Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

by Julie Olivia

  “Okay, let’s just ignore the fact that I asked to pay for your drink,” he says.

  “No, really,” I say quickly, “I’m getting emails from work. I should go.”

  Owen’s shoulders slump a bit, heavy and arched over as he yet again runs a hand through his hair, throwing his part over to the other side. I’m starting to notice that the poofier his hair looks, the more stressed he seems.

  I gather my things, curling my arms into the straps of my backpack. When I stand to push my chair in, his hand hesitates for a moment, hovering over his keyboard as if trying to find something to do, a way to look busy or distract himself. Or maybe I’m just projecting my own insecurities as my hands fiddle with my bag’s hanging straps.

  I move toward the door and he shifts in his seat, turning at the waist and letting his large arm hang over the back of the chair. It falls over so easily, his watch gently caressing the inside of his palm.

  “See you at the next meeting?” Owen asks, the words coming out fast.

  I look down at him, his eyes widened in something resembling hope and wonder, like a child eager to open the next present or, more simply, the look of a man excited for a second date.

  When I was a child, my mother would tell me it was always possible to turn down a date as long as you did it with the grace of a woman. Men do not own you, just like my father had no agency over her interests. She wanted to be an artist. She said she had a fantasy of being a world-class painter who would spend every morning looking out on a balcony in Italy, creating brush strokes in the nude.

  I think she got that fantasy from a Nicholas Sparks novel, and unfortunately, my father is not Ryan Gosling in any shape or form. Given their current state of separation, my mother made that quite clear. He left, but she wanted him to leave, so who was really in the wrong?

  But, despite this, I still find myself taking her advice as sage. She used to tell me, “Frannie, you need to find a man who makes you feel alive and curious. If he can’t do that, have nothing to do with him.”

  I was given very clear instructions. So, while I want to say ‘No, thank you’ in the politest tone possible that my mother instilled in me, I simply can’t do it. Elijah Owen makes me curious. His dark brown eyes find me, and I want to fall into them like Alice down the rabbit hole, feet flying behind me and heart falling with them.

  “We’re partners, aren’t we?” I say.

  Owen’s returning smile at my response is slow, lazy, but gorgeous and wonderful all at once.

  “I’ll see you next week then,” he says.

  “Yes” is all I can get out before leaving the café to the sound of its dinging bell.

  9 Francesca

  Three swift knocks on my door are all I need to know who is on the other side. I walk to it, swinging it open to find the old lines and crinkled edges of a familiar face—complete with an endearing, somewhat mischievous smile.

  “Let’s get dinner,” Lara says before we can even exchange pleasantries.

  “I can’t tonight,” I say. “I have a meeting.”

  Her chin crumples beneath her exaggerated frown. She looks like the famous photograph of an old woman wearing a headscarf that might be labeled something like ‘The Longing’ or ‘Babushka.’

  “That explains the makeup,” she says.

  My admittedly red-stained lips purse.

  When I lift an eyebrow in response, her large brows furrow inward, the wispy greys creating a tent over where there was a solid effort to brush on some blue shadow of varying shades. The frown disappears and is replaced by the deepening of a small, barely noticeable dimple in the side of her cheek. It’s the dimple that only shows up when she’s putting all her effort into making you feel bad. The dimple of guilt. In the past week, I’ve learned it well.

  When she sees I’m unrelenting, she whines, “But, my old bones need company!”

  I throw my hands in the air and roll my eyes playfully, walking back into my apartment and giving her room to follow. “Well I can’t live off fish documentaries forever. I need to get out some.”

  Lara has recommended a total of ten various sea documentaries to me throughout the past week. I have watched three, ranging from marine care to theme park treatment all the way to last night’s selection, in which an old action movie star narrated over clips of penguins waddling for two and a half hours. I can’t complain and I’m not against the old woman’s recommendations, but the movies—and Lara—are not a substitute for interacting with Owen. Though they may as well be.

  I’ve received more movie recommendations from Lara than I have messages from Owen since last week. The only text exchanges have consisted of each of us asking questions directly related to penetration testing—of the less fun variety—and nothing more.

  I’m not sure what game he’s playing at because last I checked, Owen had offered to buy me a drink only a few days ago. Am I misinterpreting what he wants? This is the question that keeps me up at night as my television projects images of calm sea creatures swimming through the ocean, the reflection pasted on the window to my fire escape beside my couch. I zone out to the scenes in my head like some manic dream I can’t escape from.

  Why? Because he wants to buy me a drink, and I’m acting like a right tosser.

  I can’t help myself with Owen. I can’t stop the sarcasm and banter darting out of my mouth, one defense mechanism striking after another. It’s my natural interaction with men, and it doesn’t help that he’s just as talented at quipping right back, as easy as fitting a jagged piece into my unfilled puzzle.

  Games layered upon games and, unfortunately, I like to play.

  “Is this Emma’s group you’re going to again?” Lara asks.

  She’s already filling a glass from my filtered water container. I still don’t know a lot about Lara. I don’t know whether she’s a mother or a grandmother or what she does during the day. She mostly stops in during lunch. An enigma of an old woman, she’s nearly as aggravating as Owen is, like a requirement of growing up in New York is a sharp tongue and vigor. All I really know is that she smells like hard candy and downs soda faster than a teenager. It’s amazing she still has the teeth she does. But like anything with Lara, I don’t even know if they’re real. She doesn’t share much outside of her love for marine life. If I had to guess, I’d say she was a marine biologist before retirement, but once again, who knows?

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hackers Anonymous and whatnot.”

  Lara’s eyebrows rise to her forehead, wrinkling every visible plane along the way, and she nods slowly. “Is that the group name?”

  The edge of my mouth jolts to the side in an ‘uh oh’ gesture. Was I not supposed to give away the secret identity? Is this some Justice League Fortress of Solitude deal?

  “Oops, I guess with anonymous in the name, I shouldn’t have said anything. Mum’s the word.” But my apology is overshadowed by a ding from the calendar event on my computer reminding me of the meeting.

  One hour until I see Owen again.

  The countdown makes me want to bang my head against the wall, but then I might ruin my perfectly red lips and winged eyeliner.

  Lara chuckles, deep and knowing like the remnants of a life well lived. I like that about her.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she says, refilling the filtered pitcher back to the top. I also like that about her, that casual conscientiousness.

  I pick up my mobile from the counter in some nervous tick, unlocking it to see no new alerts outside of the calendar event. I’ve noticed I do that a lot lately—check my phone, I mean. I’ve considered asking myself what’s wrong with me, why I’m obsessing over attention from a man I have no intention of seriously pursuing, but to ask such an open-ended question of myself given years of mistreatment from David would mean opening a can of mental worms I’d prefer remained tightly shut.

  As I’m holding it, it vibrates again, and I almost knock over the glass of water Lara scooted across the island toward me.

  My heart
rides the roller coaster of wanting it to be Owen, but instead I see the shining face of my cousin smiling back at me, requesting a video call. I haven’t heard from her in a couple days, so I tilt the screen over to Lara.

  “Mind if I take it?” I ask.

  She waves her hand, as if she’s been my roommate for years rather than a neighbor only recently on visiting terms. How New York; she’s like my very own Phoebe Buffay.

  I answer the call. Natalie’s brilliantly red cheeks, no doubt loaded down by blush, radiate through the phone. It’s dark all around her except for the light from the screen rebounding off her face. It must be well into the late night over in London, and Natalie likes to party.

  I open my mouth to ask where she’s been, but she catches me first.

  “Woah-ho!” she says, her brown eyes widening. “Hotty totty! Where are you going?”

  “A group,” I deadpan, stealing a glance at Lara, whose old lady smile beams back at me. Okay, so maybe I did put on a bit more makeup than necessary. I tear off a paper towel and pat over my face, hoping to lessen the extreme contour. A Kardashian I am not.

  Natalie’s eyes widen more, and she lowers her loud voice to a hushed tone—at least as hushed as she can get. “Oh, sorry, do you already have a sexy friend there?”

  “No, it’s Lara.”

  “Oh my god, the old lady!” Natalie says, her long arms visible in the angle and a heavy wave of her free hand following. “So you did make friends! So proud!”

  “She’s not spending time with me, though,” Lara grunts. “I have no dinner.”

  “Ooh, I’ll get dinner with you if you’re up for a virtual date!”

  That’s Natalie—ever the social butterfly.

  “Honey, I live for virtual dates.”

  “No lucky man tonight?” I ask. I recognize the pub behind her and the crowd of dispersing people. I’m oddly calmed to see no fellows following closely, though, hit or miss, she still seems to be in good spirits.

  “No. And what about you, girlie?” she asks. “I see that red lippie. You don’t fool me!”

  I exhale heavily and with unnecessary force, brandishing my glass of water like a drunk consoling his booze.

  “Hey, sometimes I like a red lip!”

  “No, you’re dolled up for someone.”

  “More like something,” I say. “I’m going to some local hacking group.”

  Natalie’s eyes narrow before looking both ways. “That sounds serial killer-y.” I say nothing in response, eliciting her taunting smile. “Oh, right, the penetration!”

  Lara practically spits out her water with laughter. I wonder if Schrodinger’s dentures will follow.

  “No, hacking as in…ugh, whatever.” I put my cup back on the table. “It’s just networking. I’m ‘getting out there’, as you put it.”

  “What do you even do?” Natalie asks.

  I think about the texts between Owen and me again, the direct technical questions followed by short responses. No flirtation. No smileys or winky faces. Not even a stupid cat meme—and, if I recall correctly, I was promised a cat newsletter.

  “Share ideas,” I answer with a small shrug. “Solve issues. That sort of mess.” When I look to Lara, she’s glancing away with furrowed eyebrows. It’s like she’s trying not to eavesdrop out of politeness.

  “Boring,” Natalie says, drawling out the word. “But, hey, if you’re into it, then I support it.”

  “It’s nothing, really,” I say, tossing off the subject more because I can feel the thoughts of Owen resurfacing again. “I don’t even know what we’re doing tonight.”

  “Looks like I’m having dinner with you,” Lara says from behind me. Natalie shouts a word of agreement, and I have no doubts they will in fact be exchanging numbers before this call is over. I switch from the call to the text I just received, and my stomach rolls over, playing as dead as a dog learning new tricks.

  Prick McGee: Save you a standing area?

  When I smile, I check behind me. Lara’s practically standing over my shoulder already—nosy old bat—one grey eyebrow lifted, and her lips in a straight line. The edges twitch, betraying her and showing the obvious interest in my social life.

  “Bugger off,” I mutter with a smile.

  “What was that?” Natalie’s voice chimes through the phone. “Hey, what happened? Why are you paused?”

  I rotate back to the call. I forgot the video gets fuzzy to indicate you’re on another screen. Video calls have no chill, much like Natalie.

  “Oh, please, let me give you all of my undivided attention,” I moan sarcastically.

  “As it should be,” she croons.

  That placates her enough, but the sneaking smirk from Lara tells me I’m bollocks at hiding my inner thoughts, even from a newbie friend like her. Maybe it’s all the life she’s experienced. She’s likely seen enough women overwhelmed by a man’s charm to know when one is stuck between a rock and a hard place—a hard place dominated by the imagery of a potentially massive knob.

  Do not like Owen, I mentally tell myself. Don’t you do it.

  I’m a liar, even to myself.

  10 Owen

  Did I need to text Fran the past few days? No. Did I do it anyway? I never said I was a smart man.

  Fran has made it quite clear she doesn’t want to date me, but she’s also my partner in this weird meet-up that Emma is now mentioning almost daily.

  I try to distract myself with work. I’m taking clients faster than I’m accustomed to, getting less sleep but attempting to shift my priorities the best I can. I rarely get stuck on tasks, but when I do, I’m finding my first instinct is to see whether Fran can solve yet another mystery.

  Fran asked if strong women intimidate me, but god if she only knew how much they wind me up. Every clever response and quick jab at the ego is enough to send me reeling. I don’t want a woman who laughs at my jokes without restraint. I want a woman whose laugh is earned. I want the woman I have to work to get.

  I crave a challenge. It’s why I chose this career. I’m curious. I’m passionate. I’m hungry, and right now I want Francesca on my menu.

  In my rational mind, I know she isn’t interested in anything beyond occasional café visits and the weekly meeting. It’s not my prerogative to convince her otherwise. Being around her is intoxicating enough. But when I finally see her descend the stairs into the musty hotel basement on Thursday, I’m struck by the selfish wondering of What if?

  Her hair is tied tight in a ponytail with the choppy bangs brushed straight on her forehead. Her lips are bright as cherries, a color I have yet to see on her; it’s stimulating and bold. And then there are those boots—the ass-kicking boots that offset her good girl dress.

  Fran sees me before I can wave her over, arms crossing with a smile. I almost wish Emma were here to soften the tension that shouldn’t exist between Fran and me, but I’m also thankful she’s busy rearranging the remaining snacks with Randy. I want Fran all to myself, and the thrill is equal parts exciting and self-loathing.

  “I at least expected you to make a friend by the time I got here,” Fran says, scuffing her boot as if announcing her presence.

  “Trying to pawn me off on someone?”

  “I could only be so lucky.”

  There is electricity, a tug between us like telephone poles connected by wires ready to spark.

  “How was your week?” she asks.

  “You heard the worst of it.”

  “Only a couple issues and that’s your week?” Her eyebrows rise to her hairline. “Wow, I should start a business if it’s that easy.”

  I chuckle, biting my cheek to prevent a wider grin. She’s so feisty, so uncontrollable and offensive.

  “I’d like to see you own a business.”

  “And why’s that?” she asks.

  “Clients would scramble to have you as their pentester,” I say.

  Fran laughs, the sound tinkling like bells in the wake of her amusement. She looks off to the side. Her bottom lip
slips inside her mouth, and the bite makes my chest tighten. It’s silent before she arches an eyebrow at me, sharp and determined in its raise.

  “Is that how tonight is going?” she asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Compliments?” she asks.

  I didn’t mean to have it come off as one, but then again, I’m having a hard time controlling any aspect of myself around her.

  “Oh, no, that’s the only one you get,” I say, making her laugh again.

  “Ah good, insults are more my speed. You know, it’s surprising you don’t know more people here with your impeccable wit,” she says.

  “I’m not much of a people person.”

  Her head tilts to the side. “And I wonder why.”

  The implication is there, but I don’t take offense. The joke doesn’t hurt as much as the truth that most of my friends have moved on since high school or college. The few who keep in touch are only over text or through an online group consisting of all the guys who lived on our hall freshman year. My only continued friendship is Ryan, but that’s more complicated than a simple buddy-buddy phone call.

  “I can make friends if I want to, okay?” I say with a small laugh, shoving my hands in my pockets and disliking the gesture the second I do it. It seems bashful, and dammit, I’m not bashful. “I’m satisfied with my level of friendships right now.”

  “Sure,” she says, dragging out the words as if in disbelief, but her smile says otherwise.

  “I don’t see you talking to anyone else,” I say, waving my hand out to the crowded room.

  “I also haven’t lived here my whole life,” she shoots back.

  “Hey, I like who I like,” I say, smiling. “It’s not a lot of people, but the ones who have stuck around are pretty rock solid.”

  Fran smiles back, slow and steady but bright like the sun. “I can appreciate that.”

  Sometimes there’s silence between Fran and me, but it’s enjoyable. Entrancing.

  “Do you have many friends back home?” I ask.