by Edie Danford
There’s no way I can make it up to Lake Woods, chat with my mom about our latest plans to sell some of her handmade jewelry merch on Etsy, make a stop at Treasure Island for groceries, and then make it home for dinner. Marek needs to see me there when he gets home, needs to know we’re still good.
I’m bummed by how badly I mishandled last night’s situation. I’d allowed some rule-bending and look where it got us. Messiness and confusion.
What Marek is feeling for me is obviously a proximity-driven crush. Or maybe gratitude for the way I take care of him and pay attention to him. Marek’s a pleasure to work for and that probably shows in my daily interactions with him.
I have experience with how workplace “togetherness” can lead to attraction and even to those happy-floaty feelings people associate with love. Marek doesn’t have those experiences. And he has no idea how amazing he is, how deserving he is of real love and honest pleasure from someone who is as smart and amazing as he is. He just needs more confidence about getting out in the world and being social.
Yeah, what he needs is to stop hanging out with his goddamn housekeeper. And if I want to hang out with him—if I keep getting happy-floaty feelings whenever he’s near? Well, tough for me. I need to shut that shit down. Falling in love is not on my job description.
My gaze snags on a banner for the Art Institute as I wait to cycle through the next intersection. The banner advertises an exhibit Marek expressed interest in after reading about it in the paper. I haven’t ordered tickets for it yet. I needed to fix that.
It’s past time for Mar to branch out from our small—very small—circle in Hyde Park.
The parking gods must sense my need to get out of my car and out of my head, because a spot opens a miraculously short distance away from Domesticated, Inc. The company offices are located over a bakery called Cupcaked, Inc, which is owned by the same dudes.
After walking up the narrow, buttercream-scented stairway to join my fellow employees for our monthly staff meeting, I greet Brian, the receptionist.
“Howdy, Peter,” he responds. “How’s thangs?”
“Um, okay.”
“Not very enthusiastic, there, hon.”
I shrug. “Just one of those mornings, I guess.”
Brian nods, his rounded cheeks creasing in an understanding smile. All the guys who work here are peaches. “Sign in and have a cupcake,” he tells me.
I’m able to scrawl my name on the sign-in sheet that says in bold, rainbow colors, “Happily Employed Full-time Live-in,” without feeling too much guilt.
Domesticated’s offices are utilitarian—boxy reception desk, boxy offices, slightly less-than-boxy meeting room. The impressive, creative stuff is located down in the high-tech catering kitchen attached to the bakery. And of course the people who work here are impressive and creative too.
In terms of reputation and scope, Domesticated is a big success. According to company lore, they started out as a catering service in Boystown in the eighties, but when cleaning up became a major part of their services (party prep and party breakdowns make big messes), they added a crew of cleaners and housekeepers to their offerings.
Cal and Bob, the owners, could have kept expanding, but they decided against it, wanting to keep the relationship between employee and client as personal as possible. They’re successful enough that they can be picky, or as Cal liked to say, “untraditional,” about the jobs and employees they choose to take on.
This has been a very good thing for me. Cal and I hit it off during my first interview. Also, he likes my friend Adrian, a trusted Domesticated employee who suggested I apply, and so Cal had been willing to overlook a few gaps in my recommendation file.
Most Domesticated employees (a.k.a., Domesticates) work part time doing a combination of gigs. A small number—maybe a dozen at any given time—work as live-ins. Most of us full-time housekeepers are independent contractors who have been matched with clients by Domesticated’s “finding” service.
One of the great things about the agency is that it provides community and support, even when Bob and Cal aren’t the ones signing our paychecks. Today is our once-a-month chance to get together, shoot the shit, grouse, share jokes, exchange recipes, cleaning tips, dog-walking horror stories, etcetera.
Apparently, I tend to be vocal at these meetings, because about twenty minutes into it, Cal—fearless champion of housekeepers everywhere—looks right at me. “We haven’t heard from you yet today, Peter. You doing okay?”
I cast a quick glance around the table. My friend Adrian catches my eye. He works for a professor too, as coincidence would have it. But his professor is a hip, happy, smart-mouthed old dude who lives in the DePaul area of Lincoln Park. He bosses the crap out of Adrian, in a doting kind of way that’s grandfatherly and not the slightest bit sexy.
Adrian licks a blob of pink frosting—Cupcaked always caters our meetings—off his lip and winks. Adrian warned me during one of our regular lunch dates that I might be skirting a little close to the line between live-in employee and live-in “something else,” rolling his eyes when I’d quoted him my list of rules. Guess he’s gonna be doing some more eye-rolling at me today.
I say with a small smile, “It’s going okay.”
“That’s a downgrade from last month’s ‘great.’ What’s going on? How’s Professor Adorkable been doing lately?”
I let a shallow breath leave my lungs. We’ve all given our clients aliases. Some of them have huge privacy issues, and it’s important to stick to anonymity in these meetings. Sometimes our discussions get personal, because, hey, housekeeping is a very personal business.
“He’s um…” I fiddle with the wrapper of my uneaten cupcake. I’m planning to take it home to Professor Adorkable. “He’s got a crush on me.”
The group—eight of them today—all let loose with an “awwwwww,” loud and long enough that I’m sure it makes my cheeks turn as pink as the cupcake frosting.
Adrian raises his eyebrows at me. The guy next to him—dude named Simon—says, “Of course he’s crushin’ on you, Petey. You’re fuckin’ adorable, and every month you win the going-above-and-beyond-for-a-client prize.”
Everyone laughs. Well, Cameron, who’s sitting at the end of the table, doesn’t laugh. He’s a notorious cranky-butt.
I glance at Cal. He’s not saying “awwwww” or laughing. He’s gazing at me with concern. “And how do you feel about him?” he asks quietly.
“He’s a friend. I care about him. But, obviously, love or something similar can’t be on my radar.” I’m pretty sure that answer won’t ding the dishonest meter.
“Have the two of you talked about his feelings?”
“Yes. Briefly.” I carefully remove the paper from the cupcake’s base.
“Are you still comfortable being there with him?”
“Of course.” I take a giant bite of the cupcake, getting equal parts frosting and cake. I chew, gulp, and then say, “I told him we needed to keep our relationship to just friends and client-employee. He’s a good guy. He understands.” I fold the napkin into tinier and tinier squares, giving my hands something to do. “Anyway. I’m going to help him find some different people to hang out with. Maybe set him up on a few dates. If anyone has good ideas on that front—guys who are smart and nice and serious-minded—let me know.”
There are a few remarks. Some thoughtful. Some haha-larious. How about me, Pete? And, If you find a guy like that, send him my way.
Cal says to me, “Let’s talk about this a little more after the meeting, okay?”
I nod. I could use Cal’s advice. I snarf the rest of the cupcake, barely noticing the luscious flavors. All I want is the sugar rush.
We spend the next forty minutes doing the usual. Julien—a personal chef on staff—shares a bunch of not-boring crock-pot recipes. January has all of us craving hot and easy and comforting. Cameron needs an idea for a Valentine party his bosses’ twin sons want to throw. We have a demo of a new cleaning product. We fin
ish with a discussion of next month’s live music offering at McMillan’s, a jazz-funk bar that’s a fave of Domesticates.
As the meeting ends, the guys who have kids under their care (or adults who don’t give a fuck about their waistlines), divvy up the cupcakes. Adrian and I agree to meet for lunch sometime soon.
“Want to go downstairs for coffee?” Cal asks as I approach. “Or are you coffee-ed out?”
“I could get a decaf,” I say. Going downstairs will give me a chance to look at more cupcake offerings. Zoe will likely be hanging out at the townhouse this weekend and she’ll appreciate a fun treat. I’m okay at baking, but I have no skills when it comes to funky frosting jobs.
After placing our coffee order and selecting a half-dozen cupcakes with a psychedelic, flower-power theme I know both Zoe and Mar will get a charge out of, we settle at one of the cute bistro tables by the window.
Cal strokes his salt-and-pepper goatee and gives me a considering look. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, but keep my gaze steady on his. Cal took a risk when he hired me. I’m grateful, and, now that I know him pretty well, I’m happy to have his friendship. He’s a rarity in my experience—an excellent manager and a funny, caring human being.
“So Professor Adorkable’s in love?” He raises one eyebrow and his dark eyes gleam with humor—an expression I wish I could mimic.
“Well. It’s possible he thinks he is. Really, he’s just grateful to have someone around who cares about him as a whole person and not only his brains…or his abilities to invent cool shit that makes zillions.”
Cal smiles. “I knew I was placing the right man in that household.”
“You know and I know the only reason I got the job is because you thought it was your duty to mess with Marek’s uncle, and I was willing to sign that crazy contract.”
Shrugging, Cal says, “When Jakub Janos came in to the office and asked us for ‘a worldly yet responsible gay man’”—Cal says this in a pole-up-the-ass, Czech-accented voice—“to care for his ‘naïve and socially inept nephew,’ my first thought was tell him to fuck off. I mean, what kind of request was that? His nephew’s twenty-six, not twelve.”
“But your second thought—to take your finder’s fee and run with it—was more powerful?”
“He was paying an awful lot.” Cal’s dark eyes twinkle again.
“But you were taking an awfully big risk matching him with a world-weary, irresponsible gay man.”
Cal laughs. “You’d done enough work for us at that point that I knew there wasn’t much of a risk. I had a feeling that Professor Adorkable might put a smile on that sweet face of yours. And vice versa.”
My “sweet” face scowls. “Right. So. Do we really need to have this discussion?”
“You know why we need to talk about this.”
I sigh. I do know. And it sucks. I ask Cal something I’ve been wondering about for the last month, “Would Domesticated be in trouble at all if I ripped up the contract I signed with Marek’s asshole uncle?”
“Well…” Cal strokes his beard again. “Probably not anything that Bob and I couldn’t handle. The terms of the contract were between Mr. Janos and you. Domesticated only provided the match. But I suppose our rep might take a hit if he pissed and moaned and bitched in public about Domesticated hornswoggling him.”
I snort. “Hornswoggling is the technical term?”
“Oh yeah.”
I smile weakly, and his expression gets serious. “The reason I want to have this discussion,” he says, “is because I’m concerned about what might happen if you continue to keep the terms of the contract a secret from your professor. You’ve put yourself in a bind if feelings beyond friendship have become involved.”
“Yeah. I know.” I try not to let my worry show. I’ve read the contract multiple times. I’ve had a damn lawyer read the contract—a first for me. But I keep hoping there was something I’d overlooked, some way out of it.
The contract has nondisclosure and non-arbitration clauses. If I quit the job, break the contract, or am fired for any reason, my communication with Marek is supposed to stop. Full-stop. As in, I’m not supposed to make contact with him ever again, unless I do it via his uncle. There’s to be no sharing of any information or knowledge I’ve received as a result of working in his household. Basically, if the contract’s terminated, I’m supposed to pretend I’ve never known Marek Janos.
This language in the contract was followed by an outline of standard repercussions for breaking the terms: lawsuits, tarring-and-feathering, walking the plank, pistols at dawn. Blah, blah, blah.
At the time I’d signed, I hadn’t seen what the fuss was over some science professor whose social media footprint consisted solely of his attendances at conferences like Hot Topics in Modern Cosmology and articles and books he’d written with names like “The dependence of interstellar turbulent pressure on supernovae.” For real.
If Marek Janos’s uncle had wanted to run Marek’s personal life, I’d been down with it. It hadn’t been my business. What had been my business was to take a job where I had guidelines and guarantees. I’d received ten thousand bonus dollars for signing and would receive ten thousand more when I’d worked there for a year—money I’d desperately needed.
At the time I’d signed, I’d thought Marek must’ve been a reclusive, freaky, egghead who’d be a pain to work for, and that the cash and contract terms must be desperate pleas: “Here, take my crazy nephew off my hands! Sorry in advance, and if you can stick it out, we’ll throw more money at you.”
But that wasn’t how it had panned out at all, and the Janos family’s personal business had become my business when Mr. Genius Science Professor and I had hit it off immediately and become friends. I wouldn’t be attending any of those fascinating conferences with him, ever, but I wouldn’t want to ignore his existence if one or both of us moved on from the contract.
I’ve also discovered that Jakub Janos doesn’t seem to know or understand Marek’s needs or tastes or desires. Not like I’ve come to know them.
I stare down into my still-full coffee mug. Cal’s hand covers mine on the table. “I’m sorry things have become awkward with your professor because of that contract,” he says. “I know how you feel about being upfront with people.” He gives my fingers a squeeze and picks up his coffee again.
I shrug, pulling my gaze toward the window. “I was the one who signed and greedily took that big bonus. You didn’t force me.”
“Maybe it’s time to consider the changes in your relationship with the man you work for, not the man who’s behind the contract. If what you say about Professor Adorkable is true, then he’ll be okay if you come clean with him about everything, right?”
Come clean. I swallow down a laugh that I know would come off as nutso. It’s funny that I clean Mar’s home and last night had essentially cleaned his whistle, when all the while it’s me—my presence—that’s the dirtiest part of his life.
Cal keeps making reasonable suggestions. “Maybe if you both work together, you can tell his uncle to fuck off and break whatever hold he has on your professor?”
“He’s not my professor.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. I’m just a guy who works for him, Cal. That’s all I signed on to be. Marek seems to like and trust his uncle. Who am I to say he shouldn’t?”
“I have a feeling that what you say could make a big difference in your professor’s sheltered life.”
I make a scoffing noise. I mean it to be mostly funny, but the sound lands heavily between us.
I do have power over Marek—I can make a difference in his life. There had been a time when having power over a guy who I worked for would’ve pleased me. But now that I have some at last, I find I don’t want it. The responsibility that comes along with it is too damn scary.
Chapter 4
Marek
Zoe’s hair is dark blue today—a shade that perfectly matches her fingernail polish. When I point this out to her
, she rolls her eyes at me. Twice.
She is in a snarly mood for some reason, and I figure it’s the perfect time to cheer her up with a question. “Do you think I would look good with blue hair?”
The noise she makes is an “OMG you are such a case” sort of sound—one I’ve heard many, many times from her side of the lab—but her eyes slant curiously in my direction. Zoe likes to experiment with being…edgy. And I like to experiment with getting her to smile.
A piece of paper resting on a file by my monitor happens to be blue. Not dark, but it will work. I pick it up with one hand and smooth my hair back with another. After smacking the paper against my forehead, I suck in a breath to hollow out my cheeks.
“Oh my God,” she groans—this time with very succinct words. And then she laughs, which makes me happy. I’ve discovered that making a surly-snarly teenager laugh is a wholly satisfying feat.
“Well?” I ask, doing weird things with my lips and eyebrows. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a dork.”
“Yes. I am told this many times a week. But…maybe I’m tired of being a dork and I want to do something about it.” I put down the paper and lean back in my chair. “As far as my appearance goes,” I qualify. “I can’t change the rest, I realize.”
Zoe gets out of her chair and comes toward me. Her eyes aren’t rolling or wide anymore. They’re narrowed. Concerned.
She sits on the stool next to me. It creaks loudly when she hooks her shoes—blue, of course—over the footrest. “Being a dork is one of your excellent qualities. The fuck you talking about?”
I shrug. “Do you remember the friend Pete sometimes talks about? Ro?”
“The guy who has the salon over on North Avenue, or something. Yeah. So?”
“I’ve made an appointment for a haircut.”
“A haircut.”
“Yes.” I run my hand over my head. “It is…bushy. Right? Resembling shrubbery.”
