by gard, marian
"Yes, Meredith. What is it?" She moves forward into my office, predictably dropping papers to the floor. She reaches down to pick them up, and as she does her wispy blonde hair obscures her tiny face and she manages to spill even more. I restrain a sigh and an eye roll. I used to help her when she got like this, but oddly, it just seemed to make it worse. She starts babbling on about the reports I asked her to get me. I ask her one straightforward question and she freezes like a deer in headlights, and then starts jabbering again.
My boss, Tim, insisted that we hire her. We've recently hired about half a dozen new employees, all twenty-somethings, right out of college. I'll hand it to them; they get the world of tweeting/texting/status updating more than I ever will, and their expertise is needed as our companies move farther away from anything on paper.
We used to do web design mostly, which was all new and exciting back in the year 2000, when I started with them, and now we do an increasing amount of internet advertising. We have an even newer department that specializes in consulting with companies on how to use social media to promote their company or products. I'm an account manager and I work with some of our largest accounts, because of that, people from the "twitterface team" (as I like to call them) report to me on a lot of their projects; this often includes Meredith.
She and I hold the same degree from similar colleges, but our educations are not only years apart, but worlds apart, too. When I was in college I thought about how incredible it would be to have a large print ad in the newspaper. Some of our interns would swear they have never even held an actual newspaper. I dismiss Meredith and send her clip-clopping down the hall.
My phone buzzes in my desk drawer and I pull out my cell to see a text from Vanessa, asking if we're still on for brunch. I'm ashamed to admit, she's been burned by me before. I never intend to blow anyone off, but sometimes when I'm at work I just get into a zone and lose track of anything unrelated to my immediate tasks. I check the time and I realize I'd better get going if I'm going to meet her. I text her back, affirm our plans, do ten more minutes of work, and then head out the door.
I work about sixty, sometimes nearly seventy, hours a week. Since I'm available nearly all the time via cell or email, I could probably go blow off work and ride the Sea Dog at Navy Pier all afternoon and no one would assume I was doing anything other than working, but I never take advantage. I just work, and then work some more.
I push through the doors of our favorite breakfast spot and see Vanessa waving wildly in a booth in the corner. I feel a smile flush my face, it's hard to pull myself away from my job, but hanging out with Vanessa is always worth it. She and her husband, Ryan, live a few blocks west from the apartment she and I shared for three years after we graduated from college. We don't see each other these days as often as I'd like, but we text and chat a lot.
"Hey, girl!" Vanessa stands up, hugs me, and then pats the table urging me to sit down across from her. Since having her kids she's developed all these mom gestures. The table tap is one of them. I'd point it out to her, but she'd probably freak out. She's forever fretting about losing her identity entirely to mommyhood. "I got your favorite, because I figured you didn't have much time and I didn't want to waste all our brunch time in line." She winks.
I stare down at the iced tea and egg white breakfast sandwich and wonder when I became so scheduled and predictable. "Thanks, Vanessa, you're too good to me." I smile at her, yanking my scarf from my neck and tossing it on my purse beside me.
"Please," she says in an exaggerated two-syllable way, "consider it my thank you for being my adult contact today."
I take a bite of my sandwich. "How was your weekend?"
"Hmm…Well, Saturday morning Ryan and I woke up, stared deep into each other's eyes, and asked the very profound question, ‘Just how much do we hate ourselves?"
I giggle. "You drove all the way out to Costco on the weekend—again?" I shake my head in mock disapproval.
Vanessa shrugs while grinning. "I know. An important lesson continues to go unlearned. Ryan was sweating by the time we pulled into the parking lot." She snickers.
I can picture her husband in full-on panic mode surrounded by mini-vans and SUVs, and I laugh out loud. "I've still never been in one."
"Good for you. Don't do it. When we left I ran out into the lot shouting, We made it! We survived!"
"You did?"
Vanessa slams her hand on the table. "No way! Ryan would've killed me and he was already homicidal by then. I didn't want to push him over the edge." She sips her coffee. "The kids would've thought that was funny, though." She smirks.
"How are the girls?"
"Busier than two girls under the age of seven should be. I swear, all I do is shuttle those two around to and from dance, music, gymnastics, school, you name it. Were we this busy when we were kids?" She flips her long, brown curls over her shoulder.
I doubt my mother would've even remembered I'd had a dance class if she'd ever signed me up for one. Which she didn't." I put my hand on top of hers. "I think you're supermom, Nessa."
"Ha! Well, maybe if supermom's attire includes stained t-shirts and jeans that have melted chocolate on them." Vanessa points down at her lap.
I giggle. "Today?"
"No, this happened yesterday. I went all the way through the grocery store, pick-up at school and to the library before I noticed the long streak of chocolate that was decorating my favorite pair of jeans!"
"Oh, no!"
"Yup," she replies, taking another bite of her sandwich.
"Well, at least you've got little people you can blame. I do it all by myself. I gave a twenty-minute sales presentation awhile back with a giant olive oil stain on my blouse. That's what I get for eating lunch while driving to the appointment." I roll my eyes. "Of course Donna waits until the very end of the meeting to point out the stain."
"Bitch," Vanessa declares.
"She's the queen of them."
I swipe a chip off of her plate. "So, what's new?"
Vanessa splays her hands out on the table and leans toward me like she's about to whisper covert plans. I follow her cue and lean forward too.
"What's new you ask? How about something new on a very old topic?" Her left eyebrow curves just so, as her whimsical smile appears. I raise my eyebrows in return, skepticism on my face. Vanessa loves to be in the know. She pauses dramatically, and then asks, "Have you been on Facebook lately?"
I lean back, wondering where the hell this is all going. "For work or pleasure?" I ask. Sometimes I just want Vanessa to get on with it. If I let her, she will drag this out as long as possible. She's just like one of those awful reality TV game-show hosts who prolong the elimination announcement until you're ready to hurl the remote at the TV. My impatience probably comes from years of working for Tim. He can't tolerate unneeded words at any time. Everything Tim does is accelerated to speeds beyond that of a normal person. He's constantly in motion and if you want to tell him something you need to do it quickly, in bullet points. It took me a long time to get used to it, but once I did, I kind of enjoyed it. It's like everything gets sifted down to its most precious parts. There's no time or space for filler where we work. We have two seconds to get your attention, that's it.
Vanessa bristles a little at my not so subtle irritation and then continues, "Collin is on Facebook." She says this like it's a proclamation of world news, or a headline for the ages, tantamount to the Berlin wall coming down. I stare at her blankly.
Taking another sip of tea I say, "Collin, who?"
Vanessa's mouth drops open and then she tilts back her head and does what could best be described as a stage laugh. "What? Um, no, you don't get to pull that shit with me, Rachel." Vanessa also loves to swear now more than she ever has. She would never ever curse in front of her kids, but get her with a group of adults, sans kiddos, and she's positively R-rated.
"Have you forgotten that we lived together for three years after college? I had a front row seat when you pretended to be
mourning your breakup with Spencer to the rest of the world, but in reality were lamenting blowing it with Mr. Tall, Hot and Troubled."
She's right. I know I can't slip much past her, but I'm not sure I can handle any of this. "Vanessa," I whine, sounding like an annoyed teenager. She ignores me and plows on.
"Don't act like you aren't curious, Rachel," she accuses.
I let out a long exasperated sigh and try to ignore the fact that my heart rate has inexplicably increased to a pace I associate with runs on the treadmill. "How do you know it's even him? I mean, I can't picture the Collin I knew having a Facebook page." I don't mention having searched for him on there more than once since having joined the site a few years ago. Although honestly, I hadn't thought much about him at all, since I started dating Beckett.
Vanessa launches into her case regarding the legitimacy of his page, all the while attempting to monitor my reactions to each detail. "Well, let's see, first of all, we have a friend in common." I raise my eyebrows, the only common friend I can think of between them would've been me. Vanessa is one step ahead of me, clearly she's rehearsed this conversation in her head. "Remember his old roommate, Jeff, who I dated for like three seconds?" I nod. "Well, he and I are friends on there."
"Why are you friend's with Jeff?" I interject.
"Oh no," she wags a finger at me, "that's not going to work. You're not going to distract me away from telling you this."
I squirm in my seat. I'll admit morbid curiosity, but that is what it is, morbid. It took me years to fully get over the pain of losing Collin, and I've fought internally not to think and obsess over him, over what could've been. I'm finally in a good place with all of that, and I have been for a while now. I feel like an addict in recovery. How will I react to getting a hit of Collin like this?
"Secondly," she continues her tone warning me not to interrupt again, "his profile picture was definitely him. I mean he's older, we all are, but it's still him." She stares at me expectantly. "Well?"
"Well, what? Can I talk now?"
Vanessa props her chin on her folded hands, ignoring my sarcasm, and tells me to ask away.
I take a deep breath and try to reign in my nerves. I think of Beckett, who represents everything about my life today. We've been serious now for quite a while and friends for years. We have plans to move in together this coming September when our respective leases run out. Beckett is my present tense, and my future; Collin is past tense in every way possible, including the friend part. I haven't seen or heard from him since the night we had together ten years ago. I don't know what it is, nostalgia, curiosity, guilt or residual emotions, but suddenly I have to know more. I look up at Vanessa and begin firing questions.
Thirty-five minutes later I'm in the elevator heading back up to my office trying to process what I've learned from Vanessa. Apparently, Collin accepted her friend request rather quickly, which is interesting in and of itself, but it also resulted in her being able to gleam a fair amount of information. The facts? Fact one: Collin lives in Chicago. He grew up north of Chicago in a wealthy suburb; so, this is technically his hometown, I guess. While I knew he loved the city, he'd never expressed a desire to return "home" at any point. Interesting. Fact two: He's in a relationship. This one's shocking, though it shouldn't be. It's been ten years; of course he's with someone. I'm surprised he isn't married, actually. OK, that's a lie. I could never picture Collin married. Fact three: the alleged girlfriend is a lot younger. No comment. Fact four: I need at least a twenty-four hour, self-imposed ban on Facebook.
I get back to the office in time to make a quick trip to the ladies room where I take some cleansing yoga class breaths and then splash my face with water. I have a meeting with Tim in just a minute and I need to be firing on all cylinders.
I stop by my office, dump off my purse and scarf, grab my meeting stuff and waltz down the hall to Tim's office. He isn't there yet, so I plop down in the chair across from his desk and begin fiddling with my iPad. Almost immediately an alert pops up from my Facebook app. Facebook is already taunting me. I stare at it and then in the hallway I hear the whirlwind that is Tim approaching. I stick my finger on the app icon until it wiggles and then hit delete. The iPad objects, "Are you sure?" Yes, I'm sure. I have exceeded my limit for distractions today.
Tim starts talking to me before he's fully in the office. He takes a seat and our weekly meeting goes as it usually does. I run through accounts and give him updates, while he makes comments and suggestions. I take copious notes and update my calendar as I go. Then, Tim pauses and taps his chin with his finely manicured finger. I'm silent, letting the quiet stretch out between us. This is unusual, and I feel unsettled, waiting for him to speak. I glance at Tim's suit; it's dark gray with a faint pinstripe, and it fits him perfectly. He's by far the sharpest dressed man at the office, though nothing is all that shocking about that. Of course he's fastidious about his looks, he's that way about everything. For as fast as he moves, there's nothing sloppy or impulsive about him, at all.
"Tim?" I'm not able to withstand what feels like incredibly awkward silence, which in all reality is more like an elongated pause for a normal person.
He peers at me from over his black-rimmed glasses. "Rachel, you know how impressed I've been by your work and contributions to the company over the years, and we've talked about you increasing your role here, branching out." This must be a really off day for Tim, because this is bordering on babbling. I nod my head, encouraging him to go on, and feeling anxiety bubble up in my stomach. "We have the possibility of landing a very big account. I'm assembling a sales team to go with me, and I want you to be a part of it." With only his tone to go on, you'd never know this was good news, but it definitely is.
I'm simultaneously relieved and thrilled. "Absolutely, Tim. Thank you. Give me the particulars of what you need from me, and I'm on it." I can't keep from smiling. Today has been a rollercoaster, but this is definitely a turn of events I can get on board with. Tim gives me rapid-fire details and fifteen minutes later I'm bouncing back to my office, Collin nearly forgotten.
I wrap up my last client meeting of the day and exit onto the busy sidewalk. I glance at my watch—it's five-thirty. I could head back to the office or just go straight to Beckett's place for dinner. The rumble in my stomach decides it. I send a text to him, alerting him of my pending arrival. I'm sure he won't mind; if he had it his way, I would already be living with him by now. I board the El and am lucky enough to score a seat at the end of a row. I ease into it and scan my to-do list for work. A text from Beckett buzzes in, a happy emoticon representing his affirmative reply. I can't wait to tell Beckett my news. I've been complaining for months that I've felt like things have stagnated for me at work. I feel like I know Tim well enough to anticipate his expectations and represent his wishes when it comes to handling difficult account situations, but when it comes to his appraisal of me, I'm never that certain. Beckhas encouraged me to sit down with Tim and outline my concerns, a reasonable workplace recommendation for most people, but most people aren't dealing with my boss. Tim is obviously considering promoting me in some way, but true to his character, he will want to see some action from me first to demonstrate my worthiness of whatever he may have in mind. I'm both excited and terrified by the challenge.
The El screeches to a halt and more people pile in, few seem to exit, and I shut my eyes. Being in close proximity with this many people always unnerves me, and locking the world out is one of my coping mechanisms. I take a deep breath and try to relax, telling my brain to shift to pleasant thoughts. Suddenly an image of Collin's face pops into my mind.
This used to happen to me all the time years ago, right after everything ended between us. Often during restless nights, when I had trouble sleeping, my brain would sift through a collage of moments in time with Collin. Typically it would alternate between his pained expression when I had lied to him and told him I didn't have feelings for him, and the hateful look he'd given me shortly thereafter. I would turn it
over and over in my mind's eye, wishing and hoping for the magical moment when I became desensitized, and the memory of our friendship's demise was no longer painful. Sometimes, but not nearly as often, I would recall snapshots of him when we were intimate. One in particular had haunted me: Collin rising above me and looking directly in my eyes. It was seconds before we both crossed over a threshold from which we could not return, and the look he had given me had been simultaneously heated and tender. Inexplicably, this is what my brain has conjured up while I attempt to seek mental escape from the onslaught of pushy commuters. What the hell? Damn you, Facebook.
Instead of pushing the thoughts to the side, I linger a bit, thinking back to that day after our infamous night together. When I came home from work around four in the afternoon, he had, as promised, cleared out all of his belongings from my apartment without so much as a note or a number where I could reach him. Few of us had cell phones back then, and Collin had told me he hated the things. I think of present day Collin and envision him texting away, like the rest of America. I can feel the once-familiar hunger to know more about him rising up within me, cranky and as insatiable as ever.
My mind wanders back to that afternoon, all those years ago, on the day after everything went to hell. I headed up the stairs to my apartment feeling light-headed and woozy from lack of sleep and an unbearable sensation of impending doom. Doom with Spencer, doom with Collin. Doom, doom, doom. I caught the edge of our welcome mat with my sandal and slowly lifted it up. My heart sunk when I saw Collin's key shining atop a thick layer of dust and dirt. I bent down and picked it up, using it to unlock the door as a final confirmation that it was, in fact, his key. I pushed the door to our apartment open with my hip and saw Tabby standing in the kitchen.