frozen hot chocolate, I don’t know him.

  “I’ll fly in on Friday afternoon,” I continue. “I’ll even leave work early.”

  His voice is excited and a little squeaky. I think it’s charming. “That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. Do you want to give me your credit card number to book your room? How about adjoining rooms with a living room at the Hotel Healdsburg?”

  “I can call.” I don’t need a man to do this for me.

  “You’ll need to get a car and drive north. Is that okay? And there’s a wonderful dinner just for us on Sunday night, you’ll have to go back on Monday.”

  I never take a day off. I haven’t been on vacation in about eight years. So, hell yeah, I can take a Monday off. “Okay! Okay. I’m really doing this. I’m really going away with a stranger. And taking a vacation day.”

  “I’m not that strange. But I am incredibly happy to see you in four days.”

  I hyperventilate a bit. I’m doing this. This is something I’m doing. I need to buy shoes. Shopping. I’m good at shopping. “Bye, Asher. Thank you for the invite.”

  “You’re quite welcome, lovely.” My stomach turns a little into something like new nervous knots.

  Chapter Three

  Noelle

  We’ve talked five times this week. Long getting-to-know-you conversations. My lips tingle when I am thinking of kissing him. I’m hoping we can improve upon the first one. It was a bit juicy. I do need a good kiss, and I think with a little coaching he’ll improve.

  I’m arriving in Northern California just before bud break. Asher explained that it’s when all the tight little green buds of future grapes burst open. The leaves are small so it looks almost like the vines are covered in green popcorn. The drive up here is breathtakingly beautiful. Over the Golden Gate and then up into these rolling hills. The vines are covered with tiny little bright green leaves and small flowers that over the next six months will become grapes. The landscape is lush and sensual.

  In the elevator up, I think of his sexy speckled hair. We chatted facts this week, he’s divorced, no children but is open to the idea. His ex is in Europe, so I won’t have to deal with her. He was very upfront about kids. It’s refreshing and shocking to entertain those thoughts.

  No one discusses having children in New York. Conversations center around: new cocktails, politics, parties you missed, parties you attended, music, theater, new restaurants, bad restaurants, restaurant closings, potholes, streets to avoid and what new exhibits are opening. But having children seems to be a passing thought for when we all inevitably buy something in the Hudson River Valley, not for dating in Manhattan.

  It’s hard not to anticipate sex when you fly across the country to a luxury hotel, and he continually speaks of your beauty. We have three nights. I would like there to be sex. Oh, god. I hope he wants to have sex with me. This is a second date. We didn’t just meet so my rules allow for some fun naked time. Which has been sadly missing from my life lately. He’ll be working most of tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll explore by myself.

  The door’s ajar, and he’s standing by an open balcony door in a living room area. He’s wearing a forest green cashmere sweater and gray creased wool herringbone pants. His Gucci loafers kicked off to the side, and he’s wearing socks that match his top. The color is darker than my emerald eyes, but I do love green. He’s sipping something ruby in hue. I drink him in before he sees me. I quietly put my coat down and sneak up behind him. I wrap my arms around this man that I’ve only known for one evening.

  “Ah. Now, this is perfect.” He places his hand over mine. Then he grabs them and spins within my arms.

  “Hi. Whatcha drinking?”

  “2014 Hendry Red.”

  “And it’s just red. I thought it had to be a thing?”

  “It’s a Bordeaux blend, which is the combo—”

  I interrupt him. I tend to geek out over research. “A blend of five grapes that grow in that region in France. But it’s not a Claret, which just means a red from that region or a Meritage, which must be a blend of at least two Bordeaux grapes with no one varietal being more than ninety percent of the blend. It can be a white wine as long as the grapes line up!”

  “Hmmm. If you know all my secrets, how I will impress you? If you know the magic five noble varietals, I’ll give you a prize.” He leans down, brushing his lips softly to my ear and says, “And trust me, you want this prize.”

  I don’t hesitate. I memorized it an hour ago. “Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Merlot, Malbec and Petit Verdot, whatever that is.”

  He backs up. “How did you learn that in a couple of days?”

  “It’s two cabs, two m’s, and a pv.”

  “Clever.”

  I lean into him. He looks down to me and tentatively takes my lips. I push forward, hoping to get a more scintillating kiss out of him. My arms get little goosebumps as he runs his hands down my neck and into my h
air. He pulls down my messy bun, and I moan a little. It’s a problem I have, I moan. My chest and cheeks are flaming flushed. It’s my skin’s curse, and it’s been a while since I was with a man.

  I whisper to him, “Do we have anywhere to be?” I’d like to explore this man’s mouth a bit more.

  “Unfortunately, we need to be at a dinner in thirty minutes, and I need a shower.”

  “Me too. But not together.”

  He laughs at how I’ve flipped back to chaste. I don’t like to shower with people, ever. And shower sex is a joke. It’s always sexier in movies than reality. I have a particular way I wash my hair and body. Nobody in the shower, it’s one of my rules. He points to a door that connects to this suite. I assume that’s my room.

  He kisses me. He’s sensuous and soft, but it’s still a sloppy kiss, and his tongue seems to need more direction. Good thing I like making sure everything is just so. His tongue is one big pillow. I’ve seen him command a room, but so far, he’s not like that with intimacy. Perhaps I could use a little soft in my life.

  He’s sitting in the living room waiting for me. I check and recheck my makeup. I’d like to look perfect. We’re dining with one of his clients tonight, and I want to make a good impression. I’ve pulled my hair into a French twist and am wearing my mother’s emerald earrings. They complement the short silk dress I’m wearing. It’s a vibrant Persian blue and makes me feel glamorous. I slide on my silver sparkly three-inch Jimmy Choo heels. They pinch but are totally worth it. And now I feel like an Amazon at five-foot-eight.

  My blonde hair, peaches-and-cream skin, and my eyes to match the dress all came together perfectly. Sex with this man is a probability, even though it’s been something I’ve avoided in recent history. It’s not that I don’t like it; I just don’t have the time to invest in my heart. The longest and most destructive relationship ended when I found my ex-business partner and ex-fiancée fucking our new assistant on my desk. An image I try to scrub from my mind even after eight years.