“Hello, Charles!” I call out to my Charles Dickens portrait as I make my way into the kitchen. “Did you miss me?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to; it’s obvious he did. I pull the remains of a casserole I made a few days ago out of the fridge and place it in the microwave. By the time thedingsounds, I’ve divested myself of my bra and pants in my bedroom and replaced them with an oversized sweater and some leggings. It’s going to be one hell of a wild night.
I’m nestled into my worn-out couch, missing my mouth with every second forkful of casserole because I can’t be bothered to tear my eyes off the book I have open in front of me, when my phone starts vibrating on the table.
“Goddamit, Taverne Toulouse,” I complain, “when will you learn to appreciate the sanctity of Dostoyevsky?”
I grab the phone, expecting an emergency work call, but when I pull the screen closer, it’s not showing Taverne Toulouse’s number or any of my employee’s names.
I was wondering whether or not he would sit back and let me avoid him. Julien Valois didn’t seem like the type to give up easy.
It’s one of the things I found myself admiring about him, and that very admiration is the reason I haven’t answered his texts. He throws me off balance. He tips the scales. I don’t know what it is about him, but whenever he’s around, my world goes skewed, and the only thing I seem to be able to reach out for ishim.
I can’t let myself do that. I’m too mature to deny that I’m attracted to him. I know myself, and I know that whatever I feel for Julien is a dangerous thing. It makes me forget about my priorities. It makes me forget that there are people depending on me. It makes me forget about everything exceptme—everything except for what I want, and when he’s in the room, what I want is clearly him.
He drives me crazy with his red wine drinking and his bulldozer approach to carving out a path of submission through anything that slows him down, but he gets under my skin in a way that just makes me itch to feel more of him.
That attraction is not going to lead us anywhere good. We’re competitors. Even if by some miracle I manage to get Taverne Toulouse back on track and keep the property out of Julien’s hands, we’ll be locked in a battle for customers for as long as we both decide to keep our jobs. There’s no future for anything between us. Even a one night stand would get messy. It’s better if we shut this down now.
I’ve always seen ghosting as taking the low road, though, so I take a deep breath and answer his call.
“Julien.”
“Monroe. What’s your first name?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles into the receiver. “I thought I could surprise it out of you.”
“Why can’t you just call me Monroe?”
“I just feel like I don’t properly know you. It’s a strange feeling.”
“Everyone calls me Monroe,” I assure him.
I did a full-blown Facebook security settings hack to make sure of it. It’s the only name I display there. From the fourth grade onward, every teacher I had got a special note on their attendance sheet next to my name. I shit you not, I special order actuallockable walletsso stubborn assholes can’t go through my ID. After some time, most people just accept that my name is Monroe and give up on their curiosity. I really hope Julien isn’t one of the irritating few who can’t get it in their heads that I’m not changing my answer.
“Even your parents?” he questions.
I try not to let out a growl. My dearparentsfinally stopped calling me the ridiculous name they misguidedly had printed on my birth certificate, but that doesn’t keep them from asking what’s wrong with it all the damn time.
‘Many things,’ would be the answer. Many,manythings are wrong with that name.
“I go by Monroe,” I reply, in a conversation-ending tone. “Can we leave it at that, please?”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to disrespect you.”
In the span of a few sentences, he’s gone from getting my hackles up to making my cheeks heat at his old fashioned manners. I can’t even remember what we’re supposed to be talking about. I know I had a goal in mind here, but he’s done it again. He’s made everything tilt.
“So, I texted you.”
Right. The date. The retracting the offer to go on the date. That’s the goal.
“I’m sorry I didn’t reply,” I tell him. “Things have been crazy at work. I know that’s a lame excuse, but—”
“But the world needs its cock rings?”
“What?”
