Page 70 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise
Except you don’t think she’s changed her mind, right? Or met any amazing men and fallen in love with them? Crap.
* * *
“Hey. You were looking for me?”The words come from behind me, spoken in my coworker’s unmistakable voice.Unmistakablebecause I’ve never met a man whose voice is as nasally as Vlad’s.
“Yeah,” I say, only half paying attention. I turn around, notepad in hand, my eyes narrowed on the sea of wooden chairs in front of me. Then I look at Vlad. As usual, my pulse jumps at the first glimpse of his red hair—hair that always makes me think, for the tiniest second, that I might be seeing Molly. I don’t know why my brain keeps mistaking this scrawny, thirty-year-old Russian man for the woman I’ve fallen for, but I guess I really must be that desperate.
“We’re supposed to have forty of these,” I say, pointing to the chairs and putting aside thoughts of red hair and bright smiles.
“Uh-huh,” Vlad says, rubbing his hand over his wispy hair. It’s thinning to the point that he really would do better just shaving it all off, but to each their own, I guess.
“But we don’t have forty.”
Vlad frowns, and his hand stops mid-hair-rub. Then he begins to count, pointing at each chair as he does so.
“It’s thirty-two,” I say, because I’m not patient enough to wait. “But we have forty dorm room desks. We’re eight short. Can you double-check that you ordered forty?”
“I definitely ordered forty,” Vlad says. Despite his nasally voice and his underwhelming looks, though, he’s a good worker; if he says he ordered forty, I believe him.
So I nod. “In that case, can you get in touch with the suppliers and ask what the holdup is for those last eight?” I’m not too worried; field studies won’t start here until next term, sometime in August or September. We’ve got a bit. But I don’t want to get stuck here waiting on nothing but chairs.
“I’ll email them,” Vlad says. He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth from his heels to the balls of his feet and then back again.
“Something else?” I prompt, because he’s got that nervous look on his face that people usually get when they want to say something but don’t know how.
“We were just…gonna go for drinks…” he says, thumbing over his shoulder to where a few other guys are standing around, waiting. “If you wanted to come.”
I blink at him, surprised. This is the first time they’ve ever invited me out with them, though I know they usually get together a couple times a week. I’ve been (grudgingly) trying to be more social—which, in my case, means I make eye contact sometimes and speak in full sentences rather than monosyllabic grunts. It’s not natural for me to reach out, but I guess it’s working.
“Sure,” I say after a moment of internal debate. I’m tempted to sayno thanks, despite the fact that invitations like this are what I’ve been striving toward. There’s something intimidating about hanging out with people you don’t know well; I know these guys from work, but I have no idea what they’re like in other settings.
Still, I told Molly I would try to be more social. And, even more than that—hanging out with her made me realize how lonely I’ve been.
I doubt Vlad and his friends are going to make me miss her any less, but it wouldn’t hurt to be out and doing things, distracting myself.
Vlad nods easily, then thumbs over his shoulder again. “You ready, then?” he says.
“Uh…” I say, looking around and pushing my hand through my hair. “Yeah, I think so. You’ll get in touch with the suppliers about the chairs?”
“I’ll contact them before I come tomorrow,” he promises. “Now stop thinking about work.” Then he claps one hand on my shoulder. I jump, unused to the contact, and I try to play it off like I’m just moving rather than being a weirdo. Not sure it works.
I trail behind Vlad and the other three, all of whom are chatting with each other. I slow to a stop when we leave the building and pass the place where Molly and I huddled together during the storm. The first time I came back to Van Gogh Island, I looked at this spot to see if there were any remnants of her left. I don’t know what I expected to see—MOLLY WAS HEREetched into the brick? Her shape permanently darkening the wall like the Hiroshima shadows, left eerily behind after the city was bombed?—but there was nothing.
It’s just a stretch of brick, plain and unassuming. Anyone who looked at this wall would never know it was our only shelter through the worst of an island storm, and I’m suddenly hit with the bizarre urge to mark the spot, to leave a littlexwith leftover paint or carve our initials—
“You coming?” Vlad calls from up ahead, and it’s only then that I realize they’ve almost left me behind completely; they’re almost to the paved drive, while I’m still moping around next to this wall.
“Yeah,” I say, hurrying my step and giving the brick one last glance over my shoulder. “Sorry.” Then I sigh, steeling myself for an hour or two of socialization.
I can do this.
Twenty-One
Molly
As of ten minutes ago,according to the clock on my phone, it is officially February. The month of love, the month of lingering winter, the month when everyone is starting to get sick of snow.
And, now, the month when I get to see Beckett again.
