by Claire Adams
Wrigley turns and puts her feet on the floor. “I’m sorry, Miss Owen,” she says. “I didn’t know that was you. I’m Janet, one of the new assistants. This is kind of embarrassing, but I kind of have a thing about using public restrooms. It’s a privacy thing. I don’t like going where I think other people are going to, you know, hear anything.”
I really hope that works.
“Janet,” the woman repeats. “Whose assistant are you?”
I whisper, “Intern.”
“I’m sorry,” Wrigley says. “I meant intern.”
There’s a long pause.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here after 10,” the woman chastises.
“I know,” Wrigley says, “I’m very sorry about that. I just get really uncomfortable if I think anyone’s going to hear me.”
There’s another long pause.
“Well, all right,” the woman says. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
“I won’t, Miss Owen,” Wrigley answers. “I promise.”
With that, the woman turns and walks away. Neither Wrigley nor I move until we hear the door to the pool area open and close again.
“You’re going to have to move like nobody’s business,” she says. “Go and wait at the other door. I’ll see if I can distract her until you get on the elevator. Just wait for me outside and have a cab waiting for us, all right?”
“All right,” I answer, and with that, we move.
I wait at the door to the hallway until I hear the other door open and Wrigley thanking the woman again for being so understanding. I’m out the door and not looking back on my way down the hall.
I turn down the other hallway and make it to the elevators without incident. When I get to the bottom floor, though, the guards have a few of the people I hardly recognize with clothes stopped, questioning them.
I’d love to jump in and save them, but I have no idea what cover story they’re using and I’m pretty sure that I’d only make the situation worse for them, so I just try my luck walking past when I think they’re not looking.
“He was in the meeting, he’ll tell you,” some fucking idiot tells one of the security guards.
I stop walking. Sure, I might be able to get out those doors and outrun the guards, but that would put Wrigley in serious shit when she tried to come out.
“What’s going on?” I ask the guards.
“Why don’t you tell us?”
“We just finished up a meeting,” I say. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that Mrs. Owen came through here just a few minutes ago, saying that she heard there were some unauthorized people up on 36, and what do you know? A few minutes later, we’ve got a couple dozen people filing out of the elevator. Where’s Miss Bliley?”
“She had to make a pit stop,” I answer. “Look, I don’t know what you think is going on here, but we just finished up with our meeting, it’s late, I’m tired, and I’m sure we’d all just like to go home and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah?” the shorter security guard asks. “What was the meeting about?”
The people the guards stopped obviously gave some specific answer to that question, putting me in an almost impossible position.
“I can’t tell you that,” I answer.
“What do you mean you can’t tell us that?” the taller security guard asks, resting his hand on his belt.
“Have either of you ever heard of proprietary information?” I ask. “Not only could I lose my job if I disclosed the nature of the meeting to anyone not authorized, I could also get sued. I’m really not willing to risk that just because Mrs. Owen is paranoid that she’s losing her grip on the company.”
Hell, if I’m going to make shit up, I may as well take it as far as I can.
The guards look at each other.
“She’s losing the company?” the shorter guard asks. “These people said the meeting was about profit margins.”
“I’m sure they did,” I say. Is a wink too much? Yeah, a wink is too much. “And I never said that she was losing her grip on the company. Anyway, I can’t discuss it. Can we go, or are you going to continue to waste everyone’s time?”
“Well, if it was just a meeting,” the taller security guard starts, “then why did most of the people who came down run when we asked them to stop?”
Fucking amateurs.
“Probably because they didn’t want you reporting who was here at the meeting. Look guys,” I say in my good-old-boy tone, “we don’t want to make this situation awkward for anyone, but I can’t have Mrs. Owen coming back on any of our people, either. That doesn’t seem fair, I mean these are just good, hardworking people trying to do their job—just like the two of you. So, what do you say we just keep names and faces out of it?”
The truth is that, unless everyone except for Wrigley is a complete dolt, names and faces aren’t going to mean jack shit to anyone in this building, but it’s a good line.
“You know,” I say, “after things get switched around upstairs, I’d really hate to see the boss have to bring on new staff.”
The guards look at each other and then at me.
“All right,” the tall one says.
“We’ve got your back, Mr. Dur—I mean, sir.”
The elevator dings, and I’m praying that it’s anyone but Mrs. Owen who walks out. To my temporary relief, it’s Wrigley.
That relief is temporary because she’s not up to speed on the bullshit I’ve been feeding these guys.
“Hey there, boss,” I say. “We had a little misunderstanding down here, but not to worry. Our friends here don’t know anything about the meeting.”
“That’s right, ma’am,” the tall one says.
“None of our business anyway,” the short one chimes in.
“Good to hear,” Wrigley says, doing a decent job of hiding her confusion.
“You ready to get out of here?” I ask her.
“Yeah,” she says. “Have a good night, guys.”
We keep straight faces long enough to get into a cab, but as soon as that car door is closed, we’re in hysterics.
* * *
Back at my apartment, and Wrigley’s asking if she can sleep on the couch. I don’t really have a problem with it, especially after the fucking insane night we’ve both had.
That’s not what happens, though.
Before I know it, we’re both sitting on the couch and she’s running her fingers through my hair, telling me that she can’t remember having such a fun night and I’m having trouble disagreeing with her.
Yeah, I’m thinking about Leila, but the shine is off the apple. She left without so much as a smile and a wave, and I’m done feeling like shit for wanting to stop feeling like shit.
Wrigley’s kissing me a minute later and I’m not telling her to stop. My arms are around her, and I’m wondering what I was so afraid of. Wrigley wanted to stick with me even while I was trying to figure things out with Leila, and while that’s not perfect and her motivations were hardly pure, I’m sick of not being able to sleep at night because the woman I cared so much for just took off while I was sitting alone in a bar waiting for one last night together.
Wrigley pulls away for a second and asks, “Are you all right? We don’t have to do this if you’re still against it.”
“You know what? I’m fine,” I tell her.
I’m kissing her again and my hand makes its way behind her back, up to the clasp of her bra, and with one hand, I—hold on. Give me a second.
Okay, this hasn’t happened to me since I was a teenager.
I must just be drunk, because I know how a bra clasp works, but this fucking thing isn’t coming apart.
“Doin’ okay over there?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “Just give me a second.”
“You’re kind of losing your touch,” she says with a giggle.
Finally, I give up and she has to do it.
With her bra off, but her shirt still on, we�
�re back to kissing, and it feels pretty nice being with someone I know isn’t just going to leave me, and I really need to stop thinking about Leila. That’s probably what’s throwing me off tonight. I just need to stop thinking about Leila.
“You all right?” Wrigley asks, and I have to ask her what she’s talking about. “You just kind of stopped kissing me there, right in the middle of everything,” she says. “Are you sure you’re all right.”
“Yeah,” I scoff. “I’m fine. I don’t know what my deal is, but I’m fine.”
“Okay,” she says, and starts unbuttoning my shirt.
Yeah, this is nice. This is how I should be spending my free time: With this beautiful redhead who gets me, who I can be myself around, who’s clearly not Leila, but—goddamn it.
“Okay,” she says, her patience dwindling. “What’s going on?”
“What?”
“You’re just staring off into space now,” she says. “Our eyes were about two inches apart and you weren’t even looking at me.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I’m really fine.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “We don’t have to do anything. Tonight’s been great already, so if you’re not up for—”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
“Okay,” she smiles and she leans back in, kissing me.
She leans back just enough to get her shirt off, and she pulls mine off while she’s at it.
Skin to skin now, she’s pressing herself into me, and her warmth reminds me of Leila.
Okay, I’ve got to just push through this. It’s understandable that I’d be a little hung up right now, but it’s over with Leila. She won’t even answer my calls.
“Okay, seriously,” Wrigley says.
“What?” I ask. “I didn’t do anything that time.”
“I’ve been trying to put your hands on me, but you keep pulling them away. Obviously, you’re not into this, so maybe I should just go.”
“No,” I tell her. “Really, I’m fine. I think I’m just a little out of it, but I definitely want to do this.”
“You’re sure?” she asks. “This isn’t one of those high-pressure situations where you tell me you’re not down to fuck and I have a conniption fit.”
“I promise,” I tell her, “I’m fine.”
“All right,” she says, and she’s kissing me again.
I’ve got to keep my mind focused here. I don’t know what’s with me, but the more Wrigley and I touch, the more I hear her breathe, the more I feel the soft warmth of her skin, the more I’m picturing Leila, and the more I just want to break down and cry.
Wrigley’s hand makes its way down my chest and settles on my upper thigh.
My head’s in the game now, and I’m holding her close while she reaches up and undoes my pants with one hand.
At least one of us still has game.
Pants open now, she reaches in, and nothing.
“Okay, you’ve got to tell me what the fuck is going on,” she says. “I’ve seen you a lot drunker than this, and you’ve always been hard and ready to go.”
“I’m just nervous,” I tell her. “It’s been a while since you and I have been together like this.”
“Nothing’s happening, Dane,” she says. “What the fuck? You’re not even sporting a halfie.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, palms over my eyes. “I don’t know,” I tell her. “I just can’t do it. It’s not you, I promise you that. I’m just in my fucking head and I can’t get out of it. I can’t let go and just let this happen.”
I’m waiting for a response, but none comes.
After all her time and effort, stalkerish though it may have been, she can’t be very happy with me right now.
“Fuck!” I grunt and pull my hands away from my eyes, but Wrigley’s just sitting next to me with a smile on her face.
“I knew it,” she says. “You really are in love with her, aren’t you?”
“What?” I ask. “No, I thought I was, but how can I be in love with someone who just—”
“You can’t help who you fall in love with,” she says. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I thought this was what you wanted: you and I getting back to where we were before Leila and I—”
“That would have been nice,” she says, “but that’s not why I’ve been giving you such a hard time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you really think I’m dumb enough to think that stalking you is going to make you want to be with me? That has never fucking worked and it never will. Anyone who says differently is lying to themselves.”
“Then why—”
“I wanted you to be sure,” she says. “I could tell that morning after we technically became a thing. Every time we talked about your roommate, you got this look in your eye. It’s the same look I had a long time ago and there’s not another one like it.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell her. “What were you trying to accomplish?”
“I was just planting seeds,” she says. “While I know that look, I also know you. I know that you wouldn’t just get out of your own way and let something happen—even being in love—without a little help, so I helped.”
“You’re talking Greek,” I tell her. “I don’t understand how any of that was supposed to help my relationship with Leila.”
“Oh, don’t be such an idiot,” she says. “Even tonight’s about that. Do you really think I’m so deluded that I’d try to jump you when you’re clearly heartbroken? That would just be me taking advantage of you, and you’d end up resenting me for it. That last part is kind of why I’m telling you all this: I don’t want you to resent me for anything.”
“But you did try to jump me,” I tell her.
“You made the first five moves,” she says, “but I knew you’d stop it before it got that far. I didn’t count on your body saying no before you did, but that’s just the way it goes, I guess.”
“What am I supposed to do, though?” I ask. “I don’t know where she lives. She wouldn’t tell me. She won’t answer my calls, and anyway, I just spent the whole night with you—a lot of it with both of us naked, and—”
“Yeah, but notice anything?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
She squeezes my still flaccid member and says, “Most of the time, all it takes for a guy to get hard is a pleasing view or a little friction, and I’m pretty sure I’ve been giving you both for about the last 10 minutes, and not so much as a semi.”
She lets go of me and starts getting dressed.
“I’m having a little trouble believing you’ve been doing all this just so I’d end up with Leila,” I tell her.
“It’s not just that,” she says. “I wanted to see if it was real or just a phase. I wasn’t lying when I told you that I wasn’t so keen on giving up on my fuck buddy, but you’re in a different place right now. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to keep pretending like there’s still something between us.”
My head is hurting, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the alcohol or because what she’s saying actually makes a weird kind of sense. It’s definitely a Wrigley kind of sense.
“So, what do I do, though?” I ask again. “It’s not like I can just call her up and tell her the good news that I tried to get with someone else, but couldn’t get hard, so that must mean we’re meant for each other.”
“I think you know that the two of you are meant for each other,” she says. “But yeah, I probably wouldn’t mention how you came to that particular conclusion. I get that the two of you aren’t really together right now, but I can see that disclosure backfiring. You know where she works, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” she says. “Send a letter to her at work. Don’t do anything over the top—you don’t want to embarrass her, but you need to let her know that you haven’t forgotten about her, that you still want to find a way to make things work if you can. After that, I do
n’t know, but I bet you’ll get a response.”
Well, this has easily been the strangest night of my life, but at the same time, I can’t help but think it could be one of the most important.
“You know what?”
“What?” Wrigley asks.
“You’re right. Thank you for whatever voodoo you’ve been doing to help me see that, but I can’t just give up on her and me. I need to know if there’s some way we can make this work.”
Wrigley tells me that it might be better for me to call her again when it’s not 4 in the morning, but the phone’s already in my hand. I turn on the screen, ready to late-night drunk-dial Leila when I see the notification at the top of the screen.
“You have one voice message.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Five Alarm
Leila
We’re back at my apartment, Will and I, and I’ve been doing everything in my power to feel okay getting close to him.
So far, it hasn’t been working so well.
When I first showed him in, I was fully intending on ripping off his shirt and seeing what it’s like to ride a fireman, but I just ended up taking him for a tour of the apartment.
When we got to my bedroom, I told myself that this would be a perfect segue back toward sex, but I just stood there for a minute before asking him if he wanted something to drink.
Even after he said no, I still walked away from him and to the kitchen where I keep the liquor.
Now, I’m going through the freezer, trying to pick one of my five half-empty bottles to sooth my nerves.
I finally settle on tequila.
Okay, so I grab the bottle of rum, too.
All right, so I’m grabbing all of the bottles and setting them out on the counter, and I jump when Will asks me what I’m doing.
“Just setting these out,” I tell him. “Just in case you change your mind and you’d like something to drink. I’m pretty sure we could make some cocktails out of this stuff if you’d prefer that to a straight drink.”
“No,” he says, “I’m fine. You go ahead and indulge, though.”
“All right,” I tell him, and I go to the cabinet and pull out a glass.
I fill the thing half full with a mix of every one of these liquors, and I try not to notice the shocked expression on Will’s face as I drink the whole thing down in one lift of the glass. I would say one gulp, but I’m not quite there yet.
