I’d wanted to get to know Blake before actually dating him. Maybe this is the universe’s way of providing me with that opportunity. All right. Let’s get to know each other.
Chapter 14
We’ve got things covered here today. Feel free to take the day off. See you Monday.
I read Fern’s text four times, but this impromptu Friday off still doesn’t feel like a good thing. Does this have anything to do with Fern’s sudden need to bond? Is Phyllis trying to set me up? But with what? She’s already flogged the receipt book fiasco into the ground.
Is it something to do with Blake? We’ve only exchanged a couple of emails, and the ones we sent were pretty innocent, so even if Phyllis knew about them, there’s no way Fern would care. Is there? Has she found out through her etheric minions that Blake and I spent four hours talking online last night and it was totally amazing and I have a major crush on him now? I call Inner Space.
“Inner Space, Fern speaking.”
“Hey, Fern. It’s Sarah.”
A pause. “Oh, hello.” She sounds neither friendly nor hostile.
“Um, so I feel weird about having today off. Is something up?”
“Why would there be? We just felt you could use a bonus day off. You’ve been working hard lately. You’re entitled.”
She’s saying the right things, but Fern and Ziggy are brutally cheap. They aren’t into giving something for nothing. For crying out loud, they buy one-ply toilet paper, which practically evaporates before making contact, and they’re going to give me a day off out of the blue? But what can I say without seeming confrontational or, worse, defensive?
“Okay, well, thanks. If you’re sure?”
“Yes, we’re sure. Take care, have a good weekend. Balance and recharge, and we’ll see you on Monday.”
“Okay.” I hang up feeling no better than I did before I called, but she didn’t sound mad or like they’re interviewing someone to replace me. Not that I’d be able to tell from a phone call.
I hate this.
On the plus side, I now have a three-day hippie-free weekend, which is music to my shoulders. I never knew stripping beds, remaking them, and doing laundry could be so tough. Since it’s only nine, I crawl back into bed and sleep until eleven, feeling even better when I wake up.
Starbucks should deliver. They’re seriously missing out on opportunities to wow me by enabling my laziness. Deciding not to leave the apartment all day, I brew a cup of Irish cream in my single-cup coffee machine—a late housewarming gift from Pete, which I still need to thank him for—and head to my computer.
Creamy goodness warms my tongue, and I dial Pete’s number.
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Hello to you too.” I take another sip. “We don’t make with the niceties of small talk anymore?”
“Hello, my darling. I do so hope you’re well. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I’ve got the day off today.” My feet bounce happily.
“Are you throwing a sickie?”
“No, they just gave me a day off,” I say smugly.
“Paid?” I can hear his eyebrow rise in doubt.
Bugger. I never thought to ask if this was a paid day off. I’ll just wait until I get my check—no point bringing it up to Fern and Ziggy unless they actually short me. Wouldn’t want to be accused of not being a team player. “So what are your plans for the weekend?” I ask in lieu of an answer and open my browser.
“We’re going to that new club, Gated Way, Sunday night. You’re coming, right?”
“Who all’s going?” I try to keep my tone casual, wondering if Jack will be there.
“The usual.”
It’s like he knows what I’m asking but trying to be obstinate. “What time?”
“We’ll pick you up at ten thirty?”
We. Definitely Jack then. I try to drown the butterflies in my stomach with more coffee. “Sounds good. I’m breaking in the amazing coffee machine you gave me.”
“How is it? Do you love it?”
“I do. I wasn’t sure at first that they get a good balance of flavor and strength. You know I’m particular about my caffeine.”
“Yes. But they’re fabulous—and you don’t even have to commit to a whole pot of something.”
I sign into my email. “You’re such a commitment-phobe.”
“The caged bird doesn’t sing because it’s happy, dear. It sings because it wants to get the fuck out and stretch its little wings.”
“One day you’ll meet someone, Pete, and you’ll want nothing more than for him to tie you down.”
“As will you.”
Maybe I already have. “Well, I should get going. See you tomorrow night.”
“Ten thirty. Wear something slutty.”
“Just for that, I’m going to wear pants.”
“No!”
I laugh and hang up and sign into Skype.
He’s there, and he’s sent me a message already. But when I open it, it’s just ‘?.>;’
With a grin, I reply. ? ?! !!!
He replies a moment later. What? Oh crap. Sorry about that.
Me: Your random punctuation startled me.
Him: So cute. I read a poem once that was just punctuation.
What? Like ^(&^(&%? Because I hate to break it to you, but that probably wasn’t a poem. It was someone saying bad words.
Him: I don’t know what they were going for, but it was too highbrow for me. Do you like poetry?
Me: Do dirty limericks count?
Him: Of course!
I laugh. I like some poems but haven’t really read many. Do you have a favorite poem?
His reply is immediate. Yes.
He sits around contemplating poetry in his spare time? That’s so different from anyone I’ve ever dated. But I like it. What’s your favorite?
Him: Okay, I do love the classics, and some of the Beat poets. But…you can’t laugh. But there’s this book, “Plague Dogs.”
My mouth drops open. Are you talking about Snitter’s poem?!
Him: You know it?
Me: When I was little, I saw the cartoon of “Watership Down,” and I came across the book when I was in high school. I loved it, so I read “Plague Dogs” as well. It was so different, and depressing and haunting. Gorgeous. Snitter broke my heart.
Him: Mine too. Confession time—I donate part of my income every year to fighting against animal testing because of that book.
This does nothing to shatter the sensitive, intelligent image of him forming in my mind. Even now, thinking of that poor little dog with the messed-up mind, wanting nothing more than to find his “stolen” master, brings poignant sadness into my heart. It’s really a great book that sticks with you like that years later.
Him: Definitely. It’s one I read and was like, “Wow that was beautiful. I’ll never read it again.” It was beautiful but too much.
He’s too perfect. Do you have any flaws?
Him: I hog the blankets.
If he were here right now, I’d be all over him like a blanket.
* * *
Saturday morning, I’m in the bathtub wallowing in the decadence of three types of oils and sweet almond bubble bath as a way of continuing the feelings that our online talk last night gave me. I don’t know his age or birthday, but I do know he’s smart and witty—and I want to know more about him. I could have talked to him all night, but I thought it best to tear myself away. No sense appearing too available.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. Is it him? How did he get my number? Why is he calling? Should I not get it? Third ring. I’m getting it.
I clear my throat and answer. “Hello?”
“Sarah?” The deep voice is vaguely familiar.
“Yes?”
“It’s Blake.”
Oh my God, I was right. “Hey. Not to sound as though I’m unhappy about it, but how did you get this number?”
“Employee contact list. I’m sleuthy like that.”
I s
mile. “Should we pick up where we left off?”
“You want to make it a three-way with that naughty label maker?”
It’s a good thing I’m lying in the bathtub because my blush would have set me on fire. It’s strange he’s referring to the label maker when we’ve spoken online since then, but he did say he wanted me to get to know him first. Maybe I’m not quite ready to jump into something that forward either, but I do like him, so I keep it flirty. “I barely know the label maker. I don’t want it to think I’m easy.”
He chuckles. “You weren’t at work yesterday.”
“No. Fern gave me the day off.” He’d have been at his other clinic and assumed I was talking to him from my phone.
“I heard.” He sighs.
“Was the label maker pining for me? Tell it there’s no one else for my labeling needs, I swear!”
“I’ll pass that on. But no. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
Damn it, what has Phucking Phyllis done now? “About what?”
“I was in to pick up my check and heard an interesting conversation between Fern and Zig.”
“About me?”
“Indirectly, but it explained something she asked me about a week ago. Do you know why Fern gave you the day off yesterday?”
My stomach sinks. Was she interviewing someone for my position like she and Ziggy did to my predecessor? “No. She said it was because I’d earned it. It felt a bit hinky, but I didn’t push it. Why?”
“I almost don’t want to say anything in case it makes it worse.”
“Please, Blake, you have to tell me. If I’m about to be fired, I want to know about it and not go into work blindly. Just tell me what it is.” My mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.
“No, she’s not firing you. But have you noticed her treating you any differently in the past week or so?”
I let his words roll around my mind for a minute. “I guess she’s been a little off. Not as friendly and she hasn’t stayed to chat, but I assumed she was just busy or preoccupied. Why?”
“Has she asked you about the float?”
We keep about seventy-five dollars in float for change, but I don’t have to balance it or anything. Fern does that. “No.”
“About a week ago, she started asking around work because money was missing from the float. She asked everyone.”
“She never asked me.”
“Because she thought you were the one taking it.”
My face grows hot with shame I shouldn’t feel because I didn’t do it. I don’t steal from people. My silence stretches on too long.
“Sarah?”
“I’m here. I just can’t believe it. I didn’t take anything. I’m not a thief. If I needed money that much, I’d have asked. I—”
“I know you didn’t take it. And now Fern knows too.”
I sit up with a splash. If it was Phyllis, then two of my problems would be solved in one fell swoop. “Did the person who took it confess?”
“Fern caught them in the act. She thought it was you, so she gave you the day off to confirm that no money went missing when you were gone. Then she saw Ziggy going into it at lunch and confronted him. Other than you, he was the one person she hadn’t thought to ask. He told her he’s been raiding it for a few bucks here and there to buy his lunches from the deli in the grocery store.”
I shake my head. “So it was Ziggy all along.”
“Yup. They were arguing about it pretty loudly in the back room when I stopped by. But either way, your innocence was proven today, so I imagine things will get a little better for you.”
“Maybe.” But the fact that Fern didn’t even ask me is very telling. She must think I’m a liar as well as a thief. And what if Ziggy hadn’t needed the cash for his lunch? Would I have lost my job out of circumstance? “Thanks for telling me.”
“Of course. We’re in this together, right?” His tone thaws the icy fear lodged in my gut.
“Yeah, we are.”
“Have a good weekend. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You too.”
It doesn’t matter that the issue has resolved itself. Fern still thought I was taking money, and she may have even fired me without confronting me about the cash. She doesn’t know me at all, which is an unsettling realization. With Phucking Phyllis fueling their insecurities to try to get me out of there, my job is even less secure than I thought.
I feel the urge to phone Fern and confront her myself to clear the air, but what would that serve? I’d seem confrontational and defensive, and I’m not supposed to know about this, so Blake might get in trouble. And if Phyllis was there, damned right she’d bring up Blake. I could raise a stink, but would it really help me? Fern believes she’s always right, so she’s bound to feel a bit prickly that she couldn’t, I don’t know, read the energy and magically tell who the culprit was. If I bring the subject up, even in the interest of making things right, she’s not going to take it well.
I’ve got to let it go and hope that the truth is enough for Fern to realize I’m a good person. With a sigh, I pull the plug on the tub and climb out.
Chapter 15
By the next day, the sense of betrayal has faded and I’m looking forward to going out with Pete and dancing. The bar we’re going to is new, which is always either great or a horror show—never a happy medium—but Jack is DJ’ing, so at least the music will be good. My outfit for the night is a pair of jeans so inky purple they’re almost black and a silvery-gray T-shirt. I slide on a pair of buckled, red, high-heeled boots and a belt the same color to go with my highlights. Maybe it’s too matchy, but it makes me feel good.
I must have done all right, because Pete had no criticisms when he picked me up, other than “You should have worn a skirt to show off your legs.” We get the cab driver to switch the radio to an indie station we love, so when we pull up to the bar, we’re already bouncing.
“How was your week?”
How much should I tell him? It’s way early days to talk about Blake and me. Besides, I don’t know where that’s going yet. I could tell Pete about the stealing debacle, but I’m tired of feeling bogged down with negativity. “It’s a whole lot better now.”
“Awww.” He squeezes my arm. “I feel like I never see you anymore.”
“I know.” I climb out of the cab. “But I bet your couch is happy to have seen the last of me.”
“Yes. I do love you, but I’m glad to have my man cave back.”
“You mean the cave of masculinity where you dance around in your thong?”
“Yup.”
We’ve always been honest with each other, but reality presses close to me for a second. Pete would let me come back to his place in a second if I lost this job, but if the situation with Inner Space goes pear-shaped, I don’t want to have to go back to Pete’s. I’m going to have to try harder to fit in at work and gain a little security. And I’ve been letting Phyllis get to me too much. I refuse to let her chase me away from what’s actually a decent-paying job. She’s not a criminal mastermind, and I can out-Zen her every day of the week.
My resolve makes me strut a little harder, and Pete and I enter the club with flare, flash our IDs, and get stamped.
Specific parts of my body register Jack’s presence before my eyes do. The T-shirt and low-slung jean combination was invented so he could own it. It says a lot about him that he hasn’t changed much despite finding obvious financial success. He doesn’t go around flashing cash to impress people.
“Pete, Sarah, hey. I got us drinks.” Jack hugs Pete and then me, and my hands itch to wander south instead of keeping in the friend zone. Why is it getting harder to keep my hands to myself around him? Because he’s fuck hot and a great guy.
But Pete is family. A part of me knows that if Jack and I dated and then broke up, I’d lose Pete too. That’s a scenario that can never happen. Pete means too much to lose because of casual sex. Trouble is, the more I hang out with Jack, the more I want.
Looking everywh
ere but Jack’s face is easier tonight since the club is one we’ve never been to before. Honestly, I can’t see us coming back very often. The club has a calculated roughness that screams “bar fight.” Not to judge the clientele by their covers, but the body language is tense for an opening night when we’re all supposed to be having a good time celebrating the owner’s success. Or maybe I’m just projecting my tension onto everyone else.
Fortunately Jack leaves to play his set a few minutes later. Right away the music improves.
“I love this song.” I tap Pete’s arm. “Dance?”
“You go ahead. I’ll watch the table and get a head start on the drinking.”
“Do a shot for me.”
“I will.” He puffs out his stomach and pats it. “I’m drinking for two!”
I grin and ease through the crowd to the dance floor with the martini Jack bought me. This early in the night it’s a bit sparsely populated, which is perfect. More room for me. The music combines with my drink and loosens my movements with each song that passes. Man, it’s sweltering in here. Pete was right—I should have worn a skirt.
Still, the music is amazing, and I don’t care if I sweat my face off. I’m not here to impress anyone. I’m here to cut loose. Pete joins me for a while with a fresh drink just as I get thirsty. Jack plays the best music. I love these guys.
Jack points at me from the booth, and I realize I’ve been dancing while staring directly at him for a few minutes.
I wave, then turn away. I’m the one who said we couldn’t be a thing, and here I am violating that boundary—well, maybe not violating it, but definitely sticking my toe over the line.
Pete is talking to some guy whose pants are too tight. He touches the guy’s arm—asking him to dance—but the guy shakes his head and walks away. He sits at a table full of guys—none as cute as Jack or Pete. One of them is even wearing a trucker hat.
Pete notices me and weaves his way over. “He was only a seven anyway.”
Missed Connections Page 11
