by Cate Lawley
He found that directing his full concentration to the task at hand let her signals fade into white noise. His intent concentration might explain how time had sped by and lunchtime had crept up on him.
“Hey,” Zelda’s voice came from just inches behind him.
Mark pivoted to face her, hammer still in hand. “Hey. I think you got a little sun.”
She placed the back of her hand against her cheek. “Yeah. I didn’t think about sunscreen or a hat. I’m not usually out in the sun this long. What?” She shrugged. “It’s central Texas. It’s hot. Why would I stay outside in sweltering heat?”
“Yeah. No Helping Hands for you in the summer.” He motioned to the area where they would return their gear and started heading that way. They’d signed up for four hours, and lunch was the end of their assignment.
Zelda trotted to catch up. “Again, it’s central Texas. When is it not summer?”
“Not true. There’s at least a month of fall, and some years we have a good two or three months of spring.”
“Hmm.” She didn’t sound convinced. Clearly, Zelda was an air-conditioner-loving summer hermit. After she returned her hammer and apron, she said in a quiet voice, “This would be faster with a nail gun.”
Not quiet enough, because the volunteer collecting their tools, said, “And you’re trained on how to use a nail gun?” He smiled kindly, so the question didn’t sound as snarky as it might have.
Zelda pointed a finger at him and said, “Excellent point, sir.”
The volunteer winked at her.
Mark did a double-take. Who winked? Maybe it was an involuntary tic. “Thanks. We’ll see you next time.” Not that he knew the guy, it was just something to say, so he could politely leave and take Zelda with him—preferably before the volunteer hit on her.
They walked in silence down the driveway before Zelda spoke. “That guy was hitting on me, right?”
“Weirdly and awkwardly, but I think yes. Are you into retirees?”
Zelda paused and looked to the right. “I think I’m parked that way. Um, no. That’s actually on my dating list. Cannot be old enough to be my father.”
“You have a list.”
“Of course. Every girl has a list, whether she admits it or not. It could be something simple like: must be kind to children and small animals, cannot be a convicted war criminal, and must bathe with some consistency.”
Mark laughed. “I think that most people fulfilling item one would automatically fulfill item two.”
“Not necessarily. And you have to admit, I make a valid argument. There’s always something that’s a deal killer and something that is a must-have.”
“Conceded. How about I take you to lunch, and you can tell me what your deal killers are?”
A spike of anxiety pierced the pleasant white noise he’d managed until that point. Odd. He’d hardly pressured her, and lunch wasn’t a date. Okay, lunch wasn’t always a date.
Mark quickly added, “Or not.” He shifted away a few inches to the left, the direction of his parked car.
“That’s incredibly annoying.”
Mark shifted his weight back and met her eyes. “Sorry, what’s annoying?”
She frowned at him. “You ask me something then don’t let me answer. It’s really annoying.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I have this weird superpower.” Mark would swear she perked up when he said “superpower.” “I can read body language really well. So sometimes…” He shrugged.
“Sometimes you act like you can read people’s minds?” She blinked repeatedly as the sun hit her eyes.
He shifted to the side so she wasn’t blinded, and he realized she’d done something with her eye make-up the night they’d met. Her natural lashes were shorter than he remembered, straight, and dark. Prettier, he thought, than the sweeping lashes and heavy eye make-up she’d worn before. “Would you like to grab a bite? I’m happy to drive, and I can drop you back at your car after we’re done.”
And, surprisingly, she said, “I would love to.”
“So, about that list…?”
Zelda fiddled with the straw in her iced tea, avoiding Mark’s question. She’d hoped he would forget the whole list thing since they’d made it all the way through lunch without mention of it. When she thought about how that list had changed over the last few years, tracking her hopeful and naïve dreams of stumbling across the “perfect” man to her current and somewhat less ambitious stance, it was embarrassing.
“Unless you’d rather not discuss it. I didn’t mean to pry.”
She almost growled. By the look on Mark’s face, a grumble or two might have slipped out.
Mark raised his hands. “Sorry. It’s hard not to respond. You’re really easy to read.”
“Seriously, though. People are complex. Meaning, we can experience more than one emotion. At the same time.” She gave him a significant look. “Let a girl get to the tail end of a thought, maybe.”
Mark’s lips twitched, but his relaxed posture didn’t change. She didn’t seem to fluster him nearly as much as he did her. Also annoying.
Since he was now patiently waiting for her response, it seemed rude not to share. “All right then. It’s pretty short. Alive, not old enough to be my dad, a physical appearance I could be attracted to, and—” She tried to think of an innocuous version of magical. “Someone with shared interests or history.”
He quirked an eyebrow as she quickly added the last item. He didn’t mention her hesitation, just said, “Alive, huh? Good to know where you stand on the whole zombie question.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. Everyone should give the zombie apocalypse serious consideration. “I won’t date the undead, zombies included, no matter how desperate I may be or how charming my prospective rotting suitor. And I’ve got a zombie apocalypse survival plan.”
“Charming zombies? I’m not sure that’s a picture I can wrap my head around.” Mark seemed to consider the idea. “No, sorry. As for your other requirements—of course the age restriction I knew about. And a girl should be able to kiss her boyfriend without cringing; that’s an individually subjective but essential item to every woman’s list, I would think.” He stopped in that deliberate, unhurried way of his then picked up again. “Shared interests? I get it; it’s just broad. What exactly are the interests that this mystery man should be sharing with you?”
She almost said flower arranging, but stopped herself. He’d been open with her and deserved more than a flippant response. “I guess it’s less about interests than shared culture.”
“A guy who’s from the area, doesn’t like the heat, and believes in Zombies. Sound about right?”
“Sure. Or is familiar with the area and happy to stay local for the foreseeable future and is okay with me not liking the heat. Oh, but the Zombie thing, that’s a deal killer.”
“So really what you’re saying is that this guy has to be down with the existence of Zombies—the rest is secondary.”
She laughed. “Okay. If you say so.” She looked him up and down, and then said, “I bet you’re prepared for the zombie apocalypse. You look like the type to be prepared for just about anything.”
He tensed—only for a brief moment—but she was sure. Then he smiled and said, “I bet I’d know if it was coming. Part of my superpowers.” He smirked and the moment of uncertainty was washed away, as if it had never been.
“We keep talking about me. You’re really good at winding the conversation back around in my direction. What about you?”
Mark cocked his head. Apparently she was going to have pull every bit of information out of him. Weird. Most guys she knew—heck, most people, talked about themselves with little prompting.
“Fine,” she said. “You were working when I saw you at the coffee shop. What do you do?”
Mark assumed an overly dramatic and obviously fake look of hurt. “I gave you my business card. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me up?”
“Are you saying you look
ed me up?”
His lips tipped up a little more on the right side, giving his smile a boyish charm. “I didn’t have your card.” He spread his hands wide. “No way to cyberstalk you.”
“Hmm. And again, you have avoided revealing anything about yourself. I did read your card, but consultant is pretty broad. What kind of consultant?”
“I help design and implement programs that improve employee-employer relationships. It’s a niche thing.”
He sounded dismissive—but she wouldn’t mind having some special knowledge that led to a job she could casually say was a “niche thing.” It might just be that Mark was a modest soul. Confident and modest? She’d probably look out the window and see flying pigs next. “Sounds cool. And I guess you telecommute a lot.” When he nodded in agreement, she added, “Now that is definitely cool.”
“No telecommuting for you? What is it you do?”
“Underpaid assistant to a guy who thinks I’m an intern. Basically.” She looked, but he didn’t seem to be shooting her covert judgy looks. “It’s a tough job market, and it’s better than being unemployed.”
“Yeah…”
And here it comes. “But?” she prompted.
“But you don’t sound like you enjoy it. And it doesn’t pay well—otherwise our newfound friendship would never have happened because you’d be touring the hostels of Europe with your buddy. And your boss sounds like he—or she?—lacks role-model potential. All in all, I don’t see your current position as a long-term plan. So, why not try to find something else?” He gave her a small, encouraging smile. “The best time to look is supposed to be when you’re already employed and not starving.”
“My boss is definitely a guy.” She fiddled with her straw again, stalling now that the one easy question was out of the way. He wasn’t saying anything her dad and Kitty didn’t periodically bring up. The difference was, she didn’t feel pressured or harassed like she did when they mentioned it. So she thought about what he’d said. And fiddled with her straw. And thought. And fiddled. Finally, she said, “Okay, I think that last bit is wrong. I think maybe I would have to be starving—metaphorically—to get up the courage to face the inevitable rejection. The job market is actually tough. And there’s this inertia going on. I get up. I go to work. I know what to expect. That’s hard to break, even if my expectations of what’s going to happen aren’t all that great.” She tried not to scowl when she looked up from her glass of tea. Talking about this stuff was hard—but that wasn’t his fault.
“That’s cool. Now you have a place to start from.”
“I don’t get it. What do you mean?”
“You know that you’re staying because you fear change. And that you’ll probably have to quit before you start up a serious job hunt or move to your next endeavor.”
Zelda blinked. Maybe she’d been in the sun too long, because she still didn’t get it. She flagged down the waitress. “Can I switch to water?” After the waitress had left, she said, “Move to my next endeavor? It’s like your mouth moves—”
“But we’re not speaking the same language. Ha ha. Seriously. You don’t have to work for someone else. You can freelance. You can start your own business. You can get a part-time job and freelance and start your own business.” He leaned forward a little. “You can do whatever you want.”
She looked at him like he was a crazy man…because he was a crazy man. “And bills? Rent? Food? Gas? Insurance?”
“If you’re interested, I can help you put together a spreadsheet.” He eased back against the booth cushions. “But really, that’s not the first step. What do you want to be when you grow up? What’s your dream job? Whether it’s a certain kind of work, a certain income level, a certain working environment, or a little of all of three, those are questions I’d be thinking about now. The possibilities.” His eyes had lit up like a boy in a candy store.
“I don’t think I find the possibilities quite as exciting as you do.” She winced. Why did she always feel so inferior when she had these conversations?
“Well—no rush. You have a job and you’re not starving—metaphorically or otherwise. Just let the idea of something else—of the possibilities—sit in the back of your brain for a while. You might surprise yourself. And if not, then maybe it’s time to think about how to make the job you do have a little more enjoyable or rewarding.”
She curled her lip and her shoulders slumped. “Ugh. It all sounds like so much work.”
“Right. Or you could just make inertia your best buddy. That works, too.”
“Uh-huh. I knew the judgy would pop up at some point. And there it is.”
He laughed and shook his head. “I’m not judging. It took me five years of crappy jobs to figure out what I wanted to do.”
Zelda squinted. “I don’t suppose you have especially good genes and are actually as old as my dad, are you? Because you seem freakishly together for the age you appear to be.”
“Would it matter?” He raised an eyebrow at her. “We’re just friends, so your list doesn’t apply.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Twenty-eight. Happy? Or would you prefer proof?” He reached for his wallet.
“Cute.” When his hand stopped, she said, “Oh, don’t let me stop you. You’ll need that to pay for lunch.” She smirked. “You’re the one with the fantastic job, remember?”
He didn’t blink. In fact, he looked quite pleased to pick up the tab.
Chapter 8
Zelda set her phone down next to her plate of scrambled egg whites, toast, and blueberries. She pushed the egg whites around on her plate—her dad’s response to their health conversation a few days ago—and slathered more butter on her toast. No need for her to suffer just because he was worried about developing a little squish in the middle.
“Dad, why did you take the reaper job?”
He pulled his head out from deep in the fridge to answer. “What?” He clutched an ancient jar of jam in his hand.
“Back when the old reaper approached you, we talked about transitioning into the world of magic, the move, what the consequences of taking the job would be, both for you and for me. But in the midst of all of the talking and the preparing, you never said why you took the job.” She gave him a stern look. “Don’t eat that. It’s probably growing something.”
He opened the jar and eyed the contents critically “Nah, it’s mostly sugar. It should be fine.”
“Stop. Throw it away. Seriously, Dad. I’ll buy some more jam—whatever kind you like. I’ll get it on the way home.”
He said, “Hmph.” But then he chucked the container into the garbage without another word. She’d been played.
“Maybe grab some of that fancy mustard I like so much while you’re there. And we’re almost out of eggs and milk.”
Oh, she had totally been played. “Yep. About the reaper job?”
“Where’s this coming from?” He topped off his coffee and joined her at the table.
“Hmm.” She took a bite of her buttery toast, and then mumbled past the food, “Thinkin’ ‘bout new job.”
“Heathen. Swallow and tell me again, because I’m sure I misheard you.” He dipped his dry toast in his coffee.
Her dad was a cool guy, reaper status notwithstanding. But some of his habits were seriously disgusting. She swallowed and took a drink of milk. “Who’s the heathen? That toast-coffee thing is nasty. You’re not getting any action if you do that in public.”
He tore off another piece of toast and dunked it. With the soggy bit of bread gripped in between two fingers, he said, “Sorry, what was that you were saying before?”
She sighed. He would dribble coffee and soggy bits of toast mess all over the table until she answered. “I might, again might, be considering the possibility of a new job.”
He popped another soggy combo of carbs and caffeine into his mouth. If she hurled at breakfast, it was his fault. After chewing and swallowing, then drinking coffee that must surely have floaty bits of gross in it,
he said, “Cool.” He stood up and walked to the sink, dumped out his coffee, and rinsed his mug.
Cool? Two years of nagging, and all he says is “cool?”
“I’ve got a work thing this evening, so you’re on your own for dinner, kiddo.”
“Right. No problem.”
He was out the door before she could tackle the elephants in the room. He hadn’t answered her question about why he became the reaper. And her dad wasn’t a secretive kind of guy. He was an open book, other than the stuff he was required to keep under wraps—all very specifically outlined in the employment contract he’d signed and she’d never seen. She’d thought he was an open book. Which brought up the second pachyderm: Dad always made it home for dinner; he never had work things in the evening. So what was this work thing?
The alarm on her phone buzzed, warning her she had ten minutes before she had to leave for work. Another unpleasantness about her job. She did absolutely nothing important or time sensitive, and yet she was in seriously deep doo if she showed up five or ten minutes late. Her job reminded her of high school, in all the bad ways. She shoveled a few bites of bland egg white into her mouth. She ate the rest of the butter-drenched toast as she walked upstairs to her bathroom. Mustn’t be tardy, or she might get detention.
Less than four hours later, Zelda sat in her car—her not-yet-paid-for car—in the parking lot of her office. Her former office. Her ex-office. The office that wasn’t hers.
She was in shock. Or maybe not shock, but maybe the aftermath of some kind of natural high. Or maybe her dad had slipped a hallucinogen into her milk that morning. She groaned. And the sky was green and the grass blue. She had to get a grip. She wasn’t making any sense.
Corinne from the office across the hall walked by, probably on her way to lunch. Zelda glanced at the clock. She’d been sitting in her car for over half an hour. It wouldn’t be much longer before the lunch rush made its way past her car. And unfortunately, today of all days, she had to get a good parking spot, front and center.