by Kelly Myers
That’s what I tell myself anyway. Maybe I’m just coming up with excuses.
It is true though that we’re busy. I barely stop for lunch, and Michael is by my side the whole time, proposing ideas and helping to perfect the next phase of the merger.
I’m surprised when I look up and see that it’s almost dark. I look down at my watch. 5:05.
It’s just me and Michael in the conference room, putting some finishing touches on our work.
Michael leans back in his chair and stretches his arms above his head. It takes every ounce of willpower for me to not stare. I can’t admire him anymore. I’m not allowed.
“Well, I think we’ve earned a drink,” Michael says. “Sheridan’s?”
It’s an innocent request. Something any one of my colleagues might say. Sheridan’s is the bar right next to our office, and it’s where we always go for a quick post-work drink. I don’t join such happy hours often, but even I’ve been to Sheridan’s plenty of times.
And it is a Friday. Half the office is probably already there.
“Ok,” I say. “Let me just put away my notes.”
“I’ll go grab my stuff,” Michael says.
I drift back to my office. As I gather my bag and coat, I wonder at all the changes my dynamics with Michael has gone through.
Rivals, then begrudging teammates. Then something much more, all of a sudden. Then back to enemies, then that wild moment in the bathroom. Then cold detached co-workers, me trying to forget everything, him daring to ask for a date as if we could ever be normal. And now something else.
It’s giving me whiplash. I want it to just settle down already.
Then again, would I be happy if we stopped here? If we were just good work friends forever? Could I actually forget everything else we have done?
I shrug off the thoughts and pull on my coat.
I need to stop analyzing. I did put in a lot of work today; I’m allowed to just have a casual beer with a coworker.
Plus, over-analyzing will make me doubt the plan I made with Beatrice. It was a good plan. I’m dating someone else. Dean already texted about a possible second date this weekend.
All I have to do is make sure Michael is aware of that. Then our newfound friendship will be solidified. No more whiplash. No more confusion.
Michael appears at my office just as I’m buttoning up my coat.
“Hey,” he says.
I pull my hair out from where it’s caught beneath my coat collar and look up at him.
“I’m ready,” I say.
We head for the elevator, a good foot of air in between us.
I remember another evening and another elevator, and I blush. Luckily, Michael is staring straight ahead, so I don’t think he catches it.
“You were in the zone today,” he says.
“Thanks, you too,” I say.
I want to cringe at the stilted conversation. I know if things are awkward, it’s just as much my fault. So I need to fix it.
“At one point, I wanted to strangle Bridget,” I say.
“Really?” Michael looks at me with wide eyes.
“Seriously, I wanted to defy the laws of space and time, reach right through the video screen and shake her.”
Michael laughs at that, and I get a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach. He has the perfect laugh. Strong and hearty, but not too loud. I’m allowed to think that about a friend, right?
“You didn’t show your frustration,” he says. “You seemed totally unbothered.”
“It’s a skill,” I say.
“Where’d you learn to be so composed?” he asks.
I glance up at him. For a second, the question sounded as if it had a deeper meaning, but his face is smooth and pleasant.
“My younger siblings,” I say. “They always resorted to histrionics when things didn’t go their way, and I realized very early that I was more likely to get what I wanted if I didn’t show emotion.”
We exit the elevator and head through the lobby.
“I can show emotion,” I say. “I obviously have emotions.”
I don’t know why, but I feel defensive all of a sudden. I don’t want Michael to think of me as some automaton. He’ll probably tell himself that I wouldn’t go out with him because I was a robot and didn’t feel anything for him, when in fact, I have very valid reasons for not going out with him.
“I know,” he says.
That bothers me even more. He doesn’t know me. Not really.
I’m not going to argue though. I just give him a breezy smile as he opens the door and we turn towards Sheridan’s.
It’s an old-school bar with wooden panels and loads of booths. It’s crowded but not overwhelming. We find a booth in the corner right away. I sit down and Micheal goes to fetch the drinks.
I immediately wish that I had insisted on getting the drinks. I don’t want any part of this to resemble a date.
I’ll just have to get the second round. If we even have a second round.
Better yet, I’ll get some people to join us. I scan the room searching for some co-workers, but the ones I spot are either not in our department or engrossed in their own conversations.
Michael returns with two beers.
“I ordered some fries too,” he says. “Working through the afternoon always makes me hungry.”
“Me too,” I admit.
He sits across from me, and I watch as he stretches one arm out along the top of the booth. He takes up space with such confidence. I’m both attracted to it, and I envy it.
I take a long sip of my drink and order myself to think of him as a friend. Nothing more.
“You’re going to the 3k thing next weekend, right?” he asks.
“Yeah, but I’m happy it’s only a short run,” I say. “I hate long distance.”
Every quarter, the Hastings Group chooses a charity event, and we’re all encouraged to go. This one is a 3k for a literacy program in Chicago.
“Really?” Michael asks. “I would have guessed you’re the type who runs marathons.”
“God, no.” I shake my head for emphasis. “I can’t be alone with my thoughts for that long of a run. That’s total agony.”
“I can’t even run a mile,” Michael says. “So next weekend might be tricky.”
“You don’t work out?”
The question is out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying. It’s just that he seems so fit. And I can recall the shape and feel of his torso. He is fit. I take another sip of beer to hide my mortification of asking such a blunt question. Who knew I could be so lustful?
“I go to a gym,” Michael says. “I’ll just do anything besides running.”
There’s a twinkle in his eye that makes me think he wants to tell some joke or reference our night together, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s good. We’re on the same page at last.
“Yeah, I can run 2 miles if I need to, but I prefer spin class or pilates,” I say.
“Very trendy,” he says.
“I am a millennial professional woman,” I say. “We’re pretty much required by law to go to spin class.”
He laughs at that, and I grin like a fool. It feels good to know that he sees my sense of humour. He’s not the only one who can tell jokes.
“I’ll have to start a bet on who is going to have the best time next weekend,” Michael says. “The pool might get pretty big, so I need you to be honest with me.”
He leans forward on the table, as if we’re co-conspirators. I can’t help it; I lean forward on my elbows as well.
“Can you beat Kapinsky?” he whispers. “Or should I put my money on him?”
I roll my eyes, but I’m chuckling. Kapinsky is a fit fanatic. I’m not sure how fast he is, but I know he does crossfit and plays in a soccer league. I’m confident in my abilities, but I know my limits.
“I can beat him,” I say slowly.
Michael tilts his head and quirks his mouth.
“I’m just going to need a crowb
ar,” I add.
He laughs again. I could get used to the thrill of making him laugh. I could spend hours chasing that thrill. As a friend. Of course, as just a friend.
“You’re vicious, Hamilton,” he says.
I shrug and lean back against the booth. It’s good that he’s calling me by my last name. That’s how all the guys in the office refer to each other.
Part of me longs to hear him call me “Zo” again, but I push that urge aside.
We talk some more about work and the upcoming 3k. I try to make my drink last, because I already know getting a second round might not be a good idea. I’m getting too comfortable with him. I feel myself hurtling towards a danger zone.
Michael isn’t going slow at all. He drains his drink and sets it down.
“Round 2?” he asks.
“I dunno,” I say. “I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“On a Saturday? Come on, we worked hard today, we deserve a little break.”
I feel myself caving in. He’s right, after all. I have been working hard. And tomorrow is a Saturday.
“Ok, but I’ll get this one,” I say.
I hop up and head to the bar. God, I can be weak-willed sometimes.
The fact of the matter is, I’m having fun. I’m more relaxed than I’ve been in weeks. Even when I’ve been hanging out with my friends, our conversations have centered around my fraught professional life and the massive mistake I made. Now, in some strange twist, I’m hanging out with said mistake, and it’s the one time I’m not stressed about it. The irony is palpable.
I return to the table with drinks. As I sit back down, I tell myself that this is for sure the last round.
“So, any wild plans for this weekend?” Michael asks.
He speaks in a mild manner. As if he’s just asking a routine question. He can’t be asking me out again. I burned that bridge.
I realize it’s the perfect opportunity to tell him about Dean. He asked after all. I should be honest. And then he’ll know that I’m moving on. Our brief fling is in the past. If we can even call it a fling.
I open my mouth, but the words don’t come out.
“Not much,” I say. “I’ll probably grab dinner with some friends.”
I curse myself. All I had to say was that I had a date. It’s not like I had to give him a play-by-play. I just had to say I had a date with a nice guy. Beatrice is going to be so disappointed with me.
“The singer?” Michael asks.
“Huh?” I say.
He looks a bit uncomfortable, as if he regrets his words. It’s strange to see him ill at ease in a conversation. Usually he’s always so comfortable in his own skin.
“Isn’t one of your good friends a singer?” he asks.
“Yes, Marianne,” I say. “How did you know that?”
“You mentioned she performs in Wicker Park,” he says. “It was a while ago.”
It was a while ago. It had to have been spring or early summer. Someone at work – I don’t even remember who – had just moved to Wicker Park and was asking for suggestions on things to do. I mentioned that I knew a place that had music nights with discounted drinks and live music. I said my friend Marianne was one of the singers who performed there sometimes.
And Michael remembers that. He remembers something I said ages ago. I nod and smile. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. He just has a good memory, that’s all.
“Yes, Marianne’s one of my best friends,” I say. “I’ll probably grab dinner with her and some of my other friends from college.”
“You’re lucky to have such a good group,” he says. “My best friend from college moved to San Francisco, and now we barely see each other.”
“Yeah, we are lucky,” I say.
I feel for him. I don’t know what I would do if Marianne or Elena or Beatrice moved to a different city. If it ever happens, I’ll be distraught.
“I think sometimes I depend on them too much though,” I say. “I mean, they’re basically my entire social life.”
Now I’m telling lies. Because they’re not my entire social life. There’s Dean as well. My date. He’s not much, it’s true, but he is something I was supposed to mention to Michael. Nothing is going according to plan, and it’s entirely my fault.
“Still, it’s nice to have people you can depend on,” Michael says.
I meet Michael’s eyes, and I just nod. He’s right, and he seems so sad as he says it. As if he desperately wants to be able to depend on someone.
But that’s ridiculous. He has loads of friends. Every guy in the office adores him.
Of course, I would rather have 3 really amazing friends than 20 average friends.
“It is nice,” I say.
So I tell him about Marianne and Elena and Beatrice, and he tells me about his friend who moved to California.
We finish our drinks, and by the time I’m done, I’ve decided it’s ok that I didn’t mention Dean. We’ve only been on one date, after all. It’s much better to bring him up later.
Besides, things are nice with Michael.
We part ways, and I head home.
I tell myself over and over that it’s fine. It’s all good. He’s my friend. Just my friend. It’s simple and totally unproblematic.
Only every time I think of the word “friend,” I feel just a little bit emptier.
17
I pull my foot up towards my stomach and stretch my leg. Then I release my ankle and whirl my arms in circles.
The 3k is due to start in about 10 minutes. I know I won’t beat Kapinsky, but I’m determined to get a respectable second place out of everyone in the office. Michael told me a few days ago that he made the bet more complex by making people guess the top 3. He then informed me with a playful wink that I’m locked in as his second.
The whole week has been like that. We’ve been hard at work but also friendly with each other.
I’ve had approximately a dozen opportunities to bring up Dean, and I let each and every one pass me by.
On our date last night, Dean himself gave me an easy out.
I told him about the 3k, and he wanted to come cheer me on. I nearly choked on the meatball I was eating. Then I assured him over and over it would be so boring and not at all worth his time.
I called Beatrice afterwards, and she told me I was a fool.
She’s right, but I couldn’t do it. The thought of Michael coming face to face with Dean was too terrifying. Not that Michael would ever make a scene. He clearly doesn’t think about me in that way anymore.
Maybe I’m just scared how I would react. I know if I saw them both in the same vicinity, I would compare them. And I’m horrified to admit who I would prefer.
And that’s not fair to Dean, because he’s great. Really amazing. Pleasant in every way.
We’ve been on two more dates, which officially means we are past the initial stage of dating. We are interested in getting to know each other on a more serious level.
I’m not saying I’m ready to declare him my boyfriend, but it’s definitely going in that direction.
And I’m happy about that. I am.
I reach up and adjust my knit headband. I took extra care while I was dressing this morning. I’m wearing my best black leggings and my bright blue high-neck pullover.
There’s no sign of Michael yet. I’m not looking for him specifically, I just can’t help but notice he’s not around.
I crane my neck. I’m standing at the edge of the other Hastings runners, but I haven’t joined in any conversation. I need to focus on the race. I like running through the crisp fall air. It always reminds me of high school, when classes would end for the day, and I would head towards the school bus and walk by the sports fields where the football and soccer teams were always practicing. It always made me feel busy, but in a good way.
“Hey.”
I whirl around and see Michael. He snuck up behind me.
“So I have a strategy,” he says. “You still think you can ge
t second, right?”
I put my hands on my hips.
“For sure,” I say.
“Good,” he says. “I guessed myself for third, so all I have to do is run by you the whole race, then just drop off at the very end. Easy.”
I cock my head and give him a quizzical look.
“I thought you weren’t a runner.”
Michael shrugs and starts to stretch. I notice how well his shorts fit him before I look away. At the trees, the colorful signs, anything else.
“I’m not a runner, but the pot is over 200 bucks now,” he says. “I can suffer through a 3k for that.”
Someone starts yelling over a loudspeaker that it’s time for everyone to take their places. Michael bounces on his toes beside me.
“Don’t slow your pace, ok,” he says.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.
I’m genuinely curious to see if he can keep up. He’s athletic for sure, but I run a pretty quick mile.
The person on the loudspeaker counts down, and then we’re off.
As I stretch my legs and pull away from the pack, I start to grin. Michael has good running form, and he’s right by my side.
I’m extremely happy that Dean is not waiting at the finish line. Michael and I are just friends of course, but it would be too awkward. This way, I can just enjoy the day.
After a few minutes, Michael lets out a huff of air.
“How many miles is in three kilometers?” he asks.
I laugh despite my own shortness of breath. If anything, I’m running faster than usual. Kapinsky is well ahead of us, but we’ve got good separation from all our other co-workers.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” I say.
“It better be,” he grumbles.
I glance up at him. Since I’m not in heels, the top of my head barely reaches his shoulder, and I have to tip my neck to see his face. His cheeks have turned a bit red, and there are beads of sweat on his forehead, but he still looks good.
“If you win the pot, you definitely owe me a cut,” I say. “Maybe even the majority of it.”
“Woah, woah, woah,” Michael says. “You’re not getting more than 30%, this was my carefully orchestrated brainchild.”