by Brianna Cash
I’ve never been one to toss and turn, so there aren’t many things that drift through my mind as I’m dozing off. There’s nothing specific that comes repeatedly, that seems out of the ordinary or unique. I assume I think the things other people think of. Go through a rundown of the day I had. Try to be optimistic about tomorrow. Obsess about whether I set my alarm before finally checking to make sure that I did. Which is funny, really. I never turn my alarm off. It’s set to ring at seven-thirty every morning, Monday through Friday.
To sum it up, I guess you could say that, while I’m trying to fall asleep, I’m hopeful. Hopeful I can be a more exciting person. Hopeful the next day will be a good one. Hopeful my family is doing well. Hopeful that tomorrow will be the day I find out what you keep in your little black book.
Owen
SD275: Holy shit! That’s like…an actual answer. You’re getting better!
Owen: Hold on. I’m still reading yours.
SD275: Well, I do write a lot faster than you. Or more than you. However you want to put it. But you’re getting there!
Owen: Give me a minute. I’m trying to focus.
SD275: Ok, ok. Just don’t look at my text until you’re done reading, genius.
I don’t mind genius. She can keep using that one, even if it’s the least true word she’s used to describe me.
Shaking my head with a smile, I lock my phone and turn back to my computer screen. I’m captivated by her story. I have no idea what it has to do with the question, but I’m totally sucked into it. What did she write in the first assignment? That I was totally sucked into her brand of crazy? I am. Sucked into her brand of crazy. Every time she writes for me.
Wait, what? She’s not going to tell me what happened? Was she ok? I mean, obviously, she’s ok. At least ok enough to take this course, so she can read, and type, and if I can believe her texts, have one-night stands like they’re a walk in the park. And she’s insinuated she’s pretty, so she’s not disfigured or anything…
What about her friend? With the head wound? What happened to her? Did help arrive in time?
I can’t believe she’s leaving me hanging again!
This girl is going to drive me crazy with curiosity.
Owen: How do you ever sleep?
SD275: It’s hard sometimes. But that only happens when I’m stressed out, thank God! Oh wait, you don’t pray.
Owen: I pray sometimes. I’m an out-of-necessity pray-er.
SD275: Good to know. I like that you slipped in your writing that you hope you’ll find out what’s in my LBB. You’re definitely starting to write like you’re talking to me.
Owen: It’s helping that I’m finding out more about you and you’re not just a set of initials that sends me infuriating half-stories.
SD275: Infuriating, huh? Maybe, when this course is over, we should set up a meet and greet. Even if we live thousands of miles and many countries apart. Maybe then I’ll tell you some of the endings.
Owen: I like that idea.
I love that idea. I want to meet this girl. I also want the endings to all her stories. I want to know what’s in her little black book but also, what’s her mission? I want her to figure out that lying in general is bad practice. I want to know what happened after the paramedics showed up at the scene of her accident. I want to know what caused the accident. I want to know what happened to her and her friend.
I want to know a lot about her. And those are just my questions to the things she’s written me.
Owen: Can I ask a personal question?
SD275: I don’t know, can you? Getting personal is against the rules.
Her comment makes me smile, but I already talked myself out of the rules when it comes to her. It was surprisingly easy to do.
Owen: How old are you?
SD275: 92 You?
Owen: You shouldn’t lie. Especially when it’s such an innocent, basic question. I’m 24. What do you look like?
SD275: Innocent, my ass. I’m hideous. I have acne scars all over my face. I weigh over three hundred pounds. I shower no more than once a week, and I only have five of my own teeth.
Owen: l don’t believe you. If you’re able to have one-night stands whenever you want, you have to be at least somewhat attractive. And too young to be a grandmother.
SD275: Slim pickings in my nursing home... Even if that’s bullshit, I still wouldn’t go home with you.
So, she’s young and pretty, she just doesn’t want to confirm my suspicions. Why? And why does she keep telling me she wouldn’t go home with me? I’m not a one-night stand type of guy. Does she think she’s going to change my views on that?
Owen: Because of my age?
SD275: No, you’re still too much of a flatliner.
Flatliner? Come on, I’m not that bad.
Owen: Maybe I don’t want to take you home. Maybe I’m curious about this girl who sucks me into her brand of crazy, then always stops in the middle of the story.
SD275: Then why does it matter what I look like?
Because the person I’m arguing with is quickly becoming someone I really enjoy “talking” to. Because I want to know more about her. Because it’s killing me having no idea what her name is, where she lives, what her laugh sounds like, or how she looks when she’s rolling her eyes and calling me strange, derogatory names.
Instead, I type out a lame excuse that’s only half true.
Owen: I’m a visual person. I want to be able to picture you when I’m writing to you.
SD275: No, you want to know what I look like naked, while you’re inside me, making me scream with ecstasy.
Owen: Not true.
Well, I didn’t... Now, I kind of do. Her words paint a picture, and I’m suddenly praying harder than ever that her earlier description of herself isn’t accurate. The teeth thing is what’s bothering me the most. Why wouldn’t she have all her teeth? Unless she is ninety-two. Then, I guess, not having teeth would be perfectly acceptable.
Maybe she lost them in the accident.
My phone vibrates against the coffee table. I stop trying to picture her body, face, or her teeth, and read more of her words.
SD275: You’re not into hook-ups. Even if you’re not trying to picture it yet, you will be soon. We all occasionally need sex. You just lost your supplier and you’re doing everything you can to get to know me. I’m the next best option.
Owen: Fine. Forget what you look like. Where do you live?
SD275: In an apartment. On a street. In a city. Which is in a country.
Owen: You’re back to being exasperating.
SD275: It’s my special talent.
That, I believe. Wholeheartedly. After getting ready for bed, I can’t let it go. I send her one last text, doing the whole hopeful thing. I feel a touch arrogant when I send it, because the confidence in this text is a lot more than I currently feel. Her response helps me fall asleep with a smile on my face though, more hopeful than ever.
Owen: I’ll find out someday, ya know.
SD275: Only if the cake you make for me is better than the one I devoured last week from Pepperidge Farms…
Chapter 5
Sadie
“What do you mean, you’re leaving early? You had off last Friday, and now you’re leaving early this Friday? How is that fair?”
Glancing in Blondie’s direction, I try to suppress both my eye roll and my sigh. It’s been almost three weeks since I started working with her. And I was ready to strangle the dumb bitch her second day. Needless to say, it’s been a long three weeks. Megan left me forever last Friday, so this week has been especially bad. Miss Better-Than-Everyone-Else still doesn’t know the first thing about doing this job. I’m picking up her slack, along with doing my own work, and trying to control my temper.
I’m so ready for her to be fired.
Her uncle is one of the owners of the building, though. Not the information I wanted to hear as I walked by my boss’s open door yesterday.
“When you ask for time off i
n advance, as long as there aren’t any conflicts with the schedule, your request gets approved. That’s how things work here.” She’s caught on that I tell her important things very slowly, hoping a few of my words will sink far enough into her shiny, never-been-used brain that they might stick to something.
“But I asked for a day off, and they said I didn’t have enough time yet!”
“Well, yeah.” I turn back toward my computer, so I don’t grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. Or scream at her for being so stupid. “You have to accrue paid time off before you can use it.”
After rolling her eyes and huffing out a breath, she changes the subject. Probably because she doesn’t know what the word accrue means and doesn’t want to ask. “What’re you doing this weekend? You’re always busy when I try to go out with you.”
So many reasons for that. The most important one being that I can’t stand her and want to spend as little time with her as possible. The second, because I make shit up so I don’t have to be mean and tell her how little I care for her. The third is I’d rather be in charge of counting the holes in the ceiling tiles than go clubbing with her. She and Clive are all over each other here. It can’t be any better when they’re on a dancefloor with the lights down low and the loud music thumping away, making conversation an impossibility.
“What can I say, I’m a busy girl. Maybe next time.”
Or never. Take your pick, Blondie. I know which one I’m choosing.
“What about next Friday?” She thrusts her bottom lip out and furrows her brow. “Please? Megan said you’re a lot of fun.”
Of course, Megan told you that. Megan thinks I’m Wonder Woman or something, simply because I can do the things Megan always wanted to do but couldn’t. When you don’t give a shit what anyone thinks, the courage you supposedly have is endless.
“I don’t know, Sarah. We’ll see, ok?” She huffs out another breath at my vague answer, examining her fingernails, completely ignoring the ringing phone. I watch her with raised eyebrows, but she doesn’t get the hint. “Sarah. Get the phone.”
“You’re still on the clock.”
“So are you!”
“Ugh. Fine.”
After an over exaggerated eye roll, she finally picks up the phone and does her job for all of two seconds. Then turns to me, hoping to get out of the rest of it.
“What’s the extension for Hudson & Hudson Associates?”
“The list is to your left.” I motion with my chin toward the list. The one put there specifically to help her. “Pretend it’s thirty minutes from now and I’m not here.”
She grumbles as she reaches for it. Then gets into a lengthy conversation giving directions, which are so confusing I’m lost, and I’ve been working here for over six years. While she’s busy yapping away about different colored buildings—who needs street names?—I direct eight people that walk through the doors needing to go to various businesses. And when Bill, the paper delivery guy for some of the businesses in the building, shows up, I give him a wide smile and hurry out from behind my desk to say hello without an audience.
“Hey, darlin’! How are you?” He sweeps me off my feet into a giant bear hug. “I was way behind schedule last week and you weren’t here when I unloaded; I had to deal with Miss Unfriendly over there.”
“Oh my God, try working with her! She doesn’t have a real brain. They should take her away and study her in a science lab somewhere.”
After a polite chuckle, he lowers me to my feet and looks me over. “Yeah, looks like she’s been wearing on you. You’re more stressed than normal. Be careful or that frown will become permanent.”
“It’s already permanent while I’m here.”
“Uh-oh. Ready to marry me and live in the lap of luxury?”
Laughing at our standing joke, I walk him to the elevators, wishing he was my age. If he was, or I found someone like him that was, I might want to settle down. He makes me laugh every time I see him. He always has a smile for me, and he makes me feel special, like seeing me brightens his day. He’s also sweet and charming, which are bonuses in my LBB. He’s past retirement age, with white hair and wrinkles around his eyes, but he’s in great shape. He swears it’s because he’s so active. Which is also why he refuses to quit working.
“Not quite yet, Bill. Give me a couple more weeks working with the bimbo, though, and I might change my mind.”
The elevator dings, the doors open, and Owen walks out, his eyes flashing over Bill and me before he nods slightly at us. He slows, obviously waiting to talk to me. Over the past three weeks, he’s done everything he can to avoid my new co-worker. I wish I could do the same.
“I’ll be ready,” Bill promises, backing into the open doors. “What kind of proposal would you like? Quiet and secluded? Grand gesture with lots of spectators? How big of a diamond should I buy you?”
“Let’s do the grand gesture. And at least a three carat. I’m not worth anything less.” He laughs, waving and letting the doors close. I turn toward Owen. “What can I help you with?”
“Proposal, huh?”
The sly smile on Owen’s lips is a new expression for him. Or at least for me to see on him.
I throw a thumb over my shoulder. “Gotta do something to get away from the airhead at my desk.”
He nods, that grin growing bigger before he raises one hand to cup the back of his neck. That’s his signature move for when he’s uncomfortable, one of only three emotions he ever shows. Slightly uncomfortable, like right now, normal, or slightly happy, when his smile is just a touch bigger than on his normal days.
I raise my brows, trying again to get an answer without being rude. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah. Alice said she emailed a list of interviewees to you guys. She never heard back. She sent me down to make sure you got it.”
“Hmm.” I didn’t. “When did she send it?”
“Yesterday.”
“I don’t think I got it.” Making my way back to my desk, I bring up my email account and filter through my messages. Owen follows me, watching from the other side of the counter. He glances at Sarah, but when she refuses to meet his eyes, he shakes his head. I look up, meeting his gaze head on, because really, one of us should.
He has really pretty eyes…
This is why I’m never very nice to Owen. He’s young. He’s in a long-term relationship. He’s so far from my type, we might as well live on different planets. But those eyes?
So. Damn. Pretty.
I want to drown in them.
And I always forget why he’s standing in front of me, looking at me the way he is right now.
What were we talking about?
Oh yeah. I was searching for an email I never got. My gaze drops back to the computer screen—where it belongs—my thoughts already on how long I’ll get to stare at his ass when he walks away without Sarah noticing. “The last email I have from her was sent two weeks ago. You guys are doing interviews?”
“Next week, yeah. Is it possible she sent it to your boss, and he never forwarded it?”
“It’s possible.” That’s how things are supposed to work. But I run this desk, not my boss or the idiot sitting beside me blowing bubbles with her chewing gum. Alice would send it to me first if she could only pick one person to send an important email to. “Alice usually emails us and CC’s George. That way we all get it, even if George is off.” Or forgetful. “Wanna have her send it again?”
“I’ll do that.” He raps his knuckles on the counter, giving me a short nod. “Thanks, Sadie.”
“Why doesn’t he just call down?” Sarah complains once he’s halfway back to the elevator.
I tear my eyes off his retreating form to slow-blink at her.
“You know how you go on bathroom breaks every forty-five minutes?” Her eyes narrow as she tries to kill me telepathically with invisible laser beams she thinks she can send with her eyes. “Some people actually use that time to do productive things that are work-relat
ed, instead of just staring at themselves in the mirror, or flirting with their boyfriend.”
“Clive isn’t my boyfriend.”
“That’s not what Clive says.”
“Whatever.” After getting out a new file and working on her nails, she looks my way again. “You never told me what you’re doing this weekend.”
This chick is bipolar or something.
“You’re right, I didn’t. Maybe it’s a secret.”
The intensity of her laser beams increases exponentially, but I still don’t feel a thing.
♦ ♦ ♦
Roxy and I bitch about life in general for the entire four-hour ride to our hometown. After dropping our shit off at our respective homes, we walk straight to our favorite bar, which hasn’t changed a bit in the years since we started coming here with fake ID’s at the very mature age of nineteen. It might be early in the evening, but it’s been a hell of a week, and we drown our sorrows in rum and cokes until the regulars of our past lives start filtering in.
We get offered a ride home from Eli, our classmate from ages ago, who Roxy and I both had our fun with once upon a time. In high school, he was the hot, snarky guy you wanted to smile your way, so you’d—hopefully—have a chance to see where the hidden ends of his tattoos started. His smile is more cynical than it was ten years ago, his hair is shorter, and his clothes cover all that ink I once traced with my fingertips. And not one lewd remark is made throughout our evening spent drinking and reminiscing.
Maybe he’s growing tired of the bad boy persona?
Or he’s finally growing up?
It’s crazy how people grow up so much faster in a country town than they do in the city. Or maybe it’s just that Roxy and I refuse to grow up, while everyone else follows the standard tradition that we should settle down by thirty and pop out a kid or three by thirty-two.
I haven’t found my perfect ten yet. Maybe he’ll get me to want that dream. I’ll stick to my sordid ways and dream about the day I find him. Once that day comes, I’ll settle into a slightly more domesticated role and make adorable little babies.
