Cover Up

by Laura Westbrook

  He pulled his head away from her. He offered her his arm and said they should probably get going. They circled by the water one last time and then walked straight past the guys who were playing chess, despite the cold weather. They headed through the old, rusty gate which led to the last two blocks to her office.

  When they reached the building, they paused outside the entrance to the office. He lowered his head and kissed her on the cheek. She had no idea what to say.

  She walked alone through the revolving glass door. It’s just one more turn on our merry-go-round. And I like him way too much…so I guess I’m still on it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  That evening after work—and after being reprimanded by her boss for being late, reminded that her position on the sixth floor might be “a short stay” if she kept this up—Nicole walked along the sidewalk. Her head was bowed, and she didn’t bother checking her cell phone. She’d turned the volume back on after work, and it let out a small ding every time a new update came in, whether it was an email or just her social media pages, but she ignored it. She had a lot on her mind and was trying not to think about any of it.

  She reached the front door of the apartment complex and fumbled for her key. It was under her phone, so she pulled that from her pocket and noticed the ten-or-so messages, most of them from Tiffany and Amy.

  I should call them.

  Nicole pulled out her keys, looking for the one she’d painted with red nail polish. It was her original key to her apartment, the one she’d first misplaced. That felt like a lifetime ago. She finally plucked it out and slid the key in the brass lock.

  She twisted the key to the left, and the catch popped open. She walked into the hallway and approached her mailbox. The gray compartment next to hers was probably Branson’s. If they were ever there getting their mail together, it might be a little awkward. It made her laugh. It was funny, the thought of them both trying to get their mail at the same time.

  She slipped the mailbox key into the lock as she pictured what could happen.

  Wiggle…wiggle…twist…twist.

  “Hi, Nicole,” Branson said, frowning as he went through the same routine. Shake…shake…wiggle…wiggle.

  Shake…wiggle…complain…complain again…fist against metal…wiggle…wiggle. “How’s it going?” Nicole asked.

  Now with his back leaning against the mailboxes in a fit of frustration. “Not so bad. How about you?”

  Thump…thump…wiggle… Nicole opened the mailbox to find it empty.

  It was almost the story of their relationship. So much activity with nothing to show for it.

  This time, her mailbox wasn’t empty, though. She reached in for the few letters, which were more than likely bills. She rarely received anything interesting otherwise—mostly flyers and advertisements. The letter from her company was the only exciting thing she’d gotten lately, “offering” to take her away from her apartment and far away from Branson.

  Is it what I really want, though? Her job in New York, before she’d been promoted, had still been a good job. It’d paid the bills, but how could she explain it to any future employers? Worse, would it make her company look into her recent behavior and realize she wasn’t the kind of executive they wanted, that she wasn’t even the kind of employee they wanted if she’d give up a dream job for no reason?

  The keys fell onto the floor, and she stooped to pick them up. It was hard work, stooping in a pencil skirt, so she hitched it up a little until she managed to crouch far enough to reach the keys.

  She stood and smacked her head on the open door of her mailbox. The sound was loud enough for others to hear if anyone was close.

  “Ugh, come on,” she muttered, frantically rubbing the side of her forehead and checking for any bumps or cuts. Between that and the car accident, she was getting beat up a lot lately. She didn’t feel any blood, but it felt awful. She pushed the door closed and went through the entire routine to get her key back. She did it one-handed while she held the letters under her arm, rubbed her head, and kept checking her fingertips.

  The tap-tap of her high heels clattered and echoed around the stairwell. At last, she reached her floor and pulled the door open. It wasn’t far to her apartment. One corridor, one turn at the end, and she was home. For once, there were no surprises, other than Branson himself standing in front of his door. Her forehead probably didn’t look good, and it was on his side of her face—of course. She reached her door, trying to look away from him while working her key in the lock. If he saw the bump, he’d be even more concerned than he already was.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  Then she opened the door as fast as possible, slipping inside without another word. Once in her own apartment, she leaned with her back against the door and let out a colossal, lung-deflating sigh. She tossed her mail on the side table with her keys and lifted her hand to feel the bump on her head.

  I need to put some butter on that. It was a crazy remedy, but it worked. Her mom had used it for her all the time growing up, so that was proof enough for her.

  She opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a stick of butter, cutting a lump off. I wonder if it makes a difference being salted or unsalted. She lifted the small knob of butter to her forehead.

  She stood with her fingers pushed hard against her head. She knew Branson must think she was avoiding him again, but it had to be done. She supposed she could talk to him about the whole Seattle situation, but she didn’t want him to make a rushed decision just because he was afraid she’d move away. Besides, she thought talking to him about it might make her crumble and melt into a “how can I live without you” state of mind.

  She made a face. There’s no amount of butter that will work on this bump in my life. And she couldn’t count on time fixing it, either.

  She walked back into the living room and stood listening, waiting for a knock at the door which never came. Branson should knock. If he wants to talk to me, he should knock, shouldn’t he? But, now that she thought of it, he didn’t usually approach her directly like that. She’d come up to him in the park. He usually kept things more casual or let his gifts and little notes do the talking…which wasn’t helping.

  She changed into more comfortable clothes and curled up on the couch. She tried calling Tiffany again, and this time she finally picked up. It looked like work let her off every once in a while.

  “Hey Nicole. Good timing. I just got home.”

  “It’s okay. You picked up on the first try today.”

  “I saw that you tried to call the other day, but I lost track of things. Everything okay?”

  “It’s complicated.” Nicole told her all about her dinner dates with Branson, explaining what had happened that morning and finally telling her how she’d smacked her head on the mailbox door and that now there was a huge bump on her head.

  “And what does this have to do with Branson?”

  “I dashed into my apartment because he was in the hallway. And I didn’t want to explain about the bump on my head or talk about anything else. He already saw the bruise on my shoulder and got all protective about that.”

  “Did he say anything?” Tiffany asked. “When you saw him in the hallway?”

  “Just hi, and I said hi back.”

  “Just hi?”

  “It was all I could manage. It’s been a long day.”

  “You could’ve explained the bump on your head. It just happened. There was nothing to hide.”

  “Yeah, but then what? He might think I was just making excuses, because I couldn’t very well get a bruise like that on my shoulder from our mailboxes. He’d think I ran into some abusive guy in my life on the way home and just didn’t want to admit it.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Maybe not, but it seemed to fit the story a lot better than anything else she could think of…besides the truth. “Maybe I should just move. A fresh start could be just what I need.”

  “Not if you take your
problems with you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Look, Nicole, I know you’re worried about trying to have a long-distance relationship, but it’s only a plane flight away. From what you’ve told me of Branson, he doesn’t mind traveling, so it’s not a question of stay with him or leave him so you can keep your job. The real question is whether you and he have something together…or not.”

  Nicole’s heart skipped a beat like it did every time she heard his name in this context. It didn’t matter who said it. It did things to her. Behind the name was an image, and that image was of a man who made her smile. Who complicated things even while making everything delightfully easy, relaxed, and perfect. He always made her feel like everything was going to be just fine. No matter what the world had to throw at her, it wouldn’t stick. It would just slide off. No one else had done that for her.

  Tiffany continued, “If you like your new job and want to keep it, then maybe you should move to Seattle. It’s like it was with me and Trent. Our relationship and our careers are two separate things, but we found a way to work them both out, together. Just because you care about Branson doesn’t mean you can’t also care about your job and your career. Together, you can work it out…but only together. Otherwise, you’ll be running the problem around in your head, making yourself dizzy.”

  Nicole laughed. “You sound like you speak from experience.”

  “Just a little. So tell me, how do you feel about the job, by itself?”

  “The job…by itself, the job is good. I love getting to make my own team, direct my own advertising campaigns. But…it can be lonely, being an executive. I miss the interaction with people I used to have.”

  “So you just need to keep your friends in your life. Friends of all kinds.”

  Nicole rubbed her temples. If she thought about the situation any further, her head was going to explode. Kaboom. Here lies the body of Nicole who thought way too much until she spontaneously combusted.

  “I just don’t know. I don’t want to be the one pushing him to make a decision. It’s not like he’s officially asked me to be his girlfriend or date him or anything. And I only have so long to make a decision.”

  Tiffany’s sigh was audible. “At the end of the day, you have to be comfortable with where things are. He’s more than just the guy next door. He might not have said as much, but you know he is, at least on your side. You need to seriously consider if there’s a way forward, and that means talking to him. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy—I put off talking to Trent for so long because I didn’t want to touch the subject—but you have to find out. There’s nothing worse than thinking about what could have been.”

  “You’re right. I need to talk to him. But right now…I think this bump on my head needs some more butter on it.”

  “You know that doesn’t work, right?”

  “Nurses don’t know everything.” Nicole laughed. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Good. And keep me updated. I want to know what he says once he hears everything you have to tell him.”

  She knew what that meant, and Tiffany was right. She needed to finally tell him the truth—about the car accident, her job, and why everything had been so complicated.

  “You will.”

  Once Nicole actually worked up the courage to say anything. Just then, she didn’t feel like she could think at all, and she just wanted the buzzing in her ears to stop. But she got off the phone with as cheerful a tone as she could manage. She didn’t want Tiffany to worry, and she really didn’t want Tiffany to decide she needed to make a house call. She’d be fine. She just had to finish sorting her life out.

  Nicole put the phone back on the side table and stretched out on the couch. She wiped the butter off her forehead and pulled her trusty cushion over her face to block out the world.

  What am I going to do? I hate feeling like this. She was usually so decisive—what career she wanted, what college she was going to go to, what she was going to wear—but dealing with Branson had turned her life upside down until everything spun.

  And the idea of finally telling him the truth—admitting that she’d lied to him—made her even dizzier.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Nicole ran the hypothetical scenario through her mind again and again.

  She’d knock at his door. He’d open the door and let her in. He’d try and speak first, but she’d stop him and say what she needed before he could do anything. Before it was too late and he distracted her with his charm—before she slipped into just enjoying being with him and put off the words she had to say until the next day…and the next.

  She needed to say what was on her mind. If he didn’t like what he heard, that wasn’t her fault.

  “Branson, I’m leaving.”

  Nicole pulled the cushion tighter against her face. No matter how she pictured it, it never went the way she hoped. She was tempted to just not say anything, but that wasn’t an option. She had a deadline to accept the move to Seattle, to work out the details of when she’d start working there and how her stuff would get moved. They’d probably call her soon, and they might want an over-the-phone commitment, and despite what Tiffany had said, she knew she needed to talk to Branson about it before she accepted the job. For her, work and romance couldn’t live in neat separate boxes, not when they were in two different states.

  The only way she could settle the situation was to go and see him. Then, hopefully, they could put everything to rest once and for all and she’d finally know where things stood. She’d be off the merry-go-round for good.

  But pajamas weren’t the ideal clothes to pay a visit in. She headed to her bedroom and spent minutes peering in her closet for the most ideal thing to wear. Sweatpants were still too casual. Shorts were too racy, a skirt was too formal, and…

  “Good old jeans, tattered and torn like me,” she muttered. “Or at least how I feel right now—torn in two different directions. Two ends of the country, even.”

  She grabbed a cozy pair of jeans, rather than opting for the skin-tight ones. They’d give the wrong impression. She wanted a serious mode of conversation. It was make-or-break, but it needed to be done. Even if there were tears afterward, she wanted a clear view as to which direction both of them were going to take.

  She pulled on her jeans and tugged the tough, weathered leather belt to the third hole. It pulled her waist just enough to highlight her shape, but not too tight so as to make Branson stare.

  She pulled out a baggy sweatshirt which would hide her fading bruises—she wanted to talk about them when she was ready, not show them all off as soon as she stepped through the door— then donned a plain pair of running shoes. She grabbed her keys from the side table and opened the door of her apartment.

  She looked down the hallway before stepping out. If Branson was still there, it would’ve ruined her approach. She was sure it would’ve wiped everything from her mind, throwing her off her stride until the whole conversation never happened.

  She was glad it wasn’t a long walk. Otherwise, she might’ve changed her mind and chickened out. She raised her hand and knocked three times.

  She sucked in a deep breath and waited. Finally, she heard the click of the bolt. This is it.

  Branson opened the door and smiled.

  This might be harder than I thought.

  “Want to come in?” he asked.

  He pulled open the door and stepped behind it while he let her walk into the apartment. She waited for him to close the door rather than walking into the living room and taking a seat.

  Two plates. The dining table was set for two. He must be expecting someone else to come. He hadn’t invited her to dinner that night, so maybe it was a sign that he’d moved on with someone else. That didn’t take long.

  He motioned to the couch and sat down with her. She clasped her hands together, placing them on her knees.

  Her hands felt cold and clammy. When he wasn’t looking, she wiped them on her sweatshirt and placed him
back before he turned back around.

  “I think we need to talk,” she said. She took the opportunity of a deep breath to plan where to head next.

  He didn’t look worried. In fact, he casually placed two glasses of wine on the coffee table. Her mouth was a little dry, and something to sip would help to calm her nerves. A little, perhaps.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asked.

  She tapped her knee. “My job’s been moved to Seattle. I don’t really have a choice if I want to keep my new position.”

  His features fell, but he recovered, but not quite to where they had been before. He’s trying to be supportive. That’s sweet.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “When did you find out?”

  “Recently.” Really recently, actually. “You’re one of the first to know. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. What to do.”

  He looked at the floor. “I mean, you’ve worked so hard to get the position. Years of effort. I’m sure you’re proud of it.”

  “Yeah. I am.” Then why don’t I feel like it?

  “When are you leaving?”

  She stiffened. His question jolted her from her thoughts. He assumed she had decided on leaving. Just like that. Wait, haven’t I?

  “I guess I’m still mulling things over.”

  He looked up, and a shadow of his normal glow came back. It made her heart ache a little to give him false hope. The only problem was, she had no idea if it was false or not.

  “Why? It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  “That’s true,” she said slowly. “There’s just a lot to consider.”

  “Are they paying for your move? Is it a move up?”

  “Well, it’s not a promotion in itself. It’s merely a continuation of my recent promotion. But it’ll be a chance to work with the other executives and rub elbows with the most powerful people at my company, so that aspect is a move up. And yes, they’re paying for the relocation. None of it would come out of my pocket.”