by Becky Monson
“I’m annoyed with you right now, Julia,” she says, and takes another drag of her cigarette.
“I know! I’m annoyed with myself! I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything when I have something to tell you.”
“How did it happen?” She crinkles her eyes at me.
“Mr. Calhoun just asked me to help him with some stuff after work and I was not supposed to tell anyone. Brown, you can’t tell anyone, okay? I’ll fill you in when I actually know what the heck I’m keeping a secret for. I really don’t know what I’m doing. Just some different types of reports.” She looks so annoyed at me right now. I just wish I could keep my big trap shut. The thought does cross my mind that perhaps keeping a secret from her isn’t what’s truly bothering Brown. Maybe she’s feeling a bit of jealousy because she wasn’t asked to work on this project. That would be very Brown-like.
“That’s interesting …” she trails off, looking like she’s putting the pieces together to something in her head.
“It’s really not,” I say emphatically.
“I’m not talking about your work for Calhoun. I’m talking about something I heard earlier today. I didn’t think it was gossip-worthy because I wasn’t really sure, but now I’m thinking it might be …” she trails off again.
“Don’t leave me hanging, Brown. Tell me!”
“I’m sorry, I was sworn to secrecy.” She smiles slightly and looks at me out of the corner of her eye.
“I’m sorry. What more do you want me to say? I’ll tell you when I have it all figured out, I promise. Now tell me what you’ve heard.” Oh how I love the possibility of juicy gossip, it makes my blood race. It’s my only vice.
“Okay,” she says in hushed tones, moving closer to me. “I walked by my boss’s office earlier today, and I think I heard him say something like Nguyen was on his way out. I wasn’t sure because it wasn’t clear. I didn’t even remember it until you said that Calhoun asked you not to tell Nguyen. Now I’m wondering if that’s actually what I heard.”
“Oh, that is interesting …” I say, smiling conspiratorially at her.
“Think about it. It kind of makes sense. Why would Calhoun want you not to tell Nguyen, and have you work after hours to do it?” Brown says, nodding her head like she’s just uncovered something huge. She’s such the detective.
We ponder on this for a bit, tossing around ideas for why Mr. Nguyen would be on his way out. The guy has worked for Spectraltech for years. It’s hard to believe they would let him go. So, maybe he’s going to quit? However, then what’s with all the secretive stuff? Maybe he’s going to be fired for something big, and they need me to help catch him.
If that’s true, in an odd way, it makes me feel a little sad. I mean, I know I think Mr. Nguyen is a crazy person who should have been committed along with his abnormally long pinky nail, but it doesn’t mean I want him to be unemployed. Maybe Brown is wrong, although it sort of makes sense.
It’s odd how I don’t even have an inkling of his life outside of work. I don’t even know if he’s married or has children. In the ten years that I’ve known Mr. Nguyen, he’s never revealed anything about his personal life. When he comes to company parties, if he comes, he’s always alone and leaves quickly. The longest conversation we’ve ever had has been maybe five minutes, and it’s always been about work, nothing else.
I don’t even know how long he’s worked here. He was here before I got here, and when I asked around everyone said he was part of the buy-out deal that’s now Spectraltech. No one knows where Henry Nguyen came from. Maybe he’s a spy for another country or something and he’s been working undercover for all these years, his long pinky nail marking his allegiance to his terrorist group.
Yes, well, most likely that’s not what is going on. The thought of three hungry children crying because there’s no money to buy food, and Mr. Nguyen going postal when he’s fired and coming in with a gun (it’s the quiet ones you're supposed to worry about, right?), keeps running through my head. Although, I’ve already established I have no idea if he has a family and who are we kidding? Mr. Nguyen would’ve saved money for something like this. He’s definitely not the frivolous type. The postal type, though, is a possibility.
I decide not to ponder this anymore because I’m clearly jumping to conclusions. I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on work since I spent so much time in the morning working on Anna’s resumé.
At five thirty, I get my stuff and head to the elevator, feeling a twinge of guilt/sadness as I walk past Mr. Nguyen’s office. I realize I’m being a bit dramatic. I can’t help myself though.
I can’t believe I’m spending a Friday evening with Mr. Calhoun. This really ranks high in the book of pathetic spinster activities. It’s pathetic, even for a spinster. Although, I have to say this whole Mr. Nguyen twist has got me intrigued. Now, I really want to find out what the heck I’m actually taking part in. Even though there are a million other things I’d rather be doing right now, at least that has piqued my interest a bit. I’m also feeling a bit on the important side considering how annoyed Brown seemed at not being asked to be on this super-secret task. It’s like I’m some sort of spy … a spinster spy. Well, that doesn’t really roll off the tongue remarkably well. I’ll have to think of a better name.
As I get on the elevator, for no particular reason, I start to feel a little giddy and move around the small space with my hands in the shape of a gun while I hum the Mission: Impossible theme. I’m a spinster spy. Although, let’s be honest, a spinster spy would most likely find a way to use cats for a weapon, or perhaps sagging breasts would work. You could really whip someone in the face pretty hard with those things if used properly.
I abandon the spy moves and just start dancing around the elevator like a complete fool and singing “Sweet Home Alabama.” I’m not really sure how I went from the Mission: Impossible theme to “Sweet Home Alabama,” but somehow it’s a smooth transition.
I’m in the midst of doing a booty-shaking thing with my hand spanking the air when I hear someone’s voice. I turn around to see the door to the elevator is opened and standing there with a big smirk on his face is none other than … Jared.
Oh dear heaven, please no. Please say I’m dreaming. Please say it’s a hologram, and I’ve entered into some Mission: Impossible realm. Oh please, oh please, oh please!
No such luck. I have once again embarrassed myself in front of this impossibly handsome man, and there’s no covering it up this time. I’m a complete moron. I really should just be put away into a padded cell. It’s the only true place I belong … tied up in a white jacket.
I decide to play it cool. “Hey,” I say a little breathlessly since my dancing around the elevator has been more exercise than I can take.
“Hey,” he says back and his lip twitches like he’s about to laugh.
“I didn’t know you were back,” I say, still slightly breathless, still looking like a complete jackass.
“Just got back an hour ago,” he says, still smirking.
“Cool,” I say and purse my lips together, shaking my head slightly. Be cool Julia, be cool. “I’m just, um, up here to see Mr. Calhoun.”
“I know.” He lets go of the smirk and smiles slightly at me.
“Oh, you do?” I say, surprised. How would he know? “How do you know that? He said it was ‘super-secret?’”
“Well, he’s asked me to work on the ‘proverbial’ super-secret report, too.” He uses air quotes when he says “proverbial,” doing a pretty decent impression of Mr. Calhoun as well. It was quite impressive, actually. “So, shall we?” He motions to Mr. Calhoun’s office. “Or do you still want to finish your little song and dance?” He looks at me with that smirk back on his face.
I blush a million shades of red, but raise my head in mock confidence. “No, that was my final performance.”
“Are you sure? Because I was really enjoying it,” he says, raising his eyebrows and looking way adorable.
I blush another mill
ion shades of red. I’m most likely the shade of a beet at this point. “That was my extra-special private dance. No one has ever seen it. You should feel privileged, really.” I walk away from him and quickly over to Mr. Calhoun’s office.
Did I just pull that off? Did I actually turn something utterly embarrassing into a joke? You’ve come a long way, Julia Dorning, a long way indeed.
I reach the door to Mr. Calhoun’s office without looking back to see if Jared has followed me, but I can hear the rustling of his shirt behind me and I know he’s there. My gosh, he smells good.
“Ah, yes, Julia and Jared. Good to see you. Come on in.” Mr. Calhoun is sitting at his desk with the phone to his ear. He motions for us to come in and holds up his finger letting us know he’s not completely done with his conversation.
Jared and I walk in and take a seat in the chairs facing his desk. We look over at each other and I smile slightly, feeling a little uncomfortable. Jared leans back in the chair with his legs stretched out and hands behind his head.
“Julia,” Mr. Calhoun says after he ends his call. “I’ve asked Jared to work with you on this project. I’m afraid there’s more data that needs to be entered, and it may take a while. So, I thought with both of you working together, it would get done faster.”
“Mr. Calhoun,” I say, feeling a little bit of unforeseen confidence, “can I ask what this is all about? I mean if you don’t mind telling me …” I drift off because as soon as I asked, I could see a silent conversation between Mr. Calhoun and Jared happening with their eyes.
“I’ll explain it to her,” Jared chimes in with a wink at me, and something that seems like a reassuring smile to Mr. Calhoun.
“Good,” Mr. Calhoun says as he shuffles some papers around his desk, obviously looking for something. “I’ll need my office tonight, so if you could work with Jared in the conference room, that would be helpful,” he says as he finds an interoffice envelope and hands it to Jared.
As we walk over to the conference room, it all of a sudden hits me that I’m working on a project with Jared. I’m actually working on a project with Jared. Me! Julia Spinster Dorning! I’ll get to spend time with Jared, all by myself. Just like the article said I should do. I just threw it out to the Universe, and it actually worked. That Secret book is gold!
We go into the conference room. This is the first time I’ve been back here since the “incident.” So much has happened since then. I’m wearing makeup, moving out of my parents’ basement, becoming pretty close friends with my sister, working on a super-secret project with a freaking hot man … it’s pretty incredible how things can change in such a short time. Crazy, really.
Jared sets me up at a laptop near him, and I get to work inputting numbers from some documents he gives me, finishing up the worksheet I was working on yesterday. Some of the formulas are messed up, and I fix them quickly and then write a few of my own that are easier and function much better for the worksheet. In a normal world, this would be pretty stinking boring, but because I’m sitting near Jared, inputting numbers has become a glorious task.
I still have no idea what I’m doing or why I’m here. But now with Jared in the mix, I suddenly don’t really care as much. Besides, he said he would tell me, and I’m sure he will.
I glance quickly over at Jared, busily typing away on his laptop and wonder what part of this super-secret stuff he’s doing. He really is so very good-looking. I know I’ve said it before, but seriously—the blue eyes, the dark blonde hair, the chiseled jaw, his incredible smile. Oh no, I’m staring. I look away quickly before he notices. Good gravy, I’m like a creepy stalker.
Thank goodness he didn’t see. No one should ogle; ogling is bad. It’s probably something spinsters do, another symptom to add to my list. Really, I could start blaming everything I do on my future spinsterhood. I wonder if maybe there’s a clinical doctor-type word for it, like something in Latin. I should find out what spinster is in Latin, and then when I do something stupid, I could tell people that it’s due to my impressive-Latin-word-disease. They then would feel sorry for me and not embarrassed for me like I’m sure people normally feel.
“You done yet?” Jared asks, pulling me out of my self-diagnosis.
“Not quite.” I say and return to entering numbers. “I’m about three-fourths of the way done. Why?”
“That’s good enough for now. Let me see what you’ve got.” He stands up and comes over to where I’m sitting. He stands behind me, hands on the back of my chair and leans over me to see the worksheet, his breath on my neck. Chills run up and down my spine, and I almost want to let out a giggle, I’m so overcome with butterflies in my stomach. Oh please, don’t let me do anything embarrassing, like burp all of a sudden or even worse.
He scans quickly through the worksheet, looking at a few totals and clicking on some of the formulas I had just written.
“Did you change this formula?” He points to one of the formulas I fixed, or thought I fixed. Oh, no! Did I screw it up?
“Um, yeah. But I can change it back.” I put my hand on the mouse and go to click on the cell so I can fix it.
“No!” he says, pulling my hand up from the mouse. “I didn’t say you needed to change it back. Where did you learn that formula?”
“I just figured it out. You have to do that when your boss doesn’t give a lot of direction,” I say as I continue to blush and practically barf out butterflies. His breath on my neck, his touch on my hand—it’s really just too much to take.
“Pretty impressive,” he says still looking over my shoulder, still breathing on my neck. I might die, at least it would be in a happy way.
He stands up and moves back to his seat. He leans back in his chair and looks at me. At least I think he’s looking at me. I’m busily trying to look … well, busy. I really don’t want him to see how bad I’m blushing right now, and I hope (pray) if I look straight ahead and not at him, he won’t be able to tell. I highly doubt it though.
I can feel his eyes on me, and I finally get the nerve to look up. “Yes?” I ask, looking at him quizzically. What would he need to be staring at me so long for? I try to think of some little quip or something witty, but nothing is coming to me. Shocking, I know.
He smiles at me slightly but doesn’t say anything, clearly deep in thought. I wonder what the heck he’s thinking. I look around the room because I’m finding that making eye contact is difficult.
“Tell me about Henry,” he says finally breaking the awkward silence and looking back at his computer.
“Nguyen? What do you want to know about him?” I ask, a little shocked, and also a little sad that he was thinking about Mr. Nguyen and not me, as I had hoped.
“Got any gossip on him?” he asks with a slight smile.
What would I say about Mr. Nguyen? I do have gossip on him, but I can’t tell Jared because then he’ll know I was talking to Brown about this super-secret stuff we’re doing, and I was asked repeatedly by Mr. Calhoun not to say anything. I don’t want him to find out. I’d be fired for sure. I have a mortgage to pay now, I can’t get fired. Plus, if I’m ever going to marry Jared and have his babies (a spinster can dream), I need to keep seeing him. I can’t do that when we don’t work together anymore, now can I?
“Um,” I shrug my shoulders stalling, trying to come up with something. “What can I say about Mr. Nguyen? I’ve worked for him for ten years now, and I can’t honestly say I know more about him personally, than I did the day I was hired. He’s very private.”
Jared ponders that for a second. “What about how he is at work?” he asks, leaning forward and looking at his computer screen, which puts me a little more at ease. I think it’s easier to talk to him when he isn’t looking at me directly.
“Well, he does his job if that’s what you’re asking. I mean, I guess he knows what he’s doing, but he’s not the best boss.” I lean back and fold my arms.
“Why do you say that?” He looks up from his screen at me.
“Well, like I sai
d before, he gives poor direction. He never listens to me when I tell him I think something is wrong with a report. He constantly looks at me like I’m a complete idiot, and his long pinky nail seriously creeps me out,” I add and shiver at the thought of it.
Jared laughs a little at the last comment. “Yeah, what is that all about?” He scrunches his nose a little as he says that.
“I don’t know. Brown and I have discussed it many times and have many theories, but short of flat-out asking him, we have no real answers. I’m sure if I did ask him, he’d just give me some annoyed look, and then shoo me out of his presence.” I move my hand in a shooing motion to demonstrate how he, in fact, shoos me away. It happens all too often.
“Why do you want to know about Mr. Nguyen, anyway? There really is not much to tell …” my words drift off, as I think about how there’s something to tell, but I can’t. I really can’t do that. I do trust Jared, but I don’t know how he would respond to me telling Brown about this super-secret crap. As much as I want to share with him, I just need to keep it zipped. So we’ll see how long that’ll last. Clearly I’m the epitome of secrecy as I totally displayed with Brown.
“Oh, well, I was just curious,” he says, looking back down at his screen. “You said he doesn’t give much direction, I was just wondering if you knew anything else about him since you work so close to him. Apparently, no one knows about Henry Nguyen.”
“Yes, he’s a mystery. That’s for sure.”
Jared moves his attention back to his computer, and I can hear the clicking of his mouse. I decide I better turn back to my work and get it done, although I really don’t want to finish it now. Yesterday, I couldn’t finish it fast enough, but now that Jared is here … well, that changes everything. Now I just want to go really slow, and then maybe we can continue this on Monday. How brilliant would that be? But then I’d also seem like an imbecile because anyone with half a brain would know I should be able to finish this report. How can I prolong this night?
Now that I think about it, though, I should be acting more like I have plans tonight and need to hurry it up. Honestly, what kind of girl has no plans on a Friday night and can devote extra time to her job? The spinster kind, that’s who. It’s looking a little obvious that I have no plans tonight since Jared has heard no protesting or anything out of my mouth about having to work on a Friday night. He probably already has me pegged for the hermit/spinster type.
