by Tina Martin
“Helloooo? Am I talking to myself here?” Priscilla asked.
Trevor placed the card back inside of the box, then said, “I’m here. I’ll stalk your friend for you. Happy?”
“Very. Try to do it on Monday afternoon when she gets off work.”
“What time?”
“Five o’clock.”
“Okay, I’ll be out in front of her building. Should I record our interaction or what?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Then how will you know I did it?”
“Elsie will tell me. She tells me everything. And when she comes to me and lets me know she declined to go out with you, it will have proven my point, your job will be done and you’ll have advanced your career in an instant, buddy.”
“I’m not your buddy.”
“Whatevs.”
“I’ll be ready for Monday,” Trevor said. “Elsie’s definitely going to call you because the sooner I can get this done, the faster I can get back to my life.”
“Touché.”
“Goodbye, Priscilla,” he told her and he meant goodbye in the sense that he never wanted to see or hear from her again.
“Goodbye, Trev.”
He smirked, then hung up the phone. He took the small black box that housed the engagement ring he’d given Rachel, held it in his hands and remembered the day she gave it back by leaving it on the counter in the kitchen. And she’d claimed to be so in love, had given him so many cards, gifts and other trinkets during the course of their relationship. Then, a few days before the wedding, she ended it.
She ended everything.
The messed up part was the not knowing why because she didn’t offer up any explanation. All he knew was, he’d seen her around town a few times with another man right after she broke things off with him. He thought it was strange how he hadn’t seen her since. When he did catch himself wondering where she was or if she was happy, he’d quickly remember how she’d broken his heart. That memory made it easy to leave the past in the past and move on.
One could argue that writing off all women because of what one woman did wasn’t necessarily moving on. Reid said it plenty of times. But people dealt with pain, heartache and disappointment in different ways. This was his way, along with a little meditation. Honestly, he didn’t have the space in his life to do what Priscilla was asking of him. At the same time, he knew the opportunity to work for EBN was too good to pass up.
Chapter 5
Elsie
My last delivery of the day is a box of chocolate-covered strawberries to the it girl on the seventh floor, west side of the building. She’s some kind of manager – a white lady – with a body so fit and slim, she can wear just about anything and it looks good on her. She gets chocolates or flowers at least once a week. Me and my mailroom buddies think she’s sending them to herself. If she has enough money to buy an Audi, certainly she got bread to make herself appear loved, adored and desperately important to her colleagues by sending herself goodies. Or, maybe she does have a boyfriend. She’s beautiful and successful – she’s a perfect candidate for Mr. Right.
If only I had her confidence...
I take my purse, stuff it inside of my backpack and take the elevator to the ground floor. It’s sunny today, unlike the weekend, and I feel something electric in the air. Maybe it’s delirium setting in as the wind chill tests the top layer of epidermis on my face. Or, it could be the relief I feel to finally be out in nature after not leaving the building at all today, especially since I skipped lunch. Whatever the case, I have a five-minute walk to my car and I intend to do it in three. I’m walking so fast, I may as well take off running. But my steps slow down suddenly as if my knees are about to buckle. My gloved hands are stiff and my heart is beating so fast I feel like I’m having a mini-cardio workout minus the sweat. I’m panicking because as I’m walking, I see the Baconville guy. He’s wearing a black peacoat with the collars upturned, a pair of black gloves and a black hat. And he’s looking at me. This can’t be a coincidence.
The introvert in me devises a plan:
-Keep your head down.
-Pretend you don’t see the guy
-Pull your hat down a little more to cover your forehead.
-Walk faster
As he get’s closer, my heart races more like I’d just had a shot of drugs (no, I don’t do drugs, but I’ve seen it portrayed on TV enough times to know the sensation). My stomach grumbles. I’m hungry and nervous – not a good combination for anyone but especially for me.
Please don’t recognize me. Please don’t…
Maybe he’s looking at me because I’m wearing one of those cotton-lined mad bomber hats that totally doesn’t match my coat and makes me look like I’m gearing up to fly a single-engine plane. I don’t know. What I do know is, we’re getting closer and I’m more anxious with every second.
He’s just about to pass me now. My strategy is working. I can clearly see that it is him up close but I keep walking. Now, I’m passing. We just breezed right by each other. I’m in the clear.
“Excuse me…aren’t you the Baconville girl?”
Crap! I thought I was in the clear. Son of a biscuit! I can just kill Priscilla for making me go with her to breakfast Saturday. Stupid Baconville! The thought of having to exchange greetings with this guy unnerves me. I feel like I felt when I got stung by a yellow jacket this past summer – lightheaded and about to faint. I hate this feeling. I know it holds me hostage from living, but it’s a box I’m afraid to climb out of. I’ve already made myself look like a plum-dumb idiot in front of one guy this month. I don’t want to make it two, so I turn around and say, “Oh, yes. Hi.”
He smiles, probably relieved that I finally said something. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says.
I know you didn’t catch my name because I didn’t throw it. Why does he want to know my name? Is this guy interested in me or what? No way. He’s just being friendly. But is it normal for a man who’s just being ‘friendly’ to flash his entire grill to a woman as a friendly gesture? Or is it an I’d-like-to-get-to-know-you, smile? The problem is, I can’t tell the difference.
“I’m Trevor,” he says.
I guess now it’s my turn...
“I’m, um…my name is…uh Elz, I mean, Elsie.”
“Elsie,” he repeats and smiles again. “Say, Elsie, you look like you’re just leaving work.”
“I am.”
“Would you like to grab some dinner with me?”
I wish I could actually see the look on my face right now. I know it’s a cross between shock and fear. I immediately revert back into my shell, into my safe zone and while I’m thinking about how I’m going to turn him down politely, I hear music in my head:
My minds telling me no, but my body, my body’s telling me yeees…
I glance up at him, catching his eyes and I shiver.
“Is that a…yes?” he asks slowly.
Yes? I never say yes to anything, so why start now, especially when my minds telling me no, but my body, my body’s telling me – ugh, shut up, R. Kelly!
“No, I can’t,” I finally respond.
“Why not?” he asks.
Why not? What does he mean, why not? Since when do you have to explain why you can’t do something to a stranger? Or to anybody really?
“I just can’t. Sorry.” I take a step away and then I hear the voice of perfection say, “What are you so afraid of, Elsie?”
I freeze in my tracks and turn around to look at him again. I don’t say anything. I just look at him like a weirdo. What do I say? I don’t even have a comeback. Why did I turn around? Just keep walking, Elsie. I flash a sad, lonely, miserable smile and take another step away.
“You strike me as the kind of woman who says no to everything when I get the feeling that this one time, you want to say yes. I can see it in your eyes, actually. Have dinner with me, Elsie. I won’t bite anything other than my food. I promise.”
“Is this a joke?” I ask, turn
ing around to face him for the third time.
“No. Why do you think me asking you out is somehow a joke?”
“Because men like you don’t talk to women like me, let alone ask them out on dates.”
“That would imply that you think I’m too good to ask you out because if that’s what you’re thinking, what does that say about your view of yourself?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just—I can’t—”
He takes my gloved hand into his and says, “There’s a steakhouse right around the corner. Let’s go.”
“B-b-but—”
“You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?”
“No, well, yes. At home, where I’m safe from—from strangers dragging me to steakhouses.”
He laughs. “You’re safe with me.”
Why? Because you’re the man of my dreams and you’re fine?
He opens the restaurant door and says, “Let’s have dinner.”
A frown creases my forehead because, at the moment, I’m finding it difficult to separate fantasy from reality. This has to be a dream. It has to be.
“Are you going to let me stand here and let all the heat out or are you going in?” he asks.
I look at him. I’m not dreaming. I know this because I just saw this guy on Saturday. I just left work, and I can feel the wind on my face. He raises his brows, his way of asking me to enter once again. This time I silently accept the invite.
He walks in the joint like he owns the place and after a few waiters and waitresses greet him by his first name, I determine he must be a regular. I’m checking out the ritzy steakhouse that I’ve never been to although I’ve passed it plenty of times before. I’m not a fan of restaurants only because I don’t like the idea of being surrounded by strangers. So I try to stay away from them. How did I let him lure me in?
We arrive at a round corner table, a small one, with real burning candles as its centerpiece. He pulls out my chair like a gentleman and assures that I’m settled before removing his cap, his gloves, then coat.
My, my, my…
I really try not to eye up his frame but I couldn’t help myself. I look him up and down, careful to avoid his eyes and I don’t break the trance until he sits down.
“So, we’re here,” he says.
I can feel him looking at me, so I don’t look up. I’m debating whether I should take off my coat and hat. And gloves. If I don’t take them off, it’ll make my getaway a lot easier. If I do remove them, Trevor will think I’m comfortable being accosted on the street by a perfect stranger. Well, I’m not, so I only remove the hat and gloves. The coat stays put. Besides, it’s a little chilly in this place, anyway.
“What would you like to drink?” he asks.
The question and his voice when he asks it is precise and clear. Direct. The two tells me a lot about him. He’s confident and has an incredible presence that makes me even more nervous than I already am. And the fact that he’s asking me what I want to drink instead of letting the waiter do it gives me the impression that he likes to be in control.
“Nothing to drink for me. I’m good.” I look at my gloves, my hat that I placed on the table. Even though I’m with my dream man and the aroma of steak is making my stomach growl like a starved bear, I want to leave. I’m not comfortable – not even a little bit.
“Elsie?”
“Yes?” I respond, not looking up at him. I’m eyeing up the menu that’s lying flat on the table directly in front of me.
“Why are you so uncomfortable right now?” he asks.
“Because I don’t know you.”
“I don’t know you, either,” he comes back with.
“Your point?”
Trevor reaches across the table and takes my menu.
I roll my eyes upward to look at him without moving my head.
“My point is,” he begins, “I don’t know you and you don’t know me, so there’s no reason for you to be uncomfortable. Relax, and it will be a good evening.”
What have you gotten yourself into now, Elsie?
“Good evening, Trevor,” the waiter says. “You have company today, I see.”
“I do. This is my friend, Elsie. Elsie, this is Seth.”
“Nice to meet you, Elsie,” Seth says.
I feel my stomach tighten. I’m so not cut out for this. I don’t say anything to Seth. I just sit here, feeling sick now.
“Elsie’s not feeling too well,” Trevor says, taking it upon himself to make excuses for my social ineptitude.
Where does he get off making excuses for me?
Seth salutes Trevor and tells him he’ll be right back with drinks. Then Trevor beams his gorgeous eyes at me again.
“Elsie?”
“Why did you drag me here?” I ask.
He chuckles. Even his laugh is handsome.
“I didn’t drag you here. I asked you here.”
“And then you took my hand and steered me to this steakhouse.”
“Because you said you were hungry,” he says.
I frown. “No, I didn’t.”
“Right. You didn’t, but it did sound like a pack of wild animals were growling in your stomach.”
I laugh a little. So, he did hear my stomach growling. How embarrassing. “Whatever the case, I’m sure you have plenty other things to do besides have dinner with a stranger.”
“Probably, and technically, we’re not strangers.”
“We are. I don’t know you, and you referred to me a few minutes ago as the Baconville girl when you saw me.”
“Okay, then let’s get official introductions out of the way so you can’t say I’m a stranger. My name is Trevor Myerson,” he says, then reaches across the table to, I guess, shake my hand.
I accept his hand and it’s like my nerves lose it and forget how to stabilize my body. I’m trying with all my might to appear normal on the outside when on the inside, my heart is doing the Harlem Shake. Have I ever shaken a man’s hand before you ask? Yes, in a professional setting, but there’s nothing professional about this. I’m at dinner with my it man and his firm grip has my hand in a headlock (or I guess, in this case, a handlock) type of hold. Is he going to let go or what?
“Why are you still holding my hand?” I ask.
“I’m waiting for you to look at me and introduce yourself.”
“I’m Elsie Evans,” I say, but I don’t look up at him. I just say it, and that alone surprises me.
He doesn’t release my hand. I try to pull it out of his grasp, but he tightens his already firm hold.
“Can you let my hand go now?”
“I will once you look at me and introduce yourself.”
I’m dying. This has to be what the moments right before death feels like. Like I can’t breathe, can’t register where I am and don’t know what year it is. Is it 2016 or 2017? The freak if I know.
“Elsie?”
I glance up at him.
“Don’t look away,” he says. “Maintain eye contact with me.”
“That’s difficult for me to do.”
“Why?”
“Because I—I don’t talk to people like that.”
“I’m sure you talk to your mailroom homies all the time.”
Mailroom homies. I crack another smile. This guy isn’t so bad to take after all. He has a sense of humor and even though he knows he got it like that, he’s not stuck up or standoffish. He’s trying to make me comfortable. So, since he still has my hand, I make myself look him straight in the eyes. Goodness, his eyes.
He smiles when I hold the connection.
Angels sing again.
I smile because he’s so freakin’ adorable, and he still has my hand when he says, “Hi. I’m Trevor Myerson.”
“Hi. I’m Elsie Evans” I say, looking into his mesmerizing eyes.
“It’s nice to officially meet you, Elsie.”
“You as well.”
He releases my hand. Shrew…glad that’s over with.
“See, that wasn’t so bad,
was it?”
“I guess not.”
Seth comes back with two glasses of water and two glasses of wine and since Trevor jacked my menu, I didn’t have time to look it over. I have no idea what to order.
“Are you having your usual today?” Seth asks, looking at Trevor.
“Yes, and the same for the lady.”
“Alright,” Seth says collecting our menus. “I’ll put that in for you.” Seth hurries away, and now it’s just me and McDreamy.
“What’s the usual?” I inquire.
“You’ll see,” he responds.
Great. A surprise meal. I hate surprises and my intuition tells me he’s somehow aware of that already.
“So, be honest, Trevor. Why did you ask me out?”
“Because I wanted to.”
Yeah. Right…
“And how is it that I’ve never seen you before in my life, but run into you twice in a matter of three days? Don’t tell me it’s a coincidence.”
A smirk dimples his cheek. “What else could it be if it’s not a coincidence?”
“It could be a video prank or something. Do you have a You Tube channel? You have a YouTube channel, don’t you, where you ask girls out on dates and record the experience for your audience?”
He laughs. “I’m a grown man, Elsie. I don’t have time for nonsense like that.”
“Okay, then give me the truth—why did you ask me out?”
“Because I thought you were interesting.”
“Now, I know you’re a liar.”
“It’s not a lie. You are interesting.”
“How so?”
“I’ve never met a grown woman as shy as you.”
“That’s not interesting. It’s actually embarrassing for me.”
“Embarrassing,” he repeats, then takes a sip of dark, red wine.
“Yes. I—I’m more…umm—” I lose my thoughts when I watch his lips make contact with the wine glass again. I’m instantly jealous of that glass…
And then there’s the way he drinks his wine. He swishes it around in the glass, holds the glass just below his nose to get a whiff of the richness of it, then takes a sip.
“What were you saying?” he asks, lowering the glass to the table.
