by Claire Adams
“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 relationship 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.”
“Annabeth?” Mrs. Weinstock howls.
Oh, great. Annabeth’s going to kill me for that one.
“I can come back,” I tell her.
“You’re all going to leave me!” Mrs. Weinstock cries, and with that, she’s overplayed her part.
“Oh, will you stop it? You’re a grown woman. People get hired, people leave. That’s just the way it goes. You can’t guilt everyone into doing whatever you want them to do.”
Her expression changes in an instant. “You don’t talk to me that way,” she barks. “I am your superior, and you will address me with proper decorum.”
“You know what? I am so sick of all the crap you people pile on me every time I come into work. I’m just trying to do my job and do it well, but every single time one of you asks me to see you in your office, I want to throw up, and you, Mrs. Weinstock, you’re the worst one of all with your whole grandmother act. You know what you are?”
“What am I?” she asks, and I think we’ve gotten a little off topic.
I let my temper simmer for a beat.
“You are someone who asked me into her office to tell me something, and I’ve got a feeling you haven’t told me half of it yet. If you bombed my chances with Claypool and Lee, fine, I’ll find something else, but I’d just like to know so I can stop putting your name on my resumé.”
“For your information, I gave you a glowing review, and I called you in here to tell me that I was their last call. The job is yours if you want it, although I sure don’t envy them putting up with your behavior.”
“Maybe if you—wait, what? I’m hired?”
“The man told me to have you give him a call when you had a free moment and they’re going to work out a time to get you in for training.”
“I’m hired?”
She goes to respond, but the suddenness and volume of the “Woo!” that comes out of me overpowers anything she might be trying to say.
Chapter Fourteen
Lightly Baked with Just a Dash of Salt
Dane
It only took an hour for Wilks to show his talent as the new executive chef of l’Iris. By the time dinner service started to slow down, there was really nothing left for me to do that couldn’t be done just as well by someone else, and I offered to give Wilks the kitchen.
Apparently, his first name is Jared.
I never really bothered to learn that kind of thing, but it’s his kitchen now.
After the discussion with Wrigley and obligatory coital session that followed, I started to feel a little bit better. Still, it’s going to be a little weird going home tonight.
Maybe Leila’s out with her new boyfriend. Before I’m even to the door of the apartment, though, I can hear her inside singing along to some pop song.
I can’t just hide from her forever, so I unlock and open the door. Once it’s closed, I decide that maybe I can just hide from her forever, and I make it to my room without alerting her to my presence.
My phone’s in my hand a few seconds later.
“Hello?”
“Wrigley, I don’t know what I’m doing here. This whole thing is so uncomfortable. I don’t think I can go through with it.”
“You’ve got to talk to her, Dane,” my new girlfriend says. “I’m not opening up the candy store until you’ve figured out what this is between the two of you.”
That was the agreement before I left for work this morning, but it’s making less and less sense with every passing moment.
“She’s with someone,” I say.
“Right now? The guy’s there?”
“No,” I answer. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him when I came in.”
“Wait, you’re not hiding in your room like a little bitch, are you?”
“She’s out there doing jazzercise and singing along with shit off the radio.”
It’s a while before Wrigley’s done laughing.
“She’s in a good mood,” she says finally. “Now is as good a time as any.”
“Why am I doing this again?”
“Because,” she answers, “I don’t want to start an exclusive relationship with someone whose heart isn’t into it. This is strange enough for me, I’m not about to jump in further if there’s nothing but undertow.”
“But—”
“I know it’s probably nothing,” she says, “but on the off chance that it’s something, you need to talk to her and see where you stand.”
“Can we be in a relationship, but you go back to being callous and sex-crazed?” I ask.
It’s too much to hope. She just laughs and hangs up.
Wrigley was right about one thing, though. Sneaking into my bedroom, closing the door, and calling wasn’t really the strongest move I could have made.
There’s nothing left for me to do but go out there and see what I feel when I do.
I open the door and about startle the shit out of Leila.
She turns off the radio, shouting, “Jesus, Dane, when did you get home?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” I start. “There’s something I need to talk to you about—”
“You’re n
ot going to believe this,” she starts, a look of excitement on her face.
“What?” I ask.
“I got the job!” she exclaims, turning the radio back on.
“That’s great!” I say with a smile. “What job?”
“That’s right, I didn’t tell you,” she says. “I’ve been putting out my resumé for a while now, but I hadn’t heard anything back. Today, I got the call, well one of my bosses got the call, but that doesn’t matter. I got hired on full-time at Claypool and Lee! I start in a couple of weeks!”
“Claypool and Lee?” I ask.
She flips the radio off again.
“Oh, right,” she says. “I probably should have run this by you.”
“What?”
“The job’s in Jersey,” she says. “I’ve got to start looking for places.”
“New Jersey,” I say. “Wow. So, what happens—”
“I’m not just going to kick you out,” she says. “I’ll talk to Traven and see if we can get you put on the lease as the primary. I know the place is kind of pricey, but I’m sure you could find a roommate.”
That’s not what’s making me feel like I’ve been hit in the stomach with a baseball bat.
Wrigley was right. There’s no doubt about it.
I’ve got a thing for my roommate and it’s a big one. I’m not even making a penis joke there, that’s how serious this is.
“Check this out,” she says. “I’m going to be working with some of the best financial minds in the country, and after five years, they’re going to give me my own team. They’re putting me on track to be a partner someday, you know, if I don’t screw it up in the meantime.”
“Oh, you won’t screw it up,” I tell her. “You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I don’t mean to just bail on you, but this is really the opportunity of a lifetime for me.”
“I’m happy for you,” I tell her. “Really, I am.”
“Then why do you look like you just got hit in the stomach with a tire iron?”
I almost correct her, as the visual in my head was very clearly a baseball bat with a bunch of nails driven through the end, but the amount of explanation involved there is just too much.
“Well, I guess that just about does it,” I tell her.
“No, seriously,” she says. “What’s wrong?”