Fucking figures that the one thing I want is the thing that’s totally out of my reach.
THE WEEK HAS DRAGGEDits feet, but it’s finally Friday. Just six more hours until I can leave this place, if only for a weekend.
And what a week it’s been.
My mother attempted to set me up with Jeffrey somebody-or-other, a lawyer at my dad’s firm, but I declined, saying I’ve been swamped at work and that I can’t spare any time this weekend. And that’s not technically lying. My social calendar is packed this weekend. I’m all stocked up on brownie mix, I’ve got the app for Tiny Tony’s Pizza downloaded, and my Netflix queue is full. But I’m not dumb. I omitted those details in the conversation with Patrice.
In celebration of the close of ‘The Week That Would Not End,’ I treated myself to a brisk morning walk and a latte. And now, I’m back at my desk, wrapping up loose ends and counting down the minutes until I can leave. Mmmm...I’ve earned every calorie of this Pumpkin Spice deliciousness, so I enjoy every sip as I edit. Molly’s at a conference today, so I’m staying in for lunch, and I’m hoping that my luck will hold, and I can finish the week without a Simon sighting. There was a near miss yesterday in the stairwell, but thanks to some quick footwork in my Tory Burch flats, I dodged an awkward face-to-face. Well, face-to-ass, really, considering I was climbing the steps, but best not to think about faces and asses anywhere near each other.
And that does it.
One minute I’m fine. I’m sipping my latte and editing the hell out of Alan’s copy. And then, I spend two seconds thinking about Simon Walker’s ass and splat!
There goes my latte.
My delicious Trenta Pumpkin Spice Latte with extra whip leaps from my hand and onto my keyboard in a swan dive of destruction.
I blink for a few seconds, sure that if I shut my eyes long enough, the horror scene in front of me will be gone when I reopen them.
Nope. No such luck. And it’s my own damn fault. I should have been paying attention to the fact that Alan seriously can’t grasp the concept of a plural possessive, but I wasn’t. I was distracted. And distraction + latte + me only ever ends in one way: a call to IT.
Fuckity Fuck.
The call takes less than thirty seconds. I talked to someone named Andrew, though I’m pretty sure we’ve not yet met. But perhaps that’s because he’s likely been dividing his time between Chesapeake Shores and his grueling middle school schedule, if his voice is any indication. He assures me that someone will be down shortly, and his voice actually cracks on the -ly.
I grab the paper towels I’ve learned to keep in my desk drawer for these very occasions, and I sink to my knees and begin mopping.
A voice calls out from the doorway. “What have I told you about laptops and lattes? They are not, and never will be, friends.”
I turn my head to see Simon standing on the far side of my desk, his face impassive and his words aiming for, but just missing, the joke.
Speaking of pairs who can never be friends…
An eternity passes as I look up at him, embarrassment—at so many things—coloring my face. It’s not lost on me that we were in this same position a few weeks ago. He’d stood above me, looked down at my face, smiled and flirted, because that’s what boyfriends do. Now, he looks like he’d pay good money to escape this room in favor of a root canal.
“Hi. Um…hi. I didn’t know if you’d come. I’m mean, I knew someone would come, but I wasn’t sure if it would be you…”
“Coming? You should know better than that, Lainie.” He’s smirking, almost as if he’s enjoying my awkward descent into word vomit.
I stand up, for lack of anything better to do, and continue to mop up my mess, this time focusing on my desk. Plus, it saves me from having to face Simon. I’m sure he’s pissed, and he’s got every right to be, but I can’t worry about that now. At the moment, I’ve got a spill to clean up. And they weren’t kidding with the Trenta… God, there’s coffee-milk-sugar everywhere. My keyboard is totally fried, so I set it aside and hastily grab the books on my desk, hoping to save them from the same fate. Simon beats me to it, deftly lifting them in a bundle and placing them on the side table along the far wall.
“Wouldn’t want the Highlander to get wet, would we?” Okay, no question about it. He’s taking perverse delight in the awkwardness of this situation.
I’m cleaning what I can, though my paper towel roll is steadily dwindling, and I’m doing my best to stay out of Simon’s way, but he’s taking his good old time replacing equipment and cataloguing each replacement. Finally, sure that my desk is as clean as it’s going to get, I attempt escape. But I hate to seem rude and just walk out. Although, I did dump him in the middle of a family dinner, so maybe it’s a bit late in the game to think about social conventions. Still, I’ve got to talk to him at some point. “So, um, should I leave? I mean, can I? You don’t need me for any post mortem stuff, right?”
And now he’s just staring at me.
“I mean, I can go….and just come back later? You probably hate me, and it appears that the sight of me pisses you off, and I’m sure I haven’t checked my mailbox in hours, so…if it would be easier, I can just…”
The gods of social grace are not smiling down on my efforts to leave politely.
He stops what he’s doing and looks at me again, but he’s not staring, this time, so much as scowling. “I don’t hate you, Elaine,” he says plainly. “And the sight of you doesn’t piss me off, but the fact that I’m hard as a fucking rock at the sight of you? Yea, that pisses me off.”
He returns to his work, somewhat noisily, and God help me, but I can’t resist a peek. Nope. He wasn’t lying.
And just my luck, he looks up again and clearly catches me mid-ogle. “Leave if you want. Stay if you have stuff to do. I’ll only be another ten minutes anyway, and then I’ll cart this keyboard off to the dumpster graveyard to sit with its brothers and sisters—you know, the other machines you’ve callously murdered.”
Ok, so he’s still a little pissy. I can’t really blame him. “Ok, then I’ll just sit here and—”
“Yep, you sit there and edit, and I’ll just finish up.” A few seconds pass by and I do my best to steer my eyes toward the screen and force my hands onto the new keyboard he just installed. And then he starts talking again. “Hot in here, yea? Think I’ll just roll up my sleeves,” he smirks, “and get back to work.” He rolls his cuffs clear to his biceps, and he should look ridiculous, but Sweet Mother Mary, those arms…
