by Sara Ney
“Uh, first of all, it’s ‘Thou doth protest too much, methinks.’ And second of all, I don’t have time to argue with either of you. I’m not going to lose the bet.”
I’m going to win it.
“You idiots both fucked up the quote,” Brooks interjects bossily. “It’s ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks.’ Jesus Christ, get it together. Don’t you know anything?”
Blaine sighs. “What’s this mystery girl’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I feel my face getting red. “She wouldn’t tell me.”
Blaine cackles. “What. A. Ballbuster!”
“Is that what we’re calling it now when a girl is rude and sarcastic? A ballbuster?” I’m getting irritated now, even more so than before. “And do you want to know what else? This is her fault. She told me not to eat the cream cheese but then watched me eat it, then watched me throw up in the waste paper basket.”
“That’s a you problem, not a her problem,” Blaine murmurs. “And please stop using the term waste paper basket—you sound like my grandmother. It’s weird.”
“Do you know how you sound right now, Phillip? You sound like a kid in the back seat of his parents’ minivan, whining to his mom because his sister is looking at him.”
“Well she was looking at me.” And I didn’t like it.
“You problem,” he says again.
“Stop it,” I whine, well aware that it sounds like I’m pouting.
But shit, I’m taking a beating today. First from Paul, then from the bagel that wrecked my insides, now from my friends—who are supposed to be on my side.
Traitors.
Why are they so goddamn infuriating? “My point is, I’m irritated.”
“Because of a girl.”
Yes, one hundred percent. “No, because I puked at work.”
“In front of a girl,” they both say at the same time.
I let out a pfft and shift in my desk chair. The chair I have to eventually evacuate today, inside the office I have to clean out so workers can come in and tear out the flooring tomorrow. “It doesn’t matter—I’ve never bumped into her before today and I doubt I ever will again.”
“Famous. Last. Words.” Brooks’ taunt makes my lip snarl up.
“Why did I bother calling the two of you? I called so you could cheer me up, not make me feel like a pile of shit.”
“Do you need us to bring you some soup and rub your tummy?” Blaine can barely contain his laughter as the barbs continue rolling. “I might have some saltine crackers in my desk.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
Only—he’s not really being an asshole, because I know damn well he would bring me soup and crackers and whatever else I needed. Blaine Shepard might be a douchebag sometimes, but he’s a great friend.
All I’d need to do is ask and he’d be here.
I’ve known these jackasses since we were in high school; we parted ways in college, each taking our own individual paths, attending different universities. Somehow, though, we all ended up in Chicago. Close enough to downtown that we can meet a few times a month—or week—for drinks, cigars, and trash talk. Talk about work. Our families. Love lives.
Lack thereof…
Women.
And now, with the inception of the Bastard Bachelor Society—or the BBS, as we’ve begun calling it—we have more reason to get together than we did before.
“Seriously though, dude. If you need anything…” Brooks laments thoughtfully, his tone changing, more serious. I can hear the clicking of a pen in the background, imagining his thumb pressing down on it over and over and over while we talk, to keep his hands occupied.
Suddenly, I feel better. Not so butthurt. “I’ll be fine. I’m not actually sick.”
“But you could get food poisoning, dipshit. You should go get checked out.”
“I’m not going to the doctor, Mom. I won’t get food poisoning.” And I can’t afford to get it, either. The last thing I want is to visit the doctor, ain’t no one got time, even if it comes with a free prostate exam. “I’ll be fine.”
Blaine isn’t convinced. “If you say so.” Then, “Should we have a meeting this week or skip it until you’re your old self again?”
There is a silence on the line as they wait for my verdict. “Let’s have a meeting.” I need one.
I’m being kicked out of my own office all week.
I need to vent, and I need a drink.
3
Spencer
Tuesday morning and already they’ve managed to squeeze another desk inside my office.
Clearly an act of God, this new interloper has managed to be crushed in—by what forces I may never know since I wasn’t here when they brought the desk in—all the unnecessary furniture temporarily removed and stacked outside my door.
Two chairs and a plant stand. One thin, three-tiered book shelf.
Whose stupid idea was this? Why not just leave the desks out in the common areas?
Deciding a man must have made this decision—no offense to any men out there, but come on now—I narrow my eyes, assessing the situation with palpable irritation. Coming face-to-face with a mega-desk is not how I wanted to begin my Tuesday morning.
Or any morning for that matter.
Still.
Dubbing it the mega-desk will at least be amusing for me, since that’s what it looks like. A monolith of wood taking up space I simply do not have in this office.
An office I do not want to share.
Call me selfish, or territorial, but…
I don’t.
Regardless, I have no choice.
I stare at the two desks, scooting my way around them, into the cramped space, moving the door to see whether it can be shut or not. I may be giving up privacy for the next few days, but it would be nice to have a closed door considering we’ll have twice as many people on this side of the floor during the renovations.
I test it, giving a definitive nod when the door barely misses the extra desk, then continue toward my chair.
Of course, this new arrangement also means this week I’ll have an officemate from the opposite end of the building—the south side. The construction side. A person—probably a man—I pray will not chatter, will not distract me during the days they’re invading my space.
And it is mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
I relish it. I busted my ass for it. I loves it.
Mine.
Dumping my purse on the marble windowsill, I pull my chair out and survey the landscape with my hands on my hips; it’s a gorgeous day. The sun is shining through the windows, and though it’s cold, there are birds in the trees. The bright beams hit my computer screen in such a way that I can see it’s been wiped clean by cleaning staff.
Keyboard, too.
I power everything up with a content hum in my throat and a pep in my step. Plug in my phone charger. Shuffle and rearrange my pens and highlighters, busying myself with mundane tasks while I wait.
I wonder who my roomie is going to be, what department they’re in. The memo only stated that “the south side of the complex will be getting new carpeting first, then when that is complete, the north side will get an overhaul. Please excuse our mess during the renovation.”
I had to visit the company website for a map to see which departments were on the south side of this expansive floor—male-dominated departments like equipment, development, estimating, and contracts. The project managers and superintendents have offices on that side of the floor, too.
Why am I fidgeting? This is my office—I’m not the gatecrasher who has to squat in someone else’s space for the week.
Granted, it’s not my choice, but still—show some respect!
I sigh, sweeping the hair out of my eyes, glancing out the window at the street below. Listen to the sounds of traffic and the train and the honking—noise pollution I used to hate with a passion but have grown to love.<
br />
A city girl at heart, I always knew I would stay here. Born and bred with a subway card in her back pocket and a chip on her shoulder where tourists are concerned, it seems fitting I would end up working in an industry where, as a female, I have to hold my own. Have to stiffen my spine and stand my ground when I believe in something strongly.
I watch the sidewalk as pedestrians come and go, heads bent, hurried. On their way to work, or to grab coffee, or take their kids to school. Late for the subway, late for a meeting, early. On time. People, people, everywhere.
Speaking of coffee, I wish I had some now.
I didn’t want to trickle in this morning, assuming I would find someone in the other desk when I arrived. There’s nothing I love more than playing hostess in my apartment—it’s another thing entirely to be sharing my office. Even so, I was up bright and early, showered and out the door an entire hour ahead of schedule.
So unlike me.
I did, however, draw the line at grabbing breakfast for the new half of this temporary duo—God forbid I make them feel too welcome or too comfortable. Get them in and get them out; that will be my motto for the duration of the week.
The clock ticks.
Car horns blare.
The train car on the next block screeches on its rusted rails.
Tick.
Tock.
“Well. I suppose I could get some work done,” I say to no one in particular, giving my wireless speaker a longing look. I love listening while I work, preferring talk radio or stand-up comedy to get the creative juices flowing. Would it be rude to have the speaker playing when this person finally arrives?
Tick.
Tock.
I quite literally twiddle my thumbs. Move the mouse for my computer around to pass the time when I should be working. Instead, I’m hemming and hawing waiting on this person. This stranger. Let’s face it—I don’t socialize with the construction side much, so the chances that I’m going to be familiar with my officemate? Slim to none.
I stare out the window. Putz around on social media.
I have an ad campaign to busy myself with, but I don’t touch it. There’s signage for a huge high-rise to finalize, colors for a new exterior to look at and who has time to screw around?! Not me!
“Ugh.” I heave myself out of the desk chair, irritated and impatient, stomach fluttering like it did my freshman year of college waiting on my first ever roommate. Will she want the bed I chose? Will she be a total bitch? Will she be tidy like I am or a complete slob like my sister Shannon?
Tick.
Tock.
It’s just past eight o’clock in the morning. Around here, the workday has officially begun for almost everyone in our building, and my cellmate has yet to arrive.
My stomach growls, and because I skipped breakfast to make a hasty trip to work this morning, I resign myself to the breakroom, where I know there’s at least a muffin or bagel or two.
I snicker, remembering yesterday—Phillip.
Phillip, the guy who loaded up his bagel with expired cream cheese to be stubborn and prove a point, then barfed it back up in the garbage can in reception. He might have been cute in his standard-issue company polo and jeans—but the sounds he made when he gagged?
Disgusting, and also hilarious.
I bet when he gets the sniffles, he’s useless for days.
A “man cold” my mother calls it when my dad gets sick. One sniffle, one cough or slight fever and my father is laid out flat, bellyaching on the bed as if dying of some incurable plague—like a child.
Drives my mom nuts.
My mind strays to the image of him, hunched over and vomiting in Paul’s trash, and Paul beside him, eyes wide, hand on his mouth as if he were about to wretch, too.
There was no time for me to mention that one time in fifth grade during English class, we were seated on the floor listening to our teacher, Mrs. Galvin, when suddenly, I threw up in Renee Hall’s lap. When we were sent to the bathroom to clean ourselves up—me apologizing profusely—Renee threw up in the sink.
So yeaaaah.
Definitely not worth mentioning my own humiliation, instead enjoying Phillip’s.
The look on that guy’s face…classic mortification when his horrified gaze met mine from across the lobby. I was the last person he wanted to witness him puking.
Honestly? I kind of feel terrible for him.
Okay fine, on a scale of one to ten, I feel terrible negative zero, because witnessing that moment was a gift from above—ammunition for a rainy day, in case I ever bump into him, or need a favor.
Shoot, come to think of it, why didn’t I film it with my phone to use as evidence?
In any case, I am absolutely not going to the breakroom because I’m hoping to bump into Phillip. Who I absolutely do not have a crush on in any way, shape, or form. I just met the guy, for heaven’s sake—no one develops a crush that fast, no matter how ruggedly handsome someone is. Or how amazing he smells. Especially after watching that someone vomit in the most ungentlemanly fashion.
I’m hungry and need coffee; that’s my reason for heading to the breakroom. Taking the long route through accounting, past receivables, along the corridor past purchasing, the department that awards subcontractor contracts.
Glass walls. Easily visible offices. Fish bowls.
Except today, they’re all empty, void of even furniture.
Eventually I arrive at my destination, peeking into the empty room with hesitation—large, full of windows, all the amenities you’d find in the kitchen at your house and then some. Refrigerator. Sink. Several sets of tables and chairs. A few booths along the wall. Cabinets with plates, bowls, and glasses. Drawers with cutlery.
But no Phillip.
I’m not disappointed—you are.
I mosey on in, ambling to the fridge. A few times a week, food is brought in, not by our budget-conscience company, but by other businesses wanting jobs with us. Flooring contractors send in bagels on Fridays. The glass and window manufacturer? Monthly barbeque. There’s the occasional taco bar—hence why I’ve literally gained ten pounds since I began working here.
My eyes linger on the door.
No Phillip.
Since it’s Tuesday, there are croissants on the counter, and I snatch one from the glass bell jar, wrap it in a napkin, and pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds.
Not very nutritious, but buttery and delicious.
I’m cramming the baked good into my mouth when he strolls in, real classy and casual. A hot flush floods my cheeks.
Crap.
I may have seen him toss his cookies yesterday, but I did not need him to see me stuffing my face. Not a good look for me.
“Morning.” Phillip sidles over, reaching for a coffee mug, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is still wet and he smells like fresh shower, shampoo, and aftershave lotion—all the best things combined.
He’s wearing a black sweater and jeans, and when he turns his back to fill his cup, I can’t stop my eyes from roaming his broad back.
Dog hair.
Dog hair everywhere.
Yikes.
I stifle a laugh, wondering what kind of hound he has that sheds so bad, and feel guilty all over again for this poor dude’s bad luck.
“Feeling better today?” I jab, unable to stop myself.
“Yes,” he grunts. Turns. Spears me with a blue-eyed stare. “I wasn’t sick.”
We both know he wasn’t sick, but that doesn’t stop me from raising my perfect brows into my hairline and taunting, “You weren’t? Weird. Usually when someone heaves, it’s because they’re not feeling well.” For my next bite of warm croissant, I delicately pull the other end up and set it on my waiting tongue. “Just saying.”
“I feel fine.”
He looks fine. Super fine and super cute.
Ugh. I wish he’d go away so I could scarf down the remainder of this bread, but he doesn’t. In the brief time he’s been standing in the breakroom, he has only
poured himself a mug of steaming coffee, hasn’t taken a single sip, nor has he gotten anything to eat.
I go to the fridge, pull the door open. Retrieve the white, round container of cream cheese and extend it as an offering. “Here.”
When he doesn’t take it, I set it on the counter between us. Poke it with my finger to give it a nudge in his direction. When he doesn’t touch it, I remove the lid, smiling. Am I the absolute worst or what?
Phillip gags, a small choking sound in the back of his throat.
What a pussy. Seriously.
“I’m not…” He turns his back for a few seconds, inhaling the fresh air. “I’m not hungry.” When he faces me again, he practically wheezes, eyes narrowed in my direction, and I shrug, heading toward the door.
“You should toss that—it might make someone sick,” I say over my shoulder. “Then again, who’d be dumb enough to eat it?”
Grabbing a water bottle from the cabinet next to the exit, I make my way through the wide corridor with the smirk still on my face.
But. Someone is behind me.
I glance back.
Correction: Phillip is behind me.
I turn right, toward the creative department.
Phillip turns right toward the creative department, hoisting his laptop bag, redistributing the weight.
I halt in my tracks, spinning on my heels. “Are you following me?”
“It does appear that way.”
Hmm. “Where are you headed?”
He lifts his arm, pointing down the hallway, then moves past, squeezing between me and the wall because, well—I’m just standing here blocking his path. Not on purpose, I just…would rather stand here talking stupid and flirting than relegate myself to the confines of the mega-desk awaiting me.
Sigh.
I watch Phillip’s strong back, muscles straining through the knit of his sweater, dog hair clinging, yet oddly enough it’s not bothering me to see it there.
He hangs a left.
I hang a left.
Phillip halts in his tracks, turning. “Are you following me?”
Gross. “No!” Technically, I am, though not on purpose. “Where are you going?”
“Temporary housing.” He has a small piece of paper in his hand I hadn’t noticed before, most likely an office number.
