"I'll risk it." He smiled at me. "Okay, tell me what I'm doing wrong."
His circle wasn't perfect, but at least all of its elements were above zero. One stood out, though. "You're really into recreation, aren't you?"
He nodded. "I run, and I take MMA classes."
I looked up, but before I could ask he said, "Mixed martial arts."
"That ultimate fighting stuff? Isn't it hugely dangerous?"
"Not if you do it right."
"Must hurt, though."
He laughed and pushed his chair back, then pulled up the leg of his khaki pants to show me a truly massive bruise on his calf. "Sometimes."
I stared at the bruise, trying to keep my eyes from roaming over his muscular leg. More male flesh than I'd seen in quite a while. "Yeesh. I cry when I stub my toe."
"Me too."
I looked up, surprised, to see him grinning at me. I grinned back and rolled my eyes. "Somehow I doubt that. How many fights have you had?"
"None so far. I took karate as a kid but I'm still working on getting my skills back, plus learning how to wrestle."
I shook my head. "Well, better you than me. I run, but I could never stand there and let someone punch me."
"I try not to do that either."
I raised an eyebrow in the direction of his leg.
"I got kicked."
I chuckled. "Yeah, that's a whole lot better." I looked at his circle again. "I think this looks good." I also thought I'd been wrong about his age; his scores on negotiation skills and hard work suggested someone more experienced. "Where'd you work before here?"
"Sapphire Systems. They build the—"
"I know, the engine our game runs on."
He leaned back in his chair. "Nice. Most people here have never heard of them."
I smiled. "I'm really into how it all works underneath."
He smiled back. "Cool."
We sat smiling at each other until I remembered I was supposed to be examining his circle. "Your goal-setting's pretty low. Don't you set goals?"
He shook his head. "Not with dates and rewards and punishments and all that stuff. I know where I want to be on a general level, but nothing specific."
"Why not?"
"It feels too restrictive. You can't flow with the go if you have it all planned out."
I replayed his words. "Don't you mean go with the flow?"
He shook his head. "Go with the flow, you just drift along. In MMA we talk about 'flow with the go', paying attention to what's happening and watching for opportunities. There's never only one way to win a fight, or to get to where you want to be."
"But you might not find the most efficient way."
He shrugged. "Does it matter, if I still get there? Especially if I have fun getting there?"
"It's only fun when you get there, not along the way."
He raised his eyebrows. "All discipline all the time?"
"If you want to reach your goals, yup."
His eyebrows went higher. "I'm curious. Can I see your pattern?"
Surprised I didn't feel awkward sharing it with him, I handed him my crushed circle.
He gave a low whistle. "Looks like an egg that got stepped on."
"It does not."
"Apple with a big bite out of it?"
"I thought it was like a circle that got punched."
"Yeah, good one. Or Pacman with his mouth wide open."
"All of the above. So, got any advice?"
He tapped a finger thoughtfully on my circle. "I thought you said you run." When I nodded, he said, "Then why's recreation so low?"
"Running's not recreation. It's for—" I cut myself off before saying 'weight loss'. "—fitness. It's work, not play."
He studied me. "What do you do for play then?"
I didn't want to tell this man I spent my days working on the game and my nights playing it. He'd think I was a loser and his eyes would lose the warmth they'd had since his arrival. I hadn't felt that kind of warmth from a man all year and though it made me hugely uncomfortable I didn't want it to stop. "I read a lot."
"But that's not here either."
I shrugged. "I do read novels but mostly I read non-fiction stuff, especially work-related, so I didn't think it counted."
"Friends? Boyfriends? Family?"
Willing myself not to think he meant anything by the second part, I said, "Yes, no, yes."
He smiled. "Then two of those should be counted in relationships, right?"
"They are. They're the reason it's not at zero."
He bent his head to my circle again. "It's pretty close, though. You're really focused on work, aren't you?"
A flicker of frustration lit me up. Yet another coworker who couldn't be bothered to work? "Is that so bad? Is it wrong to be disciplined?"
"Not at all," he said. "If you have fun too."
Fortunately he was looking down at the page so I managed to blink back my sudden tears before he saw them. Fun. I vaguely recalled such a thing.
When he looked up again I was under control. "Of course. I have an awesome best friend, and she's getting married next summer which is cool. And I have a gorgeous cat."
"A great friend and a great cat. If you've got quality, what else could you need?"
I smiled but knew it was shaky. So many things, Andrew. Or maybe just Bill.
*****
Two days after the seminar, I arrived at work to an email with a subject line of "Save the crushed circle". I figured it was some weird spam, but as my finger moved toward the delete key I recognized the sender's name.
Rhiannon,
Your poor flattened circle pattern has been haunting my dreams, and I'd like to take you out for coffee to discuss its well-being.
Any time today or tomorrow works for me, and most of next week too, if you're interested.
Hope you've recovered from the seminar.
Andrew Thornton
I twirled a pen between my fingers and read the email over and over. Happiness was trying to grow in me, but it was on such cold and rocky terrain that it couldn't lay down roots.
I'd thought about him a lot, and apparently he'd been thinking about me too. The reference to 'dreams' didn't sit well with me, but of course he couldn't have known about my recurring nightmare. Other than that, his email was cute and friendly and non-threatening. Rather like Andrew himself.
So why did I wish I'd deleted it?
He wasn't asking for anything more than coffee. But for me, it was a much bigger step than he could have realized, and as I stared at the screen I realized I simply wasn't ready.
Andrew,
I can't. I'm sorry. The circle appreciates your concern, though, and wants me to say it'll be fine.
Rhiannon
I reviewed this for much longer than it needed given its length. Should I explain why I couldn't go? But what would I say? I changed a few words, then changed them back again, then finally sent it off.
The back of my throat felt tight and achy as the email vanished from my screen, and for a moment I wished I hadn't sent it. But no, I'd done the right thing. I didn't know whether he wanted friendship or something more but either way the thought of going out with him terrified me.
I hadn't even considered dating since Bill. I knew I'd want another man eventually; my months of celibacy sometimes felt like they'd been decades. More than sex, though, I missed having someone hold me and care for me. But nobody had stirred me that way, and I sometimes wondered if it would ever happen again. Anyone else wouldn't be Bill.
Andrew, though, had awakened the memories of how good it could feel to be with a man, not in bed or anything but just in the company of an attractive and intelligent man. Part of me liked it but most of me was too scared to let him in.
What would he say back? I didn't think he'd be the type to pressure me or be rude, but he might well wonder why I wouldn't even go for coffee with him. Most people would. But with any luck he'd accept my refusal.
After about an hour, which
I spent trying to focus on work and instead thinking about him and how sweet he was and how nice it might have been to go out with him, his reply arrived.
Rhiannon,
Understood. Please take care of that circle, and if I can do anything for it, or you, let me know.
Andrew
I'd wanted him to back off, but now that he had I felt even worse. I knew I wasn't ready to date, but what made me so sure he'd wanted that at all? A guy like that, cute and smart and well-built? He probably hadn't. He'd been looking for a friend at work, and I'd shot him down.
I spent the day half-hoping and half-fearing he'd email me again, but he had taken me at my bluntly stated word.
*****
As if his mention of 'dreams' had brought it on, I had my nightmare three nights in a row. Sheer exhaustion prevented it the next night, but then it regrouped with a vengeance and wouldn't let me be.
The nightmare appeared for the first time in late May, the day Julie was sentenced to life in prison, the day I took off my engagement ring and began the process of figuring out how to live without Bill.
I couldn't remember any part of the dream, but I woke myself up crying and muttering, "No," over and over. I assumed it was about Bill's death, of course, and it probably was since the next morning I realized it was Bill's birthday. It happened again the next night, and since then I'd rarely gone more than a few days without it.
Two weeks after the seminar, when the rampant layoff rumors at work were making my coworkers even less productive and frustrating me beyond belief, I asked my doctor for sleeping pills because I was having the dream so often I was becoming afraid to let myself fall asleep.
Knowing what I'd been through, he said, kindly but with no hint he'd change his mind, that he wouldn't give me drugs and I should see a therapist instead. My parents had been gently encouraging me to get counseling since Bill's death, so I gave in and let the doctor book me an appointment with Louisa, the therapist who shared his office space.
When we'd established that I was of course devastated by Bill's death but didn't feel guilty and didn't regret anything about our lives together, Louisa focused on the dream itself. That I couldn't remember it fascinated her. It clearly upset me, though, since I always woke up shaking and often crying. We tried various tactics to help me remember, but since I didn't have it every night they were hard to apply.
I still thought it was about Bill, but Louisa wasn't so sure. I'd told her about my planning and goal-setting activities and she thought the dream might be showing me I needed to relinquish control in my life. When I admitted I hadn't felt like I had any control, never mind any spare I'd want to relinquish, since Bill's abduction, she became certain the dream was about control in some way. Until I could remember it, though, we couldn't do more than speculate, and I just couldn't remember it.
But Andrew remembered it for me, the night he stayed over.
Chapter Six
Andrew and I had been working non-stop since first thing that Friday in mid-October. Saturday morning at nine would mark the beginning of a big 'welcome back' game event, with all past accounts reactivated until midnight Sunday and bonuses for current subscribers. I had expected a fairly calm day, with a few last-minute tweaks of the game's systems, but our unfriendly neighborhood saboteur had ruined that.
The layoffs in late September had been a poorly kept secret, and someone had used the two weeks between the first rumor and being escorted from the building to add some nasty booby traps to the game.
The first, and hopefully the only one although I doubted it, had exploded at four in the morning, kicking off a strange disease that spread like head lice in kindergarten and resisted all the usual healing spells and potions. Every infected character died, some fast and some after first spreading the condition to others, and when Andrew arrived at work three hours later electronic skeletons littered the game's landscape and user complaints packed our support mailbox.
I didn't know any of this when I came in at eight, exhausted from a hard treadmill workout. My panicked coworkers let me know all too soon, though, before I even had time to make a cup of tea to go with the dry bagel and small apple allotted for my breakfast.
Too many people fiddling with the game's code could cause more problems than it solved, so I was put in charge with Andrew assigned to work with me. My boss Liz, given free choice of anyone in the company to fix the problem, had picked us: me because of my knowledge of the game itself and Andrew because of his experience with the software on which the game ran.
Liz brought Andrew to my cubicle to introduce us, but when I told her we'd met she said, "Then you don't need me. I have bosses to calm down, so I'm out of here."
Andrew smiled at me, looking as uncomfortable as I felt. We hadn't spoken, other than brief greetings in the hall, since the seminar and my refusal to have coffee with him, and now we'd be together all day, or at least until we repaired the game.
I couldn't worry about our relationship, such as it was; I was determined to fix the sabotage, and quickly. Partly because of the next day's events, but also because the disease had begun in a zone I'd designed and built. It felt personal.
It might well have been personal. My fellow team leader Kate, in the days before the layoffs were confirmed, had repeatedly and loudly stated her belief that she was far more useful than I was and so therefore she would certainly be kept and I would be gone. I'd ignored her, then and when she was even more outrageous after actually being laid off.
If she had created the disease, she was more talented than I'd thought. Andrew and I set to work in my cubicle expecting to be victorious within an hour or two, but instead we tried idea after idea and found them all ineffective.
By lunch time, our earlier awkwardness had been burned away by our focus on the game, and we worked as well together as if we'd been colleagues for years. We didn't waste time on a lunch break, although he brought a sandwich to my desk. He asked whether I had food of my own, but I couldn't pull my WeightAway-labeled vacuum-packed lunch from my desk drawer in front of him. I never talked about my diet at work, or any of my other issues for that matter. Not professional. So I said I wasn't hungry and hoped he couldn't hear my stomach growling.
Mid-afternoon, he insisted we needed a break. I couldn't argue: my eyes were dry and burning from so much time spent staring at my laptop's screen, and we weren't making progress anyhow. He asked if I was hungry yet, and I admitted that I was, so we went across the street to a coffee shop and I had another bagel, permitting myself a packet of peanut butter after first checking its calorie count and making a mental note to add it to my tracking sheet.
Andrew eyed my bagel. "You don't eat much, do you?"
The words "for a fat girl" didn't seem to be hanging in the air, but I heard them anyhow. "I eat enough."
His neck reddened, and I regretted my abrupt comment. "I do usually eat more, actually, but I'm really getting worried about this stupid disease. Think we'll solve it?"
He looked up and our eyes met. "We will," he said with such certainty I felt myself beginning to believe. "If we have to stay up until four in the morning, we will."
I usually went to bed around eleven. "If we're up that late, you might be on your own. I'm pretty much useless after midnight."
"Well, I don't know if I can do it on my own, so we'll have to get it done before then."
We finished our food while discussing other avenues to beat the disease then returned to my office, but all our efforts didn't produce a cure. I tried to stay focused but two other problems began to sneak into my mind: how would I handle eating dinner, and what about my cat?
Liz had popped in to check on us every few hours during the day, her mood shifting from optimism to hope to dejection as time passed and she took increasing abuse from her stressed-out bosses, and when she came in at six-thirty she said, "I will personally buy you each a pony if you fix this by tomorrow morning and the event can go ahead."
Andrew and I exchanged glances, and I said
, "Do you actually want a pony?"
"I'd love a Mustang GT, but otherwise not so much. You?"
I shook my head, and Liz said, "My three-year-old daughter would think you're crazy, but fine, no ponies. How about new computers?"
"For us at home or for here?"
"Andrew, both. And a spare for the pony. Please, figure it out. You're authorized for all the overtime you can handle, and everyone in the department's on call if you need them. Except me, because I'm no help so I'm off to drink until I forget today."
When she'd gone, Andrew said, "Should I get us some food? You may not need to eat, but I do."
I'd been struggling to find a way around this, but nothing had presented itself. "Actually, I have to leave for a while. My cat needs her shot."
He raised his eyebrows.
"She's diabetic. Insulin morning and night. And she needs her meals on time. So I'll go home and come right back. I'll probably be close to an hour, though."
"You know it's pouring rain, right?"
I hadn't. "Over an hour, then. But not much over, I hope. I'm sorry. My usual cat sitter won't come with less than a day's notice and my friend Sandra's away for the weekend or I'd ask her to do it. I'll be as quick as I can."
Andrew rubbed his stubbly chin. His cheeks turning faintly red, he said, "Feel free to say no, but I could use a change of scenery. What if we went to your place and worked there?"
Not a bad idea. Far less driving, and more comfortable too. "You're brilliant. Are you sure you don't mind, especially with the rain?"
He shook his head. "I'll go home and change first, and meet you there."
*****
I'd intended to eat one of my frozen dinners before he arrived so I wouldn't fall off the diet wagon, but I got stuck behind an accident and its associated rubberneckers and was getting my bag out of the trunk when he pulled up beside me.
When I opened my apartment door, the cat came running to meet me then skidded to a halt and stared up at Andrew.
"She's gorgeous." He crouched and held out his hand. "Such pretty colors."
"Her name's Ruby."
"Hi, Ruby. Can I pat you?"
She took a tentative step forward, then another, until she was just out of his reach, then sat and looked at him.
Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5) Page 58
