by Julie Olivia
“See you next meeting!” Emma says, her wave much heavier and decided because, yes, I will be at the meeting, and the sly, almost knowing look in her eyes says she knows that better than I do.
I glance over at Owen, who has his hand up in a small wave, though it feels impossible for anything he does to feel small or slight. My face flushes at his borderline adorable gesture, and I mentally chastise myself for it. Darn you, healthy bloodstream!
“See you next week,” Owen says.
I turn on the ball of my boot and casually walk away to the condiments station. The conversation continues once I leave, more teasing, more talk of being vegan, but as I’m grabbing a lid for my to-go cup of tea, I pick up on the lowered voices and the small utterance from Owen of, “Okay, what are you guys doing here?”
Cup safely secured in my free hand, I walk past them toward the door, opening it with a small ding and just barely hearing the whisper of Emma’s giggly voice saying, “I may or may not still have that find-your-friends thing turned on.”
“Emma,” Owen chastises.
They all laugh, and I can’t help but smile as the door shuts behind me and I make my way back to the apartment to get to work.
13 Owen
Time is an illusion as I wait to see Fran again.
What time is it when I eat breakfast? How long has it been since I last took off my headphones and stopped working? And how many more times do I have to do that until the next group meet-up again? It’s been a mix of watching my phone for something, anything, a text, a call, then receiving nothing and proceeding to dive deep into the day-to-day work or the grueling late-night sessions churning through Ryan’s mystery project.
Replacing time with work is not a new issue for me. This commonly popped up with my last girlfriend, Taylor’s old roommate. I worked too much. I stayed up too late. I focused on my laptop until the only relief available was the gym: lifting heavy objects and running until the treadmill’s timer ticked off, telling me it’d been in use for too long. My breathing would even out as I’d continue to solve the day’s problems, and by the time I’d see her again, I would be scrambling to type out the formed solutions instead of actually having a relationship. We were doomed for failure from the start.
But this feels different. It isn’t work at the forefront of my mind; it’s Fran.
It took until the middle of the week, just as I was running more than usual, lifting heavier than I’d thought possible, sweat rolling down my neck, doing anything to stay focused, to finally receive a text from her. She asked me a simple question, something related to our jobs—to HA. Cordial. Always cordial. Is she disinterested, or is this, as Emma would put it, just a British thing? There was nothing to the text. No references to us as we were at that loft piano show or our kiss. Just professionalism.
I typed out a response. Coincidentally, it was an issue I’d encountered the previous night with Ryan’s project. She replied that the solution worked and that was that, said as simply as a polite partner from a meet-up group following up on work. I couldn’t tell if the conversation helped or hurt my need to hear from her.
I keep telling myself it’s nothing. She has a job. She’s in a new city. We’re too busy. I’m too busy. But I still check my phone more than I should.
The urge to text her normally hits me around two in the morning. I’ll be knee-deep in work, exhausted and delirious, forced to relieve the tension of the day by releasing the tension in my groin, spurred by the worst possible thing: the memory of Fran eating that stupid fucking hot dog.
I’m a sick, sick man.
Every touch of my own hand stroking me is to the thought of her. The heat surrounding me is accentuated by the memory of her toned thighs and slender neck. I’m out of breath and ready for a quick shower by the time I finish, only to return to more stressful things like Ryan’s contract.
I don’t sleep much, usually. It’s not how I function, but this contract is something different, an adrenaline line straight to my nerves. I’m no longer on the sidelines telling Ryan how to navigate, but instead doing the code myself, using my own name, jimmying my way into back doors and security flaws through my own two hands on the keys. But there are barely any flaws to peek through, no chinks in the armor. It’s all new code—you can tell by the logs—but it’s all very well executed.
I felt close to a breakthrough once. There was no factual indication to prove I was making forward movement, but I had a feeling in my gut, a feeling I know well of being there. I tried to make a change, but the second I thought I had it figured out, the doorway closed once more. It’s the same difficulties with Fran: every time there’s a vulnerability, a glimpse of behind the wall, she just throws the defenses back up.
By the time four o’clock in the morning—at night?—rolls around, I’m dragging myself to bed, exhausted from work, the round-up at the gym, thoughts of Fran, and the pure, unethical, bullshit I’m getting blackmailed to do for Ryan, and I’m conked out asleep only to wake up four hours later and do it all over again.
Thursday, as I pace the apartment, pulling on my flannel button-up—the weather having finally dipped in temperature over the past few days—and trying to adjust my hair to a reasonable state, it feels surreal to think that work can finally be swept to the side for an evening.
I’ve spent the last two hours diving into Ryan’s project, poking around, and finally finding a new back door I hadn’t noticed before. I was hopeful, so I sent my logs to him to check it out while I attend the meet-up. Satisfied, I tie my hi-top brogues and headed out the door, hoping I’m awake enough to handle tonight and excited that my week’s stress is now Ryan’s problem, not mine.
At the hotel, I mull around the snack stand, helping Emma and Randy set up and saving a blueberry scone for Fran. I hold it in a napkin near the staircase, making casual conversation with Emma, but after she’s called to help more, I browse my phone. After trying my best to stick to social media and ignore any work alerts—a feat that proves to be no less stressful than work—I look up, see the crowd in the room, and realize just how much time has passed, realize the one person I’ve been waiting for still isn’t here.
I glance across the room, scanning everyone but only finding Emma, who mouths, “No blondes here,” while raising a conspicuous eyebrow. She knows Fran is who I’m waiting for.
The women always want to talk about her. Taylor wants more details on the few interactions Fran and I have had, and Emma answers for me by gushing about the little she does know. The worst part is when I’m left having to admit that, “Yeah, we actually haven’t texted that much.”
The meeting starts, and Fran’s still absent. My anxiety lashes this way and that, considering the grave I just dug for myself, but then it focuses elsewhere: her safety. Did she take the subway again? Did she go down the wrong streets? It’s daytime, but that wouldn’t mean anything if she walked down a bad alley at an inopportune time.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out. There are a couple texts from Ryan, and I shake my head, not reading them.
No, I’m done with you tonight.
I pocket it once more, and then I hear the stairwell creak over the silence as the meeting guest speaks into the microphone about who cares what. I twist and see a maroon boot peeking from the topmost stair, followed by long legs covered in black tights and a short mini skirt that’s the same maroon color as the falling autumn leaves, topped with a tightfitting black shirt, hugging Fran’s waist and breasts, finishing off with her large, oversized denim jacket.
My heart soars. She’s fine. And she’s here.
Fran’s eyes scan the area until she reaches me, the tilt of her head waving her bangs to the side as she walks over.
“Fashionably late,” she whispers, leaning in to squeeze the outside of my forearm in greeting.
“Everything alright?”
“Yeah, just work things,” she mutters. “Long day.”
I smile, and we listen to the meeting—though, listening is a n
ice term. I don’t hear a word. I missed her flowery scent, almost forgot what it smelled like.
The meeting ends, and I hold out my hand to show her the blueberry scone wrapped in napkins.
“I almost forgot—I saved this for you.”
“Do you really think that’s the only reason I come here?” Fran asks, taking it without question.
“Let’s be nice and pretend it’s not,” I say.
“Well I’m not sharing.” She moves it to her mouth, taking a bite—a much less erotic sight than the hot dog was. Less phallic, I suppose.
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” I say with a laugh.
“Thanks,” she says, covering her crumb-filled mouth. “Shame I came all this way for a short meeting. I look like a right prat about now.”
“We know you’re just fond of Randy.”
“You know, it’s the glasses, I think,” she says. “I like men with glasses.” I stiffen. All of me does—all the way down to the blood rushing directly south. “But only those weird boxy ones.”
I arch an eyebrow, reaching up to adjust my own glasses—the ones very much considered boxy. “Someone wearing glasses might assume you’re talking about them.”
“What a shame that would be.”
“Francesca,” I say, a joking warning, but behind it is some very real want.
Her smirk creeps farther up her face as she croons in return, “Elijah.”
“Fran!” Emma speeds into the conversation like a bull in a china shop, unaware of the delicate nature of our exchange. It’s all innuendo and walking on eggshells, and here Emma is…being Emma. “It’s about time!”
“Yeah, crazy thing at work,” Fran says. Her shoulders slump a bit, the heightened electricity between us dissipating at the drop of a hat. “Held me up.”
Emma laughs. “In our industry, that’s not good.”
“It’s resolved,” Fran says with a slight shrug.
“What are you doing the rest of the night?” Emma asks.
“Oh, guess going back home,” Fran says. “Cat calls, you know.”
“You got catcalled?”
“No, I mean, my cat—she calls to me.”
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms. “You talk to your cat?”
“Not in the mood for your sass tonight, Owen.”
Emma looks between us, one eyebrow arched. She opens her mouth to speak, but across the room, Randy calls her name, his circular glasses disheveled and hair askew. He looks like he just stepped out of an arena, though I can’t imagine what kind.
“Oh, no. They didn’t leave the door unlocked. Lame.”
“Pardon?” Fran asks.
“We have to put the tables back. Last time they didn’t leave the door unlocked, so we went through the crawl space. Well, I did because I’m tinier.”
“Looks like Randy tried this go’round.”
“Silly man. Oh well. I gotta go. Sorry we couldn’t talk longer. Oh, hey, once last thing!” The speed of Emma’s words still astounds me from time to time. “I’m looking to plan a friends dinner soon. Would you be up for it?”
Fran stammers slightly, but I’m unsure why. It’s like the thought of a friend dinner with someone she barely knows toppled every assured bone in her body.
“Sure. Uh, yes,” she says with a shrug.
“Just figured we’ll welcome ya to the neighborhood properly.” Emma throws me a not-so-subtle wink then runs off. “Anyway, have fun with your cat, I guess!”
We simultaneously wave as Emma practically skips across the room, joining Randy and dusting off his arms. They laugh together, and I wonder for a moment if there’s something more there. It’s not who I would put Emma with. She’s young and gorgeous, and he’s much older, but she’s also a wild card. She could run off with pirates tomorrow and I’m not sure I’d be one hundred percent surprised.
“Makes me sound sad, really,” Fran says. “The cat stuff.”
“Yeah, it does,” I agree jokingly. She shoves her elbow into my forearm. It barely feels like anything, but I rub it and laugh. “Nah, it’s cute.”
“I’m a living tragedy.” She sighs, and I feel like I’m watching a historical drama. Her sigh could give Downton Abbey actors a run for their money.
“You sound so British,” I say.
She rolls her eyes in the most dramatic way before spouting, “And you sound so American.”
“Ooh, good one,” I drawl.
Fran’s chin points up as she angles toward me with her arms crossed. She glares, but the line between her eyebrows isn’t as deep-set as it could be. I’ve seen her be truly argumentative. This is not the same.
There’s something about the way Fran crosses her arms, tight but disorderly, loose at the limbs but strained near the fists, like she’s ready to pick a fight at any time. I don’t know if she’s a fist-fighter, but the noncompliance of it all—the ability to quickly dissent against any word, sentence, or idea—appears like an art form to me. It’s strong, it’s sexy, and I want more of it. I don’t want to spend another week waiting for text conversations to happen and hoping I’m not stepping out of line.
Fuck stepping out of line.
“I want to buy you a drink,” I say. It comes out fast, louder than I expected, but firm. “You can say no and I won’t push it again, but I like you, and I want to do something about it.”
“Yes.”
The answer almost overlaps with the last word of my sentence. I didn’t know my chest was tightened until that point, but at hearing that answer, it squeezes harder, like a snake catching it in a vise.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Yes,” Fran says. “I’d like you to buy me a drink.”
14 Francesca
“So now what? You’ve spent money on me—how do you feel?”
“Like a fucking gentleman.”
With one hand wrapped around his tumbler of whiskey and the other hanging over the back of the suede bar chair, Owen is the picture-perfect representation of a freaking gentleman. All he’s missing is a tailored suit. As it is, his current state of flannel and tousled black hair is giving me just as many occasional sensations beneath my tights—tights that were meant to keep me warm but are now embarrassingly hot under his piercing gaze.
“Cursing like a gentleman too,” I say. He arches an eyebrow, and my breathing catches in my throat again, as it has been wont to do for the past ten minutes since we came up from the basement, stopped at the hotel bar, and ordered drinks for just the two of us—Owen paying, as requested.
“Hey, my mom raised me to pay for the date,” he says, waving his drink out to the side. “It doesn’t really make sense in modern-day society, I know, but it’s still a thing. And trust me, I do appreciate where you’re coming from.”
“Well if I hated you and didn’t know it until after the date, I’d be pretty pissed I bought your dinner,” I say, tipping back my own drink of cranberry and vodka.
He laughs. “Exactly. I don’t disagree. But, hey, a man sticks to his morals. Isn’t there something to be said for doing the right things based on what your mom taught you?”
“Were you close with your mum?” I ask.
He inhales then exhales, as if breathing in the sentiment as a whole before answering, “Yes.”
“And your dad?” I ask.
“Good guy.”
“Are they still together?”
“Yeah.” He draws the word out before taking a slow sip of his drink. The tip of his glass to his lips is enough to make me sweat. “Why? Are you seeing if I’m a child of divorce? Is that a red flag?”
My stomach twists, but I tilt my head to the side.
“I don’t know, is it?” I ask. “I’m a child of divorce.”
Owen pulls the glass away, pausing as it balances against his plump bottom lip, and carefully places it down, smoothing the bar napkin it rests on.
“No, it builds character, I think,” he says, still staring at the unfolding edges of the paper before meeting my gaze once more. “When d
id they break up?”
I inhale sharply. “Officially? I might have been ten. But they never really fit together to begin with.” I take another gulp of my drink, relishing the bitter aftertaste. “I’ve never gotten the full story, but I was definitely an uh-oh baby when they were in uni. They were young and did what they thought was right. My mum mostly raised me. I mean…” I let out a small laugh. “My dad isn’t the worst, but he wasn’t exactly around. Christmas was his favorite holiday, though. Always the biggest toys, the newest things…you know.”
“No siblings?” Owen asks. He has yet to take another sip of his drink, still fiddling with the napkin, but his eyes haven’t left mine since I started talking.
“No other family. Just my cousin,” I say. “She was actually planned.”
I hadn’t intended my comment to hold as much weight as it did, and yet under his gaze, I feel everything settling in around me.
His phone lights up on the table, but I don’t look at it. It’s a conscious effort trying to avoid how his phone has buzzed twice now, but my efforts are in vain. I’m too obvious glancing at it.
He picks his phone up, locks it, and pockets it, all with a lopsided smile, almost too boyish to seem suspicious.
I’m realizing as the days pass that Owen’s mystery is the crux of his being. There’s no doubt that Owen is smart. He’s very intelligent, very motivated, but also very puzzling. Why is he so busy? What is he working on? His phone has been live all night, even though he keeps ignoring the texts. I’ve been with men who have active phones before and it usually involves other girlfriends, but this? It’s different. He owns a business. I’m sure he’s at clients’ beck and call most days.
I can justify it in my mind, but it doesn’t make it that much easier to digest.
“You work a lot,” I observe.
“So I hear,” he says with a chuckle. “Though weren’t you the one late today because of work?”
I groan.
Someone, who I am now referring to as Stuart due to the rat-like nature of his break-ins, broke through our firewalls before I left for the meeting, making me late.
