I’m just about to rinse out the shampoo when the water temperature fluctuates, shifting from lusciously warm to painfully hot. Grimacing, I reach out to adjust the shower handle. But it doesn’t budge. I tug it harder, stepping out of the too-hot stream of the shower. The stupid handle is still stuck. Using both hands this time, I grunt and pull on the handle again.
With a terrible crack, the handle comes flying off in my hands.
In disbelief, I stare at the piece of broken hardware. I try to put it back on, but it’s pointless, of course. The shower is still running, and is still as hot as ever. Clumps of shampoo suds drip onto my shoulders.
I take a deep breath, then duck my head under the stream and rinse out my hair faster than I’ve ever rinsed it before. Then, frantically, I get out of the still-running shower, get speed-dressed, and rush back to the bedroom.
Luke groans when I shake him awake.
“What is it?” he says, his eyes still shut.
“Look,” I say, and he opens his eyes just enough to see the dripping handle in my hands.
Back in the bathroom, Luke tries to shut off the water, but he can’t do it, either.
“I think we need to turn the water off,” he says.
“Yeah, no kidding, Sherlock,” I say.
Luke looks unamused. “I meant the water supply to the house.”
“Well, do you know where it is?”
“No. Do you?”
I sigh. “Why would I ask you if I knew where it was?”
Out in the hallway, footsteps approach. Then I hear Dad’s voice saying, “Is everything okay?”
I look at Luke, sigh, and grab the handle from him.
“Dad,” I say, stepping out of the steam-congested bathroom, “we need your help.”
The good news is that we figure out where the main water shut-off valve is. The bad news is that the shower is broken beyond what any of us can repair. I apologize profusely to my parents for breaking it, and assure them that I’ll pay whatever the owner of the rental charges them for it.
“Don’t worry about it, Emma,” Dad says.
“It was an accident,” Mom says.
Still, I can see the exasperation and disappointment in their eyes. It’s not like I blame them, either. I’ve done nothing but cause problems while we’ve been here.
For the next few hours, while we’re still in the presence of my family, Luke and I pretend that everything’s okay between the two of us. Over breakfast, Luke tells them how great of a time he had. He even jokes about looking forward to the next trip. But as soon as we part ways from them, a bitterly cold silence resumes between us. When I tell Luke I need to make a pitstop on our way to the airport to return the clock, his response is a monotone, “Fine.”
At the airport, as we wait for our plane to board, I dread the upcoming hours sitting next to him.
In the end, though, we don’t end up sitting next to each other on the flight, because Luke switches seats with a girl to let her sit closer to her family. I can’t say I’m not relieved. A part of me is disappointed, though. It’s not like I expected us to work things out during the flight, but…well, there was always a chance.
For the next five hours, I do everything I can to keep my mind off of Luke. I stare out the window at the ever-changing clouds. I take an uncomfortable nap. I sip my ginger ale and nibble on my complimentary nuts. After a while, though, I can’t help it. My eyes drift. I look at the back of Luke’s head a few rows ahead of me. It’s a view I’m so familiar with—it’s the view, more or less, that I have of him every day at work. But there’s something so different about it now.
So much for the brilliance of us faking a relationship.
And what was it all for? I’m no better off than I was before the trip. In fact, Mom and Dad are even less impressed with me now. Sure, maybe Catherine’s going to start being nicer to me. But I’ll believe it when I see it.
And as far as things with Luke go, well, I’ve clearly screwed everything up.
Emma Armstrong, world-class moron at your service.
18
It doesn’t feel like there’s much of anything to be grateful for after coming back from Hawaii. I am, however, grateful for having a wide-open weekend to wallow. And wallow I do. I put on my most comfortable, ugliest lounge clothes and don’t change out of them for two days. I order copious amounts of Chinese food. I finish off the two pints of ice cream in my freezer, first scraping off the ice crystals glimmering on the surface. I become one with the couch and let the saturated glow of the television pacify my mind.
But it’s not until Sunday night, when I finally peel myself up and force myself to take a shower, that I finally break down. I guess there’s something about the water, and its unrelenting insistence, that finally gets my tears going.
* * *
Monday morning, when I show up to work, I’m greeted by Lucinda’s expectant face and an inquiry into how our vacation was.
“Hawaii was beautiful,” I say. I lower my voice and drop my eyes. “Just so you know, though, Luke and I broke up.”
“What?” says Lucinda. “Emma, for real? God. I’m so sorry.”
I nod my thanks. I swallow down the sour knot in my throat.
“How are you holding up?” Lucinda asks, gently touching my arm.
Behind us, the elevator doors emit a metallic groan as they open. I know without looking that Luke is walking out of them. My suspicions are confirmed as Lucinda gives me a protective squeeze on the arm and says, flatly, “Hello, Luke. Welcome back.”
“Hi Lucinda,” says Luke, and walks past us without saying anything more.
“Oh, how awful for you,” says Lucinda, rubbing my arm. The sadness in her eyes is almost unbearable.
I gather myself up. “We realized that we’re better off as friends,” I say, reciting the break up story that Luke and I agreed on when this whole stupid thing started. At the time, I felt clever, because it meant we’d be able to go right back to the way things were pre-fake-relationship. But now I know our friendship will never be what it was.
“What a disappointment!” says Lucinda. “You two made such a cute couple.”
“Well,” I say, shrugging.
“If you need someone to talk to, I’m here, of course. Any time.”
I tell her I appreciate it.
Lucinda, of course, spreads the news around the office. And I’m glad that she does. Thanks to her, I have far fewer awkward conversations that day. When people ask me how Hawaii was, we talk about it as if Luke was never part of the equation.
As much as I want to block out Luke that day, though, I do have to keep tabs on him. I really don’t want to bump into him around the office. So any time I have to get up from my desk, I first check to make sure he’s still at his, and if he’s not, I wait until he returns before getting up myself.
Mostly, it isn’t hard to do. But then lunchtime rolls around. And I don’t know what kind of gargantuan lunch Luke eats that day, or if he goes for a three-mile-post-lunch walk or what, but it’s nearly two o’clock by the time he oh-so casually returns to his desk. I glare at the back of his head and get up from my desk to head to the break room, stomach growling. When I get there, it’s totally empty, of course. I yank my lunch sack out of the refrigerator and plop down at one of the tables.
I’m almost done eating my sandwich when Alex walks in, coffee mug in hand. He doesn’t say anything to me when he comes in, or as he refills his cup with fresh coffee, but when he’s done, he looks over at me and nods.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back, trying to sound chill. I quickly swipe the sides of my mouth to check for crumbs. “How’s it going?”
And who knows if it’s because Alex has heard about the break up and feels sorry for me, or it’s because I’m the only one in the break room, or it’s just because he feels like doing so, but he stays. He leans against the counter, sips his coffee, and stays.
We talk about Hawaii. He tells me about a fond child
hood memory he has of going there. We agree that freshly cracked-open coconuts are pretty much the best thing ever. I ask if he has any vacations coming up himself, and he tells me about the places he’d like to go. It’s ordinary small talk, but it’s the kind of ordinary small talk my old self would have killed to have with him.
And yet. Now that we’re having it, now that Hawaii has happened with Luke, it doesn’t have any effect on me. There are no butterflies. There are no shivery feelings of longing. It’s as plain as day: I don’t have a crush on Alex anymore.
And maybe, all along, I was lying to myself anyway.
Maybe I really was staring at Luke after all.
When I get back to my desk, I let work swallow me up. I keep my head down, stay focused, and get as much done as I can. It’s not until half past six that I look up and realize how late it is. Blinking away the bleariness that comes with working for hours on end, I look around and see that there are only a few other people still at the office, and they’re packing up.
Luke, thankfully, is already gone.
By seven, I’m the only one left in the office. By seven forty-five, I’ve caught up on everything I wanted to catch up on. Most importantly, I’ve finished a report that I told Sherrie I’d have done by the end of the day. In addition to that, the number of vendor applications sitting in the queue are at an all-time low. I toy with the idea of staying even later and getting through the rest of them—I’ve never gotten the folder down to zero, and I kind of believe that if I ever do, a magical elf or something will appear—but I’m dead tired. If I keep working, I might make a mistake. I need to call it a night.
I close the vendor applications folder, print off the report for Sherrie, and swing by the printer on my way to her office. Sherrie’s door is ajar, and I let myself in to set the report on her desk.
Her desk is a mess, though, with papers scattered everywhere. I worry about my report getting lost. Should I wait until the morning to give it to her? Maybe it’s better to hand it over in person, anyway? I consider it, but I like the idea of Sherrie seeing my report first thing in the morning. I set the report on her desk, front and center, making it as obvious as possible. And then, to make it even more obvious, I push a few of the other papers out of the way.
Now, for the record, I don’t mean to look at any of the other papers on her desk. It just kind of happens. It’s like when there’s a dead animal on the side of the road and your eyes snap right to it, no matter how much you’d prefer them not to. And in this case, the lump of roadkill that my eyes snap to is a sheet of paper with a list of employee names. Not just a list of employee names, though. A list of employee names with indecipherable marks beside them.
Staring at the list, I get a nagging feeling in my gut.
This can’t be good. This can’t be good.
Just then, there’s a noise outside the room. I jerk away from her desk and try to act as naturally as possible. As I walk out of Sherrie’s office, I brace myself, preparing myself to see her—preparing myself to be confronted about why I was snooping around.
But it’s not Sherrie, of course. It’s the night janitor. He’s wheeling his cart through the office, grabbing trash cans from beneath desks and emptying them out. When he sees me, he gives me a friendly nod.
“Have a good night,” I call out, and rush to leave.
All the way home, I debate with myself about what I saw. If it is what I’m afraid it is, I’ve got to warn Luke. Just because we’re not talking to each other right now, that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to look out for him when it comes to something like this.
That night, after chewing on it for a while longer, I decide to send two texts.
The first is to Luke. Just so you know, I saw something on Sherrie’s desk, and I think there might be layoffs coming.
Ten minutes later, my phone chimes. Thx for the heads up.
Next, I text Lucinda the same thing.
She texts back right away. Emma, thank you for telling me. I’m in disbelief!
I think back to our group bowling date, when Lucinda shared the rumor with us that Sherrie was leaving. I guess she got it wrong, though. It’s some of us who are leaving soon.
I wish I’d had more time to study the list when I was in Sherrie’s office. I wish I’d been thinking straight enough to take a picture of the list with my phone. Not that it would have necessarily helped. Even with a photo, I’d probably still be sitting here just as clueless as I am without one.
Here’s one thing I do know, though: I’m not going to be caught unprepared.
I grab my laptop, pull up my resume, and get it up to date. Then I spend the rest of the night applying to jobs. The only part of each application that gives me pause is the section asking for references. Each time, I put down Luke’s name and contact info. Then delete it. Then put it back again.
19
When I get into work the next morning, I’m on high alert, anticipating the announcement of the inevitable doomed staff meeting. But hours pass and nothing happens. Finally, unable to take it any longer, I do my best casual walk over to Sherrie’s office. She’s sitting nonchalantly at her desk as if everything’s perfect normal.
I draw in a breath and rap gently on her door frame. Sherrie looks up from her computer screen and smiles.
“Emma,” she says. “Come on in! How was Hawaii? I haven’t gotten a chance to ask you about it yet.”
“It was good, thanks,” I say. I take an awkward step into her office. “But I actually came by because I wanted to touch base with you. I left a report on your desk last night—you got it, right?”
“I did,” says Sherrie. “Thanks for putting in those extra hours. It doesn’t go unnoticed.” She smiles at me again. This time, though, the smile seems a little off—like maybe she just realized that I saw the layoff list on her desk.
What is wrong with me? Why did I have to say anything about the report?
“I love your blouse, by the way,” I say.
“Oh?” says Sherrie, glancing down. She’s wearing a mustard yellow top with frills for sleeves. I don’t know why I said I loved it. It’s pretty hideous, to tell you the truth. I really should keep my mouth shut for the rest of the day.
“You know, it’s funny,” says Sherrie. “I’d actually thrown this in my donate pile a couple weeks ago. But it caught my eye again this morning, so I figured I’d give it one more shot.”
“You should keep it,” I say.
“You think?” she says. She brushes something off her sleeve.
“Oh, definitely,” I say.
“Well,” says Sherrie. “I’ll keep your suggestion in mind.”
There’s no staff meeting called that day. Nor the next. But I do hear back from one of the jobs I applied to, and we make arrangements to do a phone interview the following day. And that’s when I remember the references I listed on my application, and realize that I completely forgot to give any of them a heads up.
Immediately, I message Luke. We haven’t messaged each other since before our trip, and the last lines of conversation in the chat window are about what time we should schedule our Uber for.
Hey, I type. FYI, I listed you as a reference on a job application. Hope that’s ok.
Luke replies, Jumping ship already, huh?
Just preparing for the worst.
When Luke doesn’t say anything in response, I minimize the window. Then I open it back up and type, You aren’t looking for a plan b?
I don’t know yet, Luke types. Gonna wait and see.
The following day, I consume my homemade cheese sandwich like it’s the antidote to all my problems and then duck into the stairwell to take the phone interview. Despite my nerves, the distracting echo of the stairwell, and the smidgen of cheddar lodged in my back molar, the interview goes well.
Really well, actually. I kind of rock it.
But as I get back to work, I gradually become overwhelmed with emotions of the worst sort. I feel guilty for doing the interview, anxi
ous about the impending layoffs, and still just as crestfallen about the whole mess with Luke. I lift my face to look at him—to look at the back of his head, that is. At the stupid, handsome back of his head. I wish so badly that he would turn and look at me. That he would give me a smile. But he doesn’t, of course. And something tells me that he’s not going to for a long time.
* * *
There’s more traffic than usual when I drive to Dance Den that evening, and by the time I arrive, everyone is already in the studio. I quickly pay. I sign in. I rush into the bathroom to change. A flurry of clothing and elbow-smacks-against-the-bathroom-stall later, I emerge and hustle into the studio. As usual, Carla is at the front of the room guiding the group through the warmup, encouraging everyone to go deeper into their knee bends.
We’re finishing up the stretches when I see a familiar face in the crowd. I have to do a double take, thinking my mind is playing tricks on me. But no. It really is her. I’m not imagining things.
Paige sees me and grins and waves.
Look, I know I don’t own the place. I know that Paige has every right to be here, just as much as anyone does. Still, I can’t help but feel like a sacred space of mine has been encroached upon. And it’s not a good feeling. Not good at all.
As the music starts, as the dancing begins, I try to shut Paige out of my mind. I try to concentrate solely on the rhythm of the music. But no matter how hard I try, she’s still there. And then I realize that she’s getting closer to me. She has gradually been making her way across the room.
By the end of the current song, she has sidled her way right up next to me.
“Hi, Emma!” she shouts over the opening beats of the next song. “This place is great! Do you know if they sell punch cards?”
Well, that’s that. Dance Den is ruined. At least it was good while it lasted.
I shake my head at Paige’s question. Paige shouts back, “Huh! They should!” Meanwhile, up front, Carla calls out instructions to join hands with our neighbor. I glance to my left, away from Paige, but the woman on that side of me has already paired up with someone else. Reluctantly, I turn back in the other direction.
Emma and Luke Are Totally Together Page 13
