by Ethan Asher
He opens the passenger door for her, helps her inside, and then shuts it. The look on his face as he walks back to the driver’s seat nearly brings me to tears. The scene is just so adorably romantic. But then my beautiful mind reminds me how completely and utterly single I am, and that no man will ever make any sweeping romantic gestures toward me, not in a million years plus infinity because that’s what brains do.
I’m happy for you Eleanor. REALLY. HAPPY.
And then to add insult to injury, my car won’t start. “Come on…” I coax Franny, my fifteen-year-old Forester. She whines and whirrs and screeches at me but refuses to start.
I sigh, letting my head knock into the steering wheel. I glance over and watch Eleanor and her man drive away. I could've had that if only I'd saved Sebastian's number. I could call him up right now, and he'd come over to fix Franny…
He’d be shirtless, of course, even though it’s below freezing. There’d be grease smears all over his body. Sweat. Muscles galore.
I see the problem, he’d tell me.
Oh yeah? I’d ask, batting my eyelashes.
You need to let her warm up. You can’t just crank it when she’s cold, he’d tell me as he leaned against the hood. He’d talk about spark plugs and carburetors and I’d nod along, pretending to know exactly what he’s talking about.
And then we’d somehow end up in bed together because it’s my fantasy and I don’t care how unrealistic it is.
I take a deep breath and try Franny again. She doesn’t sound as bad, but she still won’t start. I give her another minute before trying one last time. Click, click, vrrrrrrrooooom.
I squeal with delight and then promptly reverse out of my spot before Franny decides to die on me. Fifteen minutes later and I’m at my mother’s house.
“Mom!” I call out as I open the front door to the house.
“In the kitchen, honey,” my mom yells back at me.
Jackpot.
The smells from the kitchen float down the narrow hallway toward the front door, and strangely enough, they actually smell appetizing. When it comes to my mother's cooking, appetizing usually isn't in the same sentence. I feel like a cartoon character who has just smelled an apple pie, sniffing the air as they float toward it. I have no idea what my mother is making, but I know it will be in my mouth shortly.
“What in the world are you—”
I swallow the rest of my sentence as I turn the corner. My mother’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine as a mountain of a man in a frilly, flowery apron stands in front of the stove.
Holy hell. Those arms. His triceps look like horseshoes as they poke out from under his shirt. And his back. It’s all hard bumps and edges. I want to scale it like a rock wall and then plant a flag on top of his skull. You see this? This is mine.
“I’m so glad you stopped by, Charleigh. Guy was—”
A record scratches in my head. No. No. NO. NO. NO.
NOnonononononononoNOOOOOOO!
YES! Emma squeals as Guy turns his head, a smile on his lips.
My jaw drops and smashes against the floor.
“Sebastian?!”
His smile falters, giving way to the most confused look I've ever seen. He drops the wooden spoon, pancake batter splattering on the floor.
“Emma?”
“What now?” my mother asks, thoroughly confused as she glances up from her magazine.
I don’t know what to think as I’m staring at Sebastian—scratch that—Guy. As my eyes peruse his well-muscled body and sharp features, it’s no wonder I hadn’t recognized him last night. He hardly resembles the doughy boy I remember from a decade ago. At least the feeling is mutual. Guy’s looking at me like I’m some mythological beast—scales, horns, and multiple fire-breathing heads included—unsure at how to approach me. If he should approach me.
The answer: No. No, he shouldn’t.
The standoff drags on for what feels like eternity, both of us eyeing each other from head to toe, sizing each other up while my mother gapes at both of us, still wondering what in the world is going on. Slowly, the confusion and uncertainty of Guy’s face fades as a faint hint of a smirk begins to grow. And then he opens his mouth and makes it abundantly clear that he hasn’t changed.
“Would you like a pancake, Charleigh?” Guy asks in a tone that says he thinks this is just a game. “I made them from scratch.”
I stare at him for a few moments, but the longer I have to look at his face, the more annoyed I get. “No thanks, I’d prefer not to go to work with food poisoning.”
“Charleigh,” my mother hisses at me. “Manners!”
She sets down her magazine and stands up. “Now let me help you clean this up, Guy.”
Guy and my mother spend the next minute cleaning up the spilled pancake batter on the ground as I watch, still shocked. I can’t believe I kissed Guy. But more than that, I can’t believe I liked it.
You didn’t like it, Emma tells me. You loved it. So much so that your vibrator needs new batteries now.
Guy's apron flutters as he spins around and tends to the pancakes. He looks absolutely nothing like the boy I remember. He's slimmed down and added muscle. So much muscle. His jaw and cheekbones are chiseled and masculine and dear Lord I need to get it together.
“I like your apron,” I say. “The flowers and lace really do wonders for you. Is it from your personal collection?”
He ignores the question as my mother glares at me and mouths “Stop it!”
“You tricked me!” I mouth back, but she just shakes her head and walks to the sink to wash her hands.
My mother set this up. She thinks our relationship is confrontational because neither of us wants to deal with unresolved feelings for each other. But she’s wrong. So, so wrong.
“It’s so nice to have you two together.” She’s trying to dispel the palpable tension in the air, but it’s not working.
Guy makes a noncommittal grunt.
I snort.
My mom sighs and then motions for me to take a seat. I fold my arms across my chest and shake my head at her before turning to Guy. I’m burning a hole in the back of his head with my gaze, but he’s either ignoring it or doesn’t care.
Forget this. I’m not playing this game.
“I’m late for work,” I tell my mom. “I’ll come over for dinner tonight.”
My mother gives me one of her signature guilt-trip looks, but I’m too annoyed for it to have any effect on me.
“Have a nice day, Charleigh,” Guy calls out to me as I leave.
I can sense a teasing undercurrent in his tone, so I don’t humor him with a response.
As I hop into my car, I send a text to Marissa.
Charleigh: I found Sebastian.
Marissa: OH MY GOD THAT’S WONDERFUL!
Charleigh: Nope. It’s Guy.
Marissa: Oh… OHHHH… Wow…
And so it begins.
The last time I was in this foul of a mood was July 18, 1998. Yes, I have it down to the date—to the exact time too: 7:17 a.m.
I’d woken up ten minutes earlier with what the doctor ruled, a few hours later, to be strep throat. Strep throat that I knew Guy gave to me because I shared a Dr. Pepper with him at lunch a few days before.
My mom refused to buy soda because Jamie and I would drink it all within a couple days. Guy was my hookup. He’d usually bring an extra soda for me, but July 15, 1998, he left me high and dry. It was worse because Guy had been on vacation during the previous week, so I was basically fighting withdrawal symptoms.
This was back when we were still friendly—before he moved into our house and made an about-face in his attitude. To Guy's credit, he refused to give in to my pleading at first because he wasn’t feeling well after his flight back home. But when it comes to my pursuit of sugar, I'm relentless. There might have been some tears. And when it comes to hysterical girls, boys are clueless, so he had no choice but to give me a sip. Or the rest of it.
The tickling in my throat started the next
day. Slight soreness by the end of the day. But when I woke up the following day with a throat that felt like it had been lit on fire, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake.
It wasn’t the strep throat that put me in a foul mood. It’s what happened at 7:17 am. My mother smashed my eleven-year-old heart into a million pieces when she told me that I would not be attending the Hanson concert as previously scheduled.
Thank you very much, Guy.
Even at eleven, I knew my anger with Guy for giving me strep throat was misplaced. But for the next month, I refused to sit with him at lunch or talk to him. Hanson was a pretty big deal for an eleven-year-old. Especially when the Baha Men were set to open. Eleven-year-old me was ready to rock out to “Who Let the Dogs Out?”, but it wasn’t to be. Much like my fantasy to marry Zac Hanson.
Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe it was for the best.
I’m trying to focus on work. I need to focus on work. I have a to-do list as long as the digits in π, all of which seem to be other people’s problems. At Florence + Foxe, the interior design firm I’ve worked at for the past three years, I’m the veritable dumping ground.
Need someone to pick out the toilets for a project? Call Charleigh—she knows a good commode. Have a minute detail that should’ve been handled weeks ago, but instead needs to be decided on the night before a client meeting? You wouldn’t mind staying late, right, Charleigh? It’s not like you have a family or husband or dog waiting up for you. Gee, thanks for the reminder.
After three years of performing above and beyond my job description, I'm only a few steps ahead of coffee-girl. I'd leave if it weren't for the necessity of…you know, feeding myself. It was hard enough to snag this job, and I'm not exactly thrilled about the prospect of going through the same process again.
But as much as I need to focus on my work, it's impossible. I can't stop thinking about what happened less than an hour ago. I still don't want to believe the man who kissed me like I'd never been kissed before, who made me laugh until I cried, who has been stuck in my head for the past week is the person I hate most in this world.
But did you see those muscles? Emma asks, mouth watering.
Yeah, but so what? Guy might’ve packed on a few pounds of muscle and learned proper grooming techniques in the intervening years, but it’s all a facade. He’s still the same person underneath that well-manicured, athletic exterior. There’s no fix for asshole.
Eventually, loud braying laughter disrupts my fixation with Guy. I don’t even have to look up to know the culprit of the most obnoxious laughter. Andrea. I look up anyway and find her, along with our boss Christiana, laughing together, smiling together, and having far too much of a good time together this early in the morning.
After a few moments, they break away from each other. Christiana turns around and heads to her office while Andrea immediately locks her eyes onto mine and charges straight ahead. I jerk my head back and glance around, wondering if I have time to dig a makeshift tunnel out of my cubicle before she has the chance to reach me. I spot the used spork from yesterday’s lunch—the perfect tool for the job—but before I have the chance, Andrea appears in front of me. Her ridiculously slender fingers slide across the top of my cubicle, wrapping around the edge like pale vines. Her blonde hair is immaculate, much like the rest of her, and she stares at me for a brief moment before glancing at the mess of papers and supplies and files on my desk.
“No donuts today, Charleigh?”
Andrea’s the type of woman who’d offer you candy or pastries and then muse out loud about how she could never eat stuff like that without it going to her hips. But only after you’re two bites deep.
I grit my teeth for a moment but then relax my jaw. I’m not going to get worked up over Andrea. Forcing a smile, I say, “Not today. I was running late this morning and didn’t have the chance to pick any up.”
She scans me slowly. “I can tell.”
“What do you want, Andrea?” I say with a sigh.
Andrea smirks. “Christiana wants to talk with you.”
“What about?”
She shrugs in response with a look on her face that tells me I’m absolutely boring her to death right now.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hoping that when I open them again, Andrea will have lost interest and wandered off. When I open them again, I find that my wish has been denied.
“You know you should really get eight hours of sleep. Studies show that a lack of sleep can do a number on your health. And with all those donuts…”
The rest of Andrea’s soliloquy fades into the background as I push away from my desk and head for Christiana’s office. Her office resembles a fishbowl, albeit trendier: floor-to-ceiling glass walls on all sides, with minimal, mid-century modern furniture arranged around a large glass and metal desk.
She’s sitting at her desk, legs crossed with her clear-framed glasses perched atop her slender nose as she’s perusing a paper in her hand. Although she’s nearing sixty-five years old, she hardly looks a year past forty, apart from her silver hair.
I tap the glass door twice with my knuckles, waving as Christiana looks up from her paper. After removing her glasses, she motions for me to come in.
“Charleigh,” Christiana coos. “Just the woman I wanted to see. Please sit.”
I glance warily at the chairs in front of her desk. Although absolutely gorgeous, mid-century modern is not known for comfort. I choose the left chair because I’ve learned it’s the one that least feels like a concrete floor when I sit on it.
Nope, still feels like concrete.
“Andrea tells me that you have something important to discuss.”
She frowns. “Everything I discuss is important, Charleigh. You know I don’t waste time with superfluous words.”
“Umm…” I don’t know what to say, but thankfully Christiana’s smile returns.
“I called you into my office because I wanted to discuss your future with this firm.”
My stomach drops immediately. What did I do? Is it because I was late? Oh GOD please don’t fire me. My life flashes before my eyes in the half-second before Christiana speaks again.
“Lana quit earlier today…”
Oh. Ohhhhhh…. OHHHHHHH!
“…and we’re looking to replace her as soon as possible. She has some very important clients.” Christiana clears her throat. “Every client is important,” she corrects herself, “but some of Lana’s are especially important. We all need to pick up the slack so that there’s no lapse in service. Understand?”
“Yes.” Kind of. Not really, but at least I’m not fired. “What do you need me to do?”
"We have a new client. Initially, we paired him with Lana, but after her departure, I spoke with him and we decided that both you and Andrea will present your vision for the space, and he'll select one of the two. If you're up for it, of course."
Holy shit.
HOLYSHITHOLYSHIT!
“Of course, Christiana,” I say, trying to seem as calm, cool, and collected as possible.
“Great. I thought you would.”
She briefs me on the rest of the details. I should be receiving an email from her introducing Andrea and me to him. Then we'll schedule a time to see the space, and after that, I'll have about a week to create a plan. Christiana won't have her hand in any of it, checking in only to ensure that the plans meet Florence + Foxe standards and that the project is completed on schedule.
“And Charleigh,” Christiana says as I push open the door to her office, “we’d like to keep the search for Lana’s replacement internal.”
I nod. “Got it.”
I would’ve accepted the task without the possibility of a promotion at the end of this. Free rein to actually create a design? Hell yeah!
When I sit back down at my desk, I check my email. After spending a half hour catching up, another email pops up.
To: Holiday, Charleigh; Robbins, Andrea
CC: Finch, Guy
From: Fo
xe, Christiana
Subject: Meeting
Mr. Finch,
I’d like to introduce you to Ms. Holiday and Ms. Robbins…
I can’t even bring myself to read the rest of the email.
You have got to be kidding me.
6
Guy
I didn’t plan it this way, I swear.
When I mentioned to Deanna my plan to renovate my parents’ house, she suggested Florence + Foxe. They had stellar reviews, and a quick glance at their past projects sold me. But then I scrolled through the team section on their website and found Charleigh Holiday staring back at me. Well, not exactly staring back at me. Her profile picture showed her standing on a rocky outcropping overlooking a deep valley with evergreens along its edges. Picturesque, but her back was to the camera so I never saw her face. If I had, I could’ve avoided the whole Emma/Charleigh situation.
After discussing it with Deanna, she convinced me that I wouldn’t be working with Charleigh because she wasn’t a project lead. She mentioned something about letting old dogs lie or burying the hatchet—some cliche—and then went back to reading her magazine. I didn’t want to spend more time than necessary to find a designer. They were all the same to me. All I cared about was whether the firm I went with had a proven track record, and Florence + Foxe clearly did.
But I had no idea that my designer would quit the firm a week before she was to present her design. Or that Charleigh would be thrust onto this project. It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the minor detail that she hates me more than the unholy trinity of sugar-, fat-, and gluten-free baked goods. Her words—not mine; a golden nugget in the novel-length texts she’s been sending me over the past few days. But apart from the texts, all of Charleigh’s email communication with me is calm, composed, and businesslike. She knows how to keep a semi-clean paper trail, I’ll give her that.
The receptionist, Heather, greets me when I push through the glass doors.
“Ms. Foxe is expecting you, Mr. Finch. Would you care for a coffee or water?”