Crazy in Love (Matt & Anna Book 1)

by Annabelle Costa

  The redheaded receptionist, I believe named Heidi, considers this question briefly. “We’re just talking about sex?”

  Lindsay nods. I feed the pages into the copy machine and stare down at the machine, trying not to listen.

  “If it’s just sex, I’d say Calvin,” Heidi says.

  “I’d say Matt,” says the other secretary, the least objectively attractive of the three with buck teeth but an otherwise pretty face. Her name, I believe, is Elizabeth. “Definitely Matt.”

  The pages feed into the machine without any issues. However, I don’t pull the fresh copies out immediately. I’m not sure why, but something is compelling me to keep listening, even though I abhor gossip as a rule.

  “Calvin looks like he has more skills,” Heidi argues.

  Lindsay shakes her head. “I gotta agree with Liz. Calvin would probably be all about himself, don’t you think so?”

  “Maybe,” Heidi admits.

  “And Matt’s cuter,” Elizabeth adds. “Have you guys seen him when he’s been working out in the morning and he comes in wearing a T-shirt? He’s got some serious muscles going on. He’s so… hot.”

  Lindsay lets out a laugh. “Liz, you need to just ask him out already. Seriously.”

  My stomach clenches into a tight little ball. I yank the copies out of the machine and head back to my cubicle. I try not to think about the tone of Elizabeth’s voice when she talked about Matt. I wonder if she will listen to her friends and ask him out on a date. I’m not entirely sure why the idea of this bothers me so intensely.

  When I’m back at my desk, I dive into my work for the day. I love my work. I know there are a lot of people who are employed here who find it incredibly dull—for example, I see Matt playing games of solitaire on his computer rather than doing his coding work. But I love what I do. I love the organization of a piece of well-written code. Recursive algorithms give me a special jolt of pleasure when I write them. There are times when I look at an algorithm I’ve written, and take several minutes to admire it.

  I even love the office itself, possibly because it’s on the eleventh floor of the building. I love the number eleven. It’s my favorite number because it’s the smallest palindrome.

  Palindromes are my favorite thing in the whole world. A palindrome is a word or number that is the same backwards as forwards. My name is a palindrome. A-N-N-A. I love the symmetry of palindromes. Whenever I’m feeling anxious, I think of palindromes and I feel better.

  When I was in school, my favorite subject was mathematics. There’s something about numbers that’s very comforting to me, especially numbers that have symmetry. A perfect square is a number that is a number times itself. For example, nine is a perfect square because it is three times three.

  The number eleven is very comforting to me because of its symmetry. Of course, my absolute favorite number is 121, because not only is it a palindrome in its own right, it is also the perfect square of another palindrome (11). I save the number 121 for special occasions.

  I could spend hours talking about palindromes, perfect squares, perfect numbers, and other things in math that give me pleasure. But my mother has brought to my attention the fact that people don’t enjoy it when I talk too much about palindromes, so I try not to. She says people look at me funny. Is it really so odd though? What relaxes most people? A massage? A hot shower? A hit of liquor? So they have their whiskey and I have my palindromes. At least the thing that relaxes me won’t get me in a car accident or cause liver damage.

  Unfortunately, being on the eleventh floor at work isn’t all good. Walking up and down eleven flights of stairs is not the easiest thing in the world. Yes, it keeps me fit, but it’s exhausting. And in the last year, my knees have started bothering me. Going up the stairs isn’t too bad, but going down is like razor blades shooting through my kneecaps, especially at the end of the workday

  I haven’t discovered an acceptable alternative, however. What can I do? Take the elevator? All those people crammed into that tiny little space, breathing the same air? That’s not a possibility.

  Still, I need to do something about my knees. Maybe a knee brace. That would fix my problem.

  Chapter 4: Matt

  “You can’t do this,” I say to Calvin, as I wipe the residuals of my Sam Adams off my lips. “It’s mean.”

  We’re sitting in the bar just down the street from the office where we work, because it’s Friday and that’s what we do every single Friday. The bar is dark and smoky and the girls who come here are ridiculously hot. If not for Calvin, I’d never have the nerve to come to a bar like this and talk to women. Hell, I’d never talked to women in a bar ever before he came along. But now, not only do I do it several nights a week, I’m actually getting damn good at it.

  “Why not?” Calvin whines. “Come on, Matt. You’re such a fucking wuss. It’s funny. Even she’ll think it’s funny.”

  Calvin’s brilliant idea:

  Cal printed out this photo of a bag lady pushing a shopping cart, which is loaded with empty cans that the woman is presumably turning in for recycling. His great idea is to stick the photo on the wall of Anna’s cubicle for everyone to see. You know, because of the can thing.

  “It’s mean,” I repeat. “I’m telling you, don’t do it.”

  “I’m just trying to raise morale at the office,” Calvin says. “Anna probably won’t even get it. I mean, this is Crazy Anna we’re talking about. She’s got some weird Asperger’s shit or something.”

  Calvin thinks Anna’s got Asperger’s or maybe she’s outright autistic. I don’t know. I have to admit, sometimes you ask Anna a question and she’ll give you this bizarre response that makes you wonder if she even understands English. And that weird thing she’s got with the hand sanitizer… I just can’t figure it out. But let me tell you, she’s got moments when she can be really sweet.

  I haven’t told Cal about my thing for Anna. He wouldn’t get it. And like I said, nothing will ever happen between me and her. That would probably need to involve more hand sanitizer than exists in the known world.

  “Anna’s not an idiot,” I say. “She’s going to realize you’re making fun of her. Really, Cal. Don’t do it.”

  Calvin rolls his eyes. “You’re no fun anymore, Matt. At least you’re playing b-ball with us Sunday, right?”

  I flinch and instinctively rub my ankle. “Uh, no. My Achilles is still acting up.”

  “Still?” Calvin snorts. “Dude, it’s been fucking forever. Have you gone to the doctor?”

  “I think it’s getting better,” I say.

  Actually, that’s a lie. My right ankle issues are not getting better. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Much worse. I don’t know what the hell is going on with my stupid ankle, but I hate doctors, so I keep ACE wrapping it and hoping the problem will go away on its own.

  It all started maybe… shit, I don’t know. Three or four months ago? I was at the gym on the treadmill and my ankle gave out from under me. I went flying off the treadmill and landed on my ass. I hadn’t twisted it or anything, and it didn’t really hurt. It just felt weak and I don’t know why.

  I iced it that night and kept it elevated, but the next day, it still didn’t feel right. Even when I walk now, sometimes it feels like it might collapse under me. I keep wrapping it every day, and I even bought myself an ankle brace at the drug store. I’m thinking I tore my Achilles. How long does an injury like that take to heal anyway?

  Except the really scary part is that sometimes I feel like my left ankle isn’t all that stable either. Could I have Achilles tears on both sides?

  Maybe I really do need to suck it up and see a doctor. In any case, I wouldn’t trust myself to play basketball right now.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine in a month,” I assure Calvin.

  “All right,” he grumbles.

  I’m sure it will be better soon. After all, I’m twenty-six years old and completely healthy. I trust my body to heal itself.

  “Okay,” Calvin says,
already bored of the discussion, “now let’s focus on the prey.”

  When we go to the bar to hit on girls, Calvin calls it “hunting,” and in case you hadn’t figured it out, the “prey” refers to the fairer sex. We’re awful—I know. When I first met Cal and heard him talking about women that way, I thought he was a misogynistic asshole, but then a few months later, he had me doing the same thing.

  But it’s all just a joke. Christ, it’s not like we’d actually hurt a woman. We love women. At least, I do. I’m not so sure about Calvin sometimes.

  You wouldn’t believe a couple of geeky coders would be so successful getting girls. I was always fair at getting girls, as long as I didn’t aim too high, but I wasn’t great at it. I’m just average in looks and not particularly charismatic or anything like that. When I was in school, I was always the kid who was just a little too good with computers and liked Lord of the Rings just a little too much. The girls who liked me were also the ones who liked things like… math. And science. And hobbits.

  And that wasn’t a bad thing. I always liked smart girls. They got me and I got them. My girlfriend in college was as big a dork as I was, and even though it didn’t work out with Erica, I know that’s the type of girl I’d want to be my next girlfriend… if Calvin hadn’t convinced me that it’s not worth it to have a girlfriend at our age.

  Calvin says that it’s cool that I’m a nerd because dorks are cool now. He might be a coder, but he’s not a geek. Calvin is the shit, and it doesn’t matter what he does, because he’s got looks and charm, and everything that makes girls eat out of the palm of his hand. He takes hitting on women to the next level. I feel like I should take notes when I watch him. He doesn’t even hide the fact that he’s a complete dick. But it works for him. The girls eat up his dickery.

  “I see two nines over there.” Calvin nods his head at the left corner of the bar.

  I glance over at the two girls sipping on frothy drinks. Calvin has gotten into the habit of referring to girls by their attractiveness on a scale of one to ten. He’s got one rule—nothing below an eight. He won’t even let me go home with anyone below an eight. Whereas before I started cruising for chicks with Cal, I probably never went home with anyone higher than an eight in my entire life. These girls would have been way out of my league before, but lately, I’m getting more confident. Calvin and I are really successful.

  “Can I have the blonde?” I ask him.

  Calvin snorts. “No. I already called her.”

  “You called her? When the fuck did that happen?”

  “I have eternal dibs on the blondes.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  Calvin grins at me. “I’m doing you a favor, Matt. You wouldn’t even know what to do with that one.”

  Ten minutes later, the two nines have joined our table. I let Calvin take the lead, because he’s so much better at it than I am. Even though Cal apparently has dibs on the blonde, I can’t keep my eyes off her. She’s got this sexy white-blond hair that reminds me of Anna. Of course, if I hooked up with her, I’d probably end up thinking of Anna the whole time, and that wouldn’t be fair to… well, I forgot her name. Call her Anna Prime.

  “So you guys are computer programmers?” Anna Prime asks us.

  “Yep.” Calvin jerks his thumb in my direction. “This guy over here—he’s a freaking genius. I swear, he could have made Facebook.”

  The brunette, whose name I also forgot (yeah, I’m drunk), says, “Could you have made Facebook, Matt?”

  I shrug. “I mean, if you’re asking if I could have coded Facebook? Yeah, sure. That part isn’t hard. Anyone could have done that. The whole thing is the marketing, and obviously, the idea behind it.”

  “See?” Calvin says triumphantly as he throws an arm around Anna Prime’s shoulder. “He could have made Facebook.”

  Yeah, yeah. Calvin isn’t the brightest coder we’ve got, and that’s being nice. He stinks, actually. He sends half his code to me to fix for him just so he keeps his job. I figure it’s the least I can do for my buddy. Even though it cuts into my solitaire time.

  I look down at the brunette’s beer and see that it’s running low. “Let me buy you another one of those,” I offer.

  She grins at me. “You trying to get me drunk so you can take me home?”

  “No way.” I wink at her. “You don’t need to be drunk for that. I’m taking you home either way.”

  A couple of years ago, I never would have had the nerve to say something like that to a girl. I’d be worried I’d get slapped. But the brunette doesn’t slap me. She moves closer to me, so that her face is nearly touching mine. I can smell the Sam Adams on her breath.

  “Confident, aren’t you?” she murmurs.

  I nod. “Sure am. Didn’t you hear? I almost made Facebook.”

  Within the next twenty minutes, I’ve got my arm around the brunette’s slim shoulders, and not long after that, we’re making out. I still have no clue what her name is, but I’m confident that I can fake my way through this. After all, we’re just hooking up, not getting married. I don’t need to know her name.

  Calvin told me when we met that he was going to turn me into a player, and I swear, I think he’s done it.

  Chapter 5: Anna

  I eat lunch every day at precisely 10:45 a.m. That’s very early for lunch, and some days I’m barely hungry. But it’s the only time that I can guarantee that I’ll be alone.

  I bring my Lysol can to the break room and spray everything down before I do anything else. The other people I work with are incredibly fortunate that I do this. I know a janitor comes every evening, but they must only clean the floor. The table in the break room is always absolutely disgusting—it’s sticky and covered in coffee cup rings by the time I get there. And you should see the microwave—there are black stains coating the walls of it and the revolving tray inside is brown where it should be clear. I don’t even want to think about it. I would never touch that thing.

  And don’t get me started on the refrigerator. There’s mold growing in the fridge. Honest to goodness mold. I see it growing at the junction between the shelves and the walls—brown, slightly fuzzy streaks. It’s horrible. I would never touch that refrigerator, much less keep my lunch inside. I keep my food with me at all times in a lunch bag with an ice pack to keep it cold.

  Every day, I eat a turkey sandwich on whole grain wheat bread with one slice of Muenster cheese and a slice of tomato. I have been eating this exact same lunch for the entire time I’ve worked here. It contains four of the five basic food groups: a grain, dairy, meat, and a fruit. (A tomato is obviously a fruit. I have had several frustrating conversations with individuals who refused to acknowledge this.)

  After I clean the table, I lay down 11 napkins. I spend exactly 11 minutes eating my lunch from the time I sit down at the table. If for some reason, I can’t finish my sandwich in 11 minutes, then I have to stay for another 11 minutes, for a total of 22 minutes. That doesn’t happen very often, but sometimes it happens. For example, on one occasion, the janitor came into the break room to empty the trash bag while I was eating, so after he left, I had to sterilize the entire room again, obviously.

  Today I have no interruptions during my lunch. All in all, it is a very acceptable and pleasing experience. Except when I get back to my cubicle, I discover someone has been busy in my absence.

  There’s a picture. Taped to the outside of my cubicle. As I get closer, I see that it’s a black and white printed photograph of a homeless woman. She’s pushing a shopping cart filled to the brim with cans.

  Ha ha.

  I know that it must be Calvin Fitzgerald who did this. This reeks of his sense of humor.

  For a minute, I stand there, staring at the photo. I hear snickers coming from all around me. Everyone has been waiting for me to return from my lunch and see this photo. I have a dizzying flashback to high school—that’s when people first started making fun of me and calling me things like “crazy.”

  I was ne
ver a social butterfly, even in elementary school, but it seemed to get worse as I got older. During my freshman year of high school, I hardly made any friends and generally felt uncomfortable being too physically close to my classmates. During lunch, I would take my tray to the most isolated table in the far corner of the cafeteria and eat alone.

  But it was sophomore year when I started having real issues.

  It started when I was getting lunch in the cafeteria. The lunch lady was pulling a pair of rubber gloves out of a box to serve the food, which I suppose was better than serving food with her bare hands, but then she reached out and scratched her nose. Now what is the point of putting on clean gloves if you’re then going to touch your dirty nose? I pointed this out to the lunch lady, who gave me a look that I would not describe as patient or understanding.

  “You want a burger or not, girlie?” she said to me.

  I thought for a minute. “I do not.”

  The lunch lady rolled her eyes and a few kids in line giggled, but it wasn’t that big a deal. I ended up purchasing a bag of chips and decided to bring my own lunch from then on. I absolutely would not risk my food being contaminated. I was willing to purchase a carton of milk, although I brought my own straw. I saw several kids chugging straight from the milk cartons and it was hard to watch.

  It was roughly midway through the year when I walked into my math class and was about to sit down in my seat when it occurred to me that only minutes earlier, another student had been sitting on that very seat. They had been getting all their germs and sweat and probably fecal matter (I’m assuming the handwashing rate is even lower from high school kids than in the general population) all over the chair. And now I had to sit in it.

  The thought of it made a cold sweat break out all over my body. I couldn’t imagine sitting there. I wouldn’t.

  “Miss Flint!” my teacher’s voice called from across the classroom. My geometry teacher was Mr. Owens, probably the worst teacher this could have happened with. He was quite old and had very limited tolerance for shenanigans. “Would you be so kind as to take a seat?”