by Penny Reid
I hated her.
I shifted my gaze from hers, and when I spoke, I spoke to the room.
“You can stay here if you want. I usually sleep on the couch, but you can have it.”
She was quiet for a long moment, and I knew she was debating whether to push me further. To my surprise, she didn’t.
“Where will you sleep?”
I inhaled, then released, a deep breath. “Elizabeth is at the hospital for a shift, so I’ll sleep in her bed.”
“You’re still friends with Elizabeth?”
I nodded, hesitated, and then lifted my eyes to hers. Her expression was unchanged, still inflexible, but her eyes moved between mine with a touch of approaching interest. It was a subtle yet rare demonstration of feeling.
Jem swallowed, licked her lips. “That’s good. She seems to care about you.”
“She does.” For reasons I couldn’t immediately understand, Jem’s words made my eyes sting, so I blinked.
Jem twisted her lips to the side and let her arms fall from her chest. With a small sigh, she walked to the entryway and picked up a black leather jacket.
“I can’t wear this anymore. You can keep it or whatever. Get rid of it. I don’t care.” She tossed it to me on the couch and I automatically caught it; it smelled like her: cigarettes, clean soap, and violence. Memories careened over and through me so suddenly that I had to grip the jacket to steady myself.
I loved her once.
When she was little, maybe three or four years old, I used to give her piggyback rides around our neighborhood, or pull her in a wagon behind my bike. She liked everything fast.
She started to smoke when she was eleven. There was nobody to tell her no, even though I tried. She laughed at me then. Growing up in the same house, I often felt she was laughing at me. It didn’t anger me. It made me sad.
The stinging in my eyes intensified. I bit then pulled my top lip between my teeth. I couldn’t speak; there was a giant knot in my throat. I watched her as she picked up my brown wool coat from the rack and pulled it over her shoulders.
“I’m taking this.”
My mouth hitched to the side and I leaned back against the couch, her black leather jacket still on my lap.
“That’s fine,” I responded, even though I knew she wasn’t asking my permission.
“I’m leaving. I don’t know if…” Jem fingered the middle button of my coat, her eyes rigid but intense. She buttoned the coat.
When she didn’t continue, I cleared my throat and found my voice. “Where will you go?”
Jem shrugged and shook her head; she stuffed her hands into the fur-lined pockets of my jacket. “I don’t know.”
Without pausing, without a wave or a smile or a goodbye, Jem turned and left.
My door made a soft, final click as she closed it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I slept hard and had strange dreams.
The dreams were the troubling kind where I thought the action and events were genuine, but on waking and in retrospect, I realized they were obviously completely implausible.
The one I remembered most intensely on waking was about losing my teeth. The fragments of bone fell out of my mouth every time I opened it to speak, and they ran away, though they had no legs, which, in the dream, sent me into a panic.
There is nothing quite like watching one’s own legless teeth running away.
Tourists kept accidentally stepping on my teeth. I was forced to chase my molars and canines down Michigan Avenue while dodging black-socked sightseers wearing shorts, white Keds, and rainbow visors. When my alarm went off, I actually ran my tongue over the back of my teeth to make sure they were all still present, in my mouth, and securely situated.
By the time I arrived at work and greeted Keira at the front desk, the last miens of my dental-nightmare had almost completely dispersed. However, a lingering sense of disquiet and a completely irrational foreboding remained. My chest felt tight, heavy, and uncomfortable, as if I had some terrible combination of bronchitis and gastroenteritis.
During the short walk down the hall to my office, instead of dwelling on my increasingly complex feelings for Quinn or the unpleasant altercation with my sister, my mind ambled. I wondered about and made a mental note to check on the content of carpet fibers. More precisely, what made the current generation of carpets stain resistant? Were eco-friendly approaches to carpet manufacturing currently the norm? What country could claim the title as leader in office-carpet exports?
Still studying the carpet, I opened the closed door to my office and was startled out of my floor-focus by the presence of unexpected company.
Olivia was inside my office standing behind my desk. Her back was stiff and her eyes were wide as they met mine; her hand flew to her chest, and she sucked in a loud breath.
I hesitated, frowned, and glanced at the name outside the office to ensure I had the right door. When I confirmed that it was, indeed, my office, and she was, indeed, in my office, I returned my gaze to her and waited for an explanation.
A protracted period of silence stretched as we eyeballed each other. She looked very well assembled, as usual, and, even though I was the one to find her unexpectedly in my office with the door closed, she appeared to be waiting for me to explain my presence.
I waited two beats longer, then lifted my eyebrows as my chin dipped. “Well?”
“Can I help you?” Olivia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against my desk.
I blinked at her and wondered if I were still dreaming. “What are you doing in my office?”
“It’s not your office; it doesn’t belong to you; it’s the company’s office.”
She huffed.
She actually huffed.
It was a breathy sound, overly exaggerated, and combined with a bit of an exhaled snort.
I crossed my arms and mimicked her stance, mostly to hide the fact that my hands were clenched in fists. “Olivia. What are you doing in the office that has been assigned to me by the company, with all my papers and confidential reports, with the door closed?”
She raised a single, impressively well-groomed eyebrow. “I’m looking for the updated schematic of the Las Vegas space.”
I shook my head. “It hasn’t been sent to us by the group in Las Vegas yet; they said they would email it by Friday.”
“Oh. Well, then, just send it over to me when you get it. No one can move forward with the new plans until you send it to the group.” Olivia’s tone and manner were so flippant that I almost actually felt like it was my fault that the client hadn’t yet sent the schematic.
I clenched my jaw. “As soon as I receive it from the client, I will distribute it to group.”
Olivia issued me a tight-lipped non-smile and moved passed me into the hallway without any further remark.
What. The. Hell…?
Somewhat grudgingly rooted in place, uncertain whether I wanted to push the issue by hall heckling her or just simply mope somberly, I watched her retreating form as she left; her steps hurried, her pace almost road-runner frantic. Then, shaking myself, I eye-rolled all the way into my office and heaved a gigantic sigh; my earlier uneasiness had been replaced—or, more accurately, substituted—with immense irritation.
I approached my desk and glanced at its contents; all the papers and folders were neatly stacked into piles, just as I’d left them yesterday. I checked the drawers and found that they were still locked. My desktop PC was also locked. If she’d been looking for something in particular, I could see no outward sign that anything had been rummaged or disturbed.
The tightness in my chest constricted, and was now vacillating between annoyance and anxiety. I fell into my office chair. I attempted to clear my mind by staring out the window, and for a few moments, I allowed myself to drift on white, puffy clouds visible in the distance.
For the first time in recent memory, I successfully endeavored to sit and be still, and to think about nothing at all. I gazed at the sky until
my eyes felt dry.
At some indeterminable time later, the sound of laughter and normal office conversation pulled me out of my trance. I blinked, rubbed my closed lids, and decided to make an honorable attempt at getting work done. I didn’t think about carpet, or Quinn, or Jem, or Olivia. Instead, I clung to the impersonal numbness of my task list.
Thus, ignoring the stack of memos and printed reports on my desk, I lost myself in spreadsheets and glorious pivot tables, and to requirements, documents, and billing-software workflows. The tension around my lungs eased with every passing hour, with deeper immersion into numbers and Visio swim lane charts.
The sound of my office door closing abruptly brought my attention back to the present and to the man who’d just entered.
I blinked. I gaped. I stood.
Simmering warmth slid from my stomach to the tips of my ears, inexplicably relaxing any remaining tightness in my chest like a salve as I registered that Quinn was standing in front of the closed door. He was smiling in that odd, quiet way of his, not with any perceivable curve of his mouth but rather with a subtle glint in his eyes and a lift of his chin.
My very obvious grin at his presence couldn’t be helped any more than I could catch those errant teeth in my dream. I loved that he was wearing faded blue jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. He hadn’t shaved since I’d last seen him.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I auto-responded; spreadsheets and pivot tables immediately forgotten.
He crossed to me and gave me a quick, soft kiss before I could discern or properly appreciate his intention. Immediately he straightened and held a paper bag between us. It was yellow and grease-stained; black writing spelled out Al’s Beef.
“I have Italian beef and French fries.”
I pulled my attention from the bag and met his narrowed blue gaze. Again, a sincere automatic smile further opened my features to him. “You brought me Al’s Beef for breakfast?”
His lips pulled to the side, his eyes moving between mine, and he turned his head just slightly. “No, I brought you lunch. It’s almost three.”
My mouth opened and I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was, indeed, almost 3:00 p.m.
“Oh my gosh.”
Quinn placed the bag of food on the desk and started distributing its contents: sandwich and fries for me; sandwich and fries for him. He even pulled out two green food baskets, presumably so that we could enjoy an authentic Al’s Beef dine-in experience within the comfort of my office.
“Sit.” He motioned to my chair as he claimed the seat on the other side of my desk.
I obeyed, but I didn’t unwrap my food immediately; instead, I opted to watch him until my stomach grumbled, demanding my attention. It presumably just now realized that I hadn’t eaten all day. The smell of fries and roast beef made my mouth water.
Mimicking his movements, I dumped my fries into the basket and pulled the paper away from the Italian beef, revealing a deliciously soggy sandwich. He was already eating, the sandwich disappearing by fourths with each bite. He seemed so completely at ease, as though his appearance at the office and bringing me lunch was an everyday occurrence—as though it was expected.
Closing the door for privacy, sneaking a swift kiss, bringing lunch to eat together; people who were dating did these things. I knew this. I used to date someone. But with Quinn, everything felt meaningful in a way it never had with Jon.
I picked up my sandwich and lifted it to my mouth but didn’t take a bite.
I was too busy noticing things about him that I couldn’t recall caring to notice about anyone else. I was acutely aware of Quinn’s movements; of the placement of his hands on the sandwich; his nonchalant, carefree mood; how he was dressed and the amount of skin he’d left exposed; the length of his hair. The number of details felt overwhelming, but I was greedy for specifics, greedy to know and memorize everything about him.
I felt like a kettle set to boil; any minute I was going to steam up from all the details and start screaming.
I blurted, “I’m not really sure how to do this.” I abruptly dropped the sandwich into the basket and leaned backward in my chair.
Quinn waited until he finished chewing to respond; his eyes moved from me to the sandwich. “Do what?”
“Be the girl you’re dating.”
His mouth curved upward in a trace of a smile. “Do you want a handbook for that too? Because I’d like to be involved in sketching the diagrams if you do.”
I pressed my lips together and pummeled him with a single French fry. He laughed, obviously unable to contain himself, and my face flamed.
“You know what I mean.” I didn’t look at him; rather, I stared at my basket of Italian beef and seasoned fries.
He stopped laughing but not all at once; he allowed it to taper off gradually. I glanced at him through my eyelashes; a huge smile still asserted itself over his features, and he was looking at me with a sanguine, untroubled expression.
He looked happy.
My heart fluttered; yes, it fluttered uncontrollably. The flutter morphed into a flapping monsoon as I watched his smile fade from broad to slight and his gaze darken, intensify, and scorch.
“You’re so beautiful.” It was said on a sigh, as though he had said and thought the sentiment at the same time and hadn’t quite realized the words had been spoken aloud.
I felt the compliment acutely, but in a slightly scary and thrilling way. I lifted my head and blinked at him, my mouth slightly agape. His eyes traveled over my lips, hair, neck, then lower. I noticed he was holding his napkin as though someone might be inclined to steal it.
He also seemed to be greedy for details.
I tucked my hair behind my ears and rubbed my neck. Everywhere his eyes moved itched and tingled.
I cleared my throat. “You too.”
He met my gaze and studied me; his smile was still slight. “It’s different with you; it’s not just the way you look.”
In a surprising turn of events, the comment on my inner beauty made me squirm to a much greater degree than the compliment aimed at my physical features. I wasn’t so sure that inner Janie was at all a beautiful person. Jem’s words from last night; the apparent callous disinterestedness with which I regarded the end of my relationship with Jon, my unwillingness to help my sister in her time of need, had me doubting whether I was anything other than a selfish and vapid replica of my mother.
“Are you admitting your beauty is only skin deep?” I tilted my head to the side, wanting to tease him rather than dwell on how high, on a scale from one to ten, I would rank on the vapid meter.
Quinn breathed in through his nose, his eyebrows lifted, and his attention shifted to his hands; he loosened his grip on the napkin and began twisting it between his thumb and forefinger.
He didn’t respond. I took his silence as confirmation.
“I think you’re wrong.”
He continued to twist the napkin wordlessly until it resembled a short length of rope.
I considered him at length. There was still a lot I didn’t know about Quinn, and therefore, I deliberated the possibility that he was right. He could be a virtually empty shell of a person with a stunning façade, impressive intellect, and a foil wit.
Then, I frowned because the prospect felt dissonant with reality.
“No, you are a good guy.” I tilted my head to the side and allowed my gaze to move over his lips, hair, neck, then lower to where his heart was beating. “We see the strengths and faults in others that we do not or cannot recognize in ourselves.”
“Janie.” His small smile, more of a grimace, struck me as brittle when our eyes finally met.
“Are you trying to scare me off?”
He nodded his head, but on a sigh, he replied, “No.”
“Do you have any current nefarious plans? Are you plying me with Italian beef as part of an evil plot?” I motioned between us and asked, “Is this an elaborate lie? Are you planning to lure me into a false sense of security, have you
r way with me, light me up, and then toss me aside like a match or a Christmas tree?”
His face was serious. “No.”
“Then why do you believe that you lack internal beauty?”
“Because I only do things for selfish reasons.”
“Like dating me?”
“Dating you is completely selfish.”
The comment struck me mute, but I recovered. “If…if you were being selfish, then you’d still be a Wendell and I’d be a slamp.”
He shook his head. “If you were a slamp, then we wouldn’t be exclusive, and you could be with other people.”
“And that makes you selfish?”
“That makes me selfish.” His eyes pierced me, and his voice was low and sandpapery.
I took the opportunity to munch on a French fry, now cold, and deliberated his words.
“I will say this.” Quinn held me with his eyes, his expression increasing in severity as though hovering on the precipice of a meaningful confession. “You make me want to be less of an asshole.”
My lashes flapped at him. “Really? Wow.” I gulped.
It was a confession of sorts, but it was the type of confession that encouraged my sarcasm rather than my appreciation. The statement struck me as the epitome of noncommittal, pseudo-subtle, self-deprecation; I was amazed by its definitive tepidness.
“That’s so poetic. You should write greeting cards: Dear Dad, thank you for helping me become not as big of a jerk as you are. I’m still a jerk, just not a big jerk like you.”
Quinn laughed again, but this time with complete abandon; it was a deep, rumbly belly laugh, which, since I was within earshot of the blast radius, was extremely infectious, and I felt it acutely like a touch rather than a sound. He held his hand over his chest and my attention loitered on the spot. Even as I laughed I felt a twist of discomfort emanating from a mirrored location in my own chest.
I ached. I wanted to be close to him. I wanted to know everything about him.
The suddenness of the pain caught me by surprise, and I closed my eyes against it, breathing out slowly, collecting myself so I wouldn’t give in to my desire to climb over the desk and tackle him where he sat, Italian beef sandwich on his lap, napkin in his hand.