by Kelly Myers
He’s going to say something snide. I just know it.
Or something joking about how it was no big deal, I need to calm down and stop being so uptight.
I shouldn’t be so hurt, but I’m already sad about what he might say.
I sigh. It is what it is.
I open the message and read:
I understand, but I would still like to talk about it with you. Can we please talk in person?
I blink. No jokes. No nasty comment.
He just wants to talk. My stomach flips. I can’t talk to him. Not right now. I’ll have a complete come-apart.
If we talk, I’ll start yelling. Or crying. I press my hand to my forehead. I’m never this emotional, I don’t know what’s come over me.
I hold up my phone and text back:
I think it’s best if we just move forward.
I’m right. I know I’m right. What good will talking about it do except just mortify me further? I don’t want to discuss every single thing I did wrong.
I told him last night. I’m always moving.
My stomach sinks as soon as the text is sent. Michael isn’t going to let me push him around. He’s not going to just nod like a docile man and accept my orders.
All the other guys I dated were like that. They let me set the tone, and they let me boss them around, until they eventually got tired of it. That’s not Michael’s style.
If he wants to talk about it, he’s going to find a way to talk about it.
I curse. I’ll have to adjust my plan.
The best I can do right now is stall him. He said he understood the need for secrecy, so I can trust him to not blab about this at the office. We can have this talk he is so desperate for later. When I’m more composed. When I’ve processed this whole mess a bit more.
I grip my suitcase and head for the door. I’ll feel much better when I know he’s not a few yards away from me.
Right before I grab the handle, there’s a knock on the other side of the door.
“Zoe?” Michael calls. “Zoe are you in there?”
I clamp my mouth shut. Maybe if I’m silent, he will assume I’ve gone to the airport. Just when I think it’s working, my phone rings. Loudly.
It’s Michael calling me. I hit the reject button, but the damage is done.
“Ok, I know you’re in there,” Michael says.
His voice is light, almost teasing. How can he be so calm?
“Please open up,” he calls. “Please.”
I almost do it. Something about the way he says please. He’s always joking, always in charge of social situations, but no matter what, he’s polite. That’s the secret, I think. That’s why he’s so universally beloved.
But I remember that this isn’t right. I can’t open the door and look at his composed face. Because he’ll make me feel calm again, and like it’s no big deal, when it really is a big deal.
“Zoe, seriously,” Michael says. “Open up.”
His voice is firm now and a little bit louder. He’s not yelling, but I still wince at the raised voice. He’s getting impatient.
I press my hand against the door.
“Go away,” I say. “Michael, just leave me alone.”
I’ve never been polite. I’ve always been scared that if I say “please” people will think I’m a pushover. People will think they don’t have to follow my orders.
“I just want to make sure you’re ok,” he says.
He pauses, and I lean my forehead against the door. This is beyond awkward, but at least I don’t have to see his face.
“Are you ok?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m ok.”
I am ok. Sort of. I am mostly ok. Or rather, I will be ok if he could just shut up and do what I say.
“You’re not acting ok,” Michael says. “And I’m really sorry if I did anything to hurt your feelings, but you have to know that I didn’t plan what happened last night, but I don’t exactly regret it.”
Any positive feelings I had towards him burn away at my fury. Maybe he has good intentions, but he’s acting in a horrid manner. He is actually out in a hotel hallway blabbing about the night before where anyone can hear him. He clearly did not understand my text.
I see red as I yank the door open.
“Shut up,” I hiss. “Stop talking right now.”
I’m not screaming, but Michael takes a small step back at the sight of my face. His hair is all mussed, and he’s wearing a t-shirt and wrinkled pants. At least I can comfort myself with the fact that I’m pulled together.
“I just wanna talk,” he mutters.
I hold up my hand to silence him.
“Well, I don’t want to talk,” I say. “Because we both need to act like last night did not happen, for the sake of our jobs.”
“I think you may be overreacting,” he says.
The expression on my face makes him freeze. At least he knows when saying anything more will put him at risk of bodily harm.
I start to pull my coat on. I keep a firm grip on my suitcase so I don’t get tempted to slap him.
“I am not overreacting,” I say.
“I just meant that –”
“I don’t care what you meant,” I say.
I stand up as tall as I can and look him directly in the eye. Maybe I am a bit braver than I thought because my words come out clear and firm.
“Do not text me,” I say. “Do not call me, and do not follow me. I will see you on Monday, and we will discuss our client. And that is it.”
With that, I storm past him and head straight for the elevator. I get in and leave him standing in the hallway with his arms crossed.
As soon as I’m in the taxi to the airport, I start shaking.
I know that I’ve effectively stalled him, but I also know I’m not over.
I can tell when someone gives up. I know when I’m in total control.
And I was not in control in that hallway. Michael may have stopped talking, and he may have let me go, but he is not done with the conversation.
I could see it in his eyes. Underneath his shock at my anger and vague annoyance that I wouldn’t let him speak, he had a steely glint of determination.
I don’t know why he wants to push this. I don’t know what he wants or what he is even going to say.
But I do know that I am not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot.
11
It’s a Code Red Emergency. That’s what I text everyone. Code Red means it is so serious, we cannot meet in public. We need to hole up in someone’s apartment, possibly for an entire weekend.
My flight lands at O’Hare at half past noon. I’m back in my apartment by 1:30, allegedly working from home since it is a Friday. I’ll catch up later, now I need to tend to the more pressing matter of what the hell I’m going to do on Monday.
Marianne has the day off, so she announces that she is heading over to me immediately.
Elena says she’ll grab wine on her way over from the school around 4.
Beatrice says she’ll be over as soon as she gets out of work at 5.
I want to cry, I’m so grateful. I know Beatrice’s co-workers do a happy hour on Fridays, and Elena probably has essays to grade, and Marianne could certainly find an open mic to perform at, but they’re all dropping everything for me.
I can’t deny that I need the help though.
At the time, it felt empowering to tell Michael off. Like I was some vengeful goddess knocking him down a peg or two.
But now I’m pretty sure my dramatics have only made this mess much worse. Why couldn’t I just play it cool with him? Acted like it was no big deal but he should never speak of it again?
Something about Michael just gets under my skin and makes me act like a crazy person.
I occupy myself by unpacking. Nothing irks me more than leaving a suitcase or a pile of clothes in the middle of the floor for days on end.
This time, it’s hard to get satisfaction from my neat habits. Everything I pull out of
my suitcase is tainted by a memory.
The suit reminds me of how well our presentation went. How we worked together so well as colleagues. And then I ruined it all by craving more.
My computer just makes me think of how I’ll have to see Michael again in the office come Monday.
And the maroon dress. I hold it in my hands and stare into space as I recall how his hands moved up and down the fabric. How he unzipped it, and how I eagerly stepped out.
I want to blame Marianne for telling me to pack it, but I know that’s not fair.
I throw the dress in the laundry. I’ll probably never wear it again, which is a total shame, because I do look amazing in it.
I groan and turn back to my kitchen. I don’t deserve amazing dresses. I should have to sacrifice all my best outfits as penance. I need to be punished for my wanton behavior.
I roll my eyes. Now I’m talking to myself as if I’m a debutante in 1882 who had just engaged in some scandalous behavior and ruined her life forever.
Marianne will love that kind of drama, but I need to have a little perspective.
My life is not ruined. It is just in serious need of damage control.
Right on time, Marianne calls to say she is outside. I buzz her in, and a few minutes later, she’s bustling in the door, her eyes wide with concern.
“What the hell happened?” Marianne shrieks.
She pulls off her oversized wool coat, and her curly blonde hair spills over her shoulders.
I consider waiting for everyone to arrive so I only have to tell the story once. Then I dismiss that thought because I know I won’t be able to wait.
“I slept with Michael,” I say.
Marianne’s scream could shatter glass. I rush over to shush her.
“Oh my god,” she hisses. “I don’t believe it.”
I shake my head and collapse into my couch.
“You’re joking,” Marianne says. “This is a prank.”
I snort with disdain. I have never pulled a prank in my entire life. It’s Marianne and sometimes Beatrice who enjoy that sort of thing.
“I wish it was a prank,” I say.
“Oh my god,” Marianne says.
“Please say something else,” I say.
“Was it good?” she blurts out.
I wince.
“It was bad?” she asks.
I shake my head. Marianne furrows her brow.
“He was good?” she asks.
“He was incredible,” I say.
Marianne’s face is briefly illuminated with a mischievous light, but I goran and bury my head in my hands.
“It was still a mistake,” I say. “A very bad mistake that could derail my whole professional life.”
Marianne makes a sympathetic sound and puts her hand on my back. I let myself sink into her arms. It feels good to be comforted after such a nightmarish 24 hours.
Well. Not all of it was a nightmare. The sex was good, and I can’t deny that.
But it was dangerous. Being in Michael’s arms was risky. It wasn’t like hugging Marianne, who is safe and risk-free.
“We’ll figure this whole thing out,” Marianne says. “I promise.”
While we wait for Beatrice and Elena, Marianne and I discuss what food to order. Marianne caves to all my preferences, even though I want Taco Bell and she detests it. I know I should hate it too, but it’s a guilty pleasure.
We decide on Taco Bell appetizers, but we’ll get our main courses from Golden Wok Chinese. It’s unhealthy and junky and exactly what I need. Once we’ve planned out the perfect combination and even written it all down on a piece of paper (Marianne knows how much I love to do that), we move on to discussing possible TV shows to binge watch this weekend.
Marianne doesn’t press for details, but I can tell she is curious from the way she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
Elena and Beatrice arrive at pretty much the exact same time since Elena ended up getting held up at school.
When they see my grave face and Marianne’s serious grimace, they look at us with wide eyes.
“What happened?” Beatrice snaps, her mouth for once not quirked in a smile.
“Are you alright?” Elena asks.
I look at Marianne. I can’t say it out loud.
Marianne clears her voice and stands straight up, as if she was on stage at one of her performances.
“Zoe and Michael slept together,” Marianne says.
Elena lets out a little yelp of shock, and Beatrice’s eyebrows shoot halfway up her forehead.
“All I know,” Marianne continues. “Is that the sex was good, but the repercussions could be very, very bad.”
Elena’s jaw drops even further towards the floor. Beatrice twists her mouth into a wry smile. Then she grabs a bottle of wine from Elena and sets it on the counter.
“I’m guessing we’re gonna need this,” she says.
Within fifteen minutes, we’ve ordered the food and we’ve all got glasses of wine. It’s time for me to come clean about the whole thing. I can’t let Marianne speak for me.
“I don’t even know how it happened,” I say.
Elena nods, and I want to sob when I see how her eyes are brimming with sympathy.
“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” she says.
It’s probably something she says to her thirteen-year-old students. I love that she’s being so gentle and understanding, but I hate that I feel like some stupid middle-schooler.
I take a deep breath and begin. I tell them everything, from the small flirtation in the car, to the amazing meeting with the client, to the dinner I didn’t really want to go to.
“He read online reviews?” Beatrice asks when I get to that part.
I give her a look, and she halts with her commentary. I tell them about the dinner and how easy the conversation was, and how I got to know Michael better.
Then I tell them about the kiss and going back to his room.
“Wow,” Marianne says. “I have to be honest, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I glare at her.
“I’m not done,” I say.
I tell them about waking up the next morning and running away and how I told Michael we could never speak of it again, but how I was terrified he wasn’t going to let it go.
“So basically, I’m in trouble,” I say. “If this gets out at the office, I’ll never get promoted. It’s against the rules.”
They all nod. They know I’m crazy about rules, but they also know this isn’t just me overreacting. What happened in New York was a major indiscretion.
“Ok, first thing is, you need to stay calm,” Beatrice says. “Michael is clearly not going to be pushed around by you, so you need to keep your cool.”
She leans forward as she speaks. I soak up her words. Beatrice is a problem-solver at heart.
“I’m not exactly sure how you can ensure he stays quiet though,” Beatrice says.
She leans back and chews her lower lip as she thinks.
“Lie,” Marianne says. “Tell him you’ve got dirt on him and if he so much as hints that you and he got intimate, you’ll spill the beans on him.”
“But I don’t have dirt on him,” I say. “I can’t blackmail him without actually knowing anything.”
Marianne shrugs.
“Just say you’ve got pictures or something,” Marianne says. “I’m sure he’s had a wild night that ended with something scandalous. Just make him believe you know about it.”
“I’m not sure lying is the answer,” Elena interjects.
“Yeah, Marianne, this isn’t a spy movie or a play,” Beatrice says.
“It’s not lying,” Marianne says. “It’s manipulating the truth to serve your own needs.”
We all roll our eyes because we’ve heard it all before. To be fair, Marianne isn’t a complete liar, but she has a tendency to tell fibs to get out of trouble. Only she sticks to white lies. I can’t blackmail Michael at my place of work and
expect there to be no consequences.
“What does Michael think of all this?” Elena asks.
“I don’t know, and I am not about to ask him,” I say.
“Do you think he really might like you?” Beatrice says.
Marianne’s face lights up at the possibility of romance, but I frown at the thought.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We can’t date since we’re co-workers.”
Technically, we can, but we would have to notify the HR. Then, if either one of us got promoted, we would have to break up or one of us would have to move departments. But that’s neither here nor there, since we are never going to date, and if we did, I would never get promoted. And I’ll die before I have to watch Michael get promoted over me.
“Would you date him?” Beatrice asks. “If he wasn’t your co-worker.”
“No,” I say.
Beatrice only raises one eyebrow at me.
“No,” I say again. “He’s not my type.”
“You said the sex was good,” Marianne says.
“There is more to a relationship than that,” I say. “And it was just the adrenaline of the night and the thrill of breaking the rules.”
“I never thought I would hear you say that breaking the rules can be thrilling,” Beatrice says.
I roll my eyes.
“It was thrilling for about 5 seconds,” I say.
“Really?” Beatrice asks. “Only 5 seconds.”
We all burst into a peal of laughter at that, even me. I’ve always envied how Beatrice can find a way to crack a joke even in the most dire of circumstances. It’s because she had a rough childhood, which I do not envy of course, but it’s a useful skill.
Once our laughter fades, I sit up straighter and look at them.
“But seriously,” I say. “What am I going to do?”
“All my ideas involve sabotage,” Marianne admits. “Sorry to be the over-the-top one, but I work at a coffee shop, I don’t know how offices work.”
“Maybe it will work out,” Elena says. “It sounds like Michael is a lot nicer than you thought.”
“I didn’t say he was nice,” I say. “He’s not awful, but I wouldn’t call him a bastion of kindheartedness.”
“Ok, but he’s not a villain,” Elena says. “Maybe he’ll just stay quiet.”