by Meg Maguire
Yes, please.
The three chatted about how relieved they were for the year-end chaos to be done, and Tom was called over by Gina when one of the firm’s biggest clients arrived.
Caitlin turned to Kevin with a small, sly smile that invited inappropriate workplace advances. “So.”
His gaze drifted downward, then quickly back up to her eyes. “So. What did you get up to yesterday? Our first day off in what feels like a year?”
“Sleep. Lots and lots of sleep. And I got brunch at a café, since I haven’t had time to buy groceries since October. You?” Tell me how awesome I look. Say it all huskily, under your breath. All clandestine and horny.
“Oh, went to the gym. Found out exactly how atrophied I’ve gotten. Went out for drinks last night with some friends who were probably worried I’d died.”
And I look…? “Feels like we haven’t seen each other in forever,” she said quietly. “Which is weird, since we’ve basically been living in this building since the fall.”
“I know what you mean.” He said it quietly too, but with not quite as much fond conspiracy as she’d been angling for. To be fair, Kevin was a thoughtful, cautious soul, not one for flair. Certainly not at work. Though maybe after a couple more drinks…
“Do you have much planned for your week off?” Not especially subtle, but come on, this was her boyfriend.
He sipped his beer. “No, mercifully. You?”
“Not a thing.”
Kevin stared into his glass. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”
Her heart fluttered, praying for something heartfelt. Her guts clenched, ever the pragmatists. “Oh, yeah?”
He nodded, coming a bit closer, speaking more quietly. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, it feels like. Properly seen you, away from this place.”
“I know.” Her heart elbowed her guts aside, excited now for what this might be about—what they’d talked about back in October, getting away for a weekend to the Berkshires, to some cozy little rustic cabin or bed and breakfast, where they could be a couple without risking witnesses and winding up the talk of the office. And maybe while they were there they’d make a decision, figure out if this thing was the real deal and decide to go ahead and out themselves at work, come what may.
“So—” His next words were cut off as Gina came over, one of his clients at her side. He waved, muttering “bad timing” to Caitlin.
“I’ll find you later.”
“I want to talk to you before the party’s over,” he said, a stern promise in his voice. It made Caitlin swoon a bit, that determined look on his face. If they’d been openly together, he would have pressed a firm, possessive kiss to her lips—she could just feel it.
Her own clients began arriving, and Caitlin did her duties as hostess, showing them around, playing matchmaker and introducing them to likeminded others—the CEO of the moving company with the GPS distributor, the cold-press coffee entrepreneur with the owner of the chain of up-and-coming boutique green grocers. Soon enough, all her clients had found more stimulating company than Caitlin herself, and though Kevin was still talking in a small, mingled group, he caught her eye meaningfully. What was that look saying?
Pack your bags, baby! We’re going away next weekend! Well, maybe. Perhaps not with quite so much ebullience from her subdued suitor.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think it’s time we went for it.
Went for it? Kevin, whatever do you mean? Oh, how her eyelashes would bat.
Let’s go shopping while we’re out there. Let’s find you a ring. What do you say?
Gee, Kevin, I’d say I’m not quite with you there. Maybe let’s talk about that a year from now.
Okay, baby, all in good time. Damn, you look hot tonight. Let’s get out of here.
And go where, Kevin?
To my place. Let’s split a bottle of wine and screw all night.
And she’d already be halfway out the door, tugging on her coat and thanking God she wasn’t having her period.
But likely, Kevin wouldn’t say any of those things. He’d never once called her baby, not even in bed. They’d never once screwed all night, either, but speaking for herself, she had a backlog of sex to tackle, following the recent drought. And neither of them had anyplace to be for…carry the two…over sixty hours! They’d have to switch to her place lest her cat go hungry, but the change of scenery would be fun, like, Round Two! Sex-fest recommencing in—
“Caitlin.”
She nearly jumped out of her skin, but thankfully it was held in place by her unprofessionally tight dress. “Kevin, hey. All your clients getting along?”
“Yup. They’re talking about social media and word-of-mouth promotion and going viral with the youth demographic. That should keep them swapping inane marketing tips for hours.”
She smiled, giving him a look she hoped was languid and seductive.
“You look wiped.”
Curses. “I’m fine.” A waiter strolled past, and Caitlin snagged a festive paper cup of eggnog. She sipped it, frowning internally to find no warm embrace of rum behind the cream and spice.
“So,” Kevin said with a mighty sigh.
“So. You wanted to talk to me?” She said it as coyly as she dared, not wanting to wander over the border into Vapidville.
He scanned the room. “Would you meet me by the laser printer, nearest our cubes? I’ll go the long way, and maybe you can pretend to need the ladies’ room?”
She nodded, pleased by the sneakiness.
“Cool. I’ll see you in a minute.”
Caitlin headed off toward—and then past—the restrooms, heart thumping with happy nerves. She leaned on the deep windowsill between the printer and a rather neglected potted ficus. It was a quiet corner en route only to the emergency exit and server room. They could easily steal a few minutes’ kissing here once they hammered out the Berkshires trip.
But the minute Kevin had estimated became two…three…five.
About seven minutes later than promised, he finally arrived, Caitlin’s eggnog and mood both thoroughly cooled. But she stood up straight, smiling with all the fondness she’d felt before the long wait.
“Sorry,” he said as he reached her. “Got waylaid.”
“That’s fine. So.”
He took a deep breath, and Caitlin wondered exactly what about asking her to go away with him had him so nervous. He looked as if he was getting up the courage to ask her to the junior prom.
He exhaled with a sigh. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”
She blinked. Unbidden by her brain, her mouth said, “Do you?”
He nodded, and that boyish anxiety she’d misdiagnosed outed itself as guilt and dread.
“Oh.”
“It’s just not working, is it? We haven’t seen each other in weeks.”
“It’s that time of year,” she offered, trying to sound like she was forgiving him for being an absentee boyfriend, not begging him to reconsider. She wasn’t even sure which sentiment was the genuine one.
“It’s not just that. We’d have made time, if it was really a priority, don’t you think?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it on a protest. “Yeah,” she said instead, slumping in defeat and acceptance. “Yeah, we probably would have.” Tears were percolating behind her nose, hot with embarrassment.
He took a step closer, speaking more softly. “It was nice, though. Really nice.”
“It was.”
He gave her a quick hug, one Caitlin was spared having to return, as her hands were full. They separated, and she tossed her cup in the wastebasket. She was tempted to pitch his gift in after it, but instead she held it between two clammy palms, her cold sweat likely warping the pretty wrapping paper.
“Well, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he said.
“Yeah. Me, too.” Glad in a humiliated, Christmas-vacation-ruining kind of way. Peachy.
He pointed at the gift. “What’s that?”
“Well, we better go make sure our clients are still walking that fine line between bored sobriety and drunken rowdiness.”
“Yup.”
“I’ll go back the way I came.”
“Yup.” And I’ll go back the way that takes me past the open bar. And she did.
She pulled a five out of her purse and slipped it into the bartender’s fishbowl. “White wine. To the brim, please.”
Chapter Three
“The next train to—Braintree—is now approaching.”
Fucking finally.
Caitlin rose from the cold bench she’d been camped out on for a seeming eternity, waiting for this final train of the night. She tucked her purse under her arm and picked up Kevin’s wrapped present and the ribbon-bedecked paper gift bag Gina had given everyone as they exited the party. Scotch for the men, champagne for the women. Stupid distinction. Caitlin had never wanted a shot of whiskey more than she did now, even as that second glass of wine faded from buzz to headache between her ears.
Stupid party. Stupid holidays.
Stupid Kevin.
Dumped, a week before Christmas. Dumped beside a dying ficus with a paper cup of virgin eggnog in her hand. Not a word about how great she looked. She nearly wished he’d found her so irresistible he’d put off dumping her until the morning, after they’d had sex one last time. But that was just a tender ego talking.
He should’ve grabbed her adorable shoes and snapped the heels off them, insult to injury.
It’s just not working, he’d said.
And she’d agreed because yeah, it hadn’t been working. But she still felt dumb for having bought him such an overpriced gift. That good mood she’d floated on, chatting with her clients, thinking that by the end of the night she’d have plans in place for a romantic getaway… Bleh. Must be true what they said about cats making their owners nuts. She had to have been breathing some major feline crazy-fumes to have talked herself into that wishful delusion.
But behind all the annoyance was genuine relief.
She was working hard enough at her job. Having to also find time and energy to work on a relationship on top of it…? Perhaps passive giving of the platelet donation variety was all she had the energy for, that and keeping Sarge alive so that he might continue poisoning her brain with his stupid-making cat-fume powers.
Why do relationships have to be so much work, anyhow? she wondered as the train rolled up. Or maybe that question merely meant she’d been doing it wrong. Maybe if it felt like work, it wasn’t meant to be. But old people always talked about the key to their fifty-year marriages, expounding the importance of constantly “working at it”. Exhausted by the thought, Caitlin sighed and boarded the subway car, squeezing into a seat between a hefty man and a woman with about six shopping bags that spilled from her lap into Caitlin’s. Her three months with Kevin had been challenging enough. Fifty fucking years?
Still, five stops on the Red Line, two on the Orange Line, and she’d practically be in bed. Just a quick, cold dash in her pointlessly adorable, unseasonable shoes and short hemline, and she’d be warm, inside, scrubbing her face, petting her cat and climbing into her bed with an actual weekend to look forward to, for the first time since late November. Forty-eight hours of sleeping in, watching dumb made-for-TV holiday movies…drinking an entire bottle of champagne by herself. Possibly in mimosa form, if it was before noon when she popped the cork. Felt likely. She’d better buy orange juice first thing in the morning. Yes, she’d wake up and celebrate being single, dammit.
“Hey,” someone said to someone else, a sharp sound amid the train’s greater rabble. Caitlin wished she had her iPod with her.
Again, “Hey.”
Glancing up, she was surprised to find she was the one being addressed. A handsome man in a sporty black coat grinned at her from across the aisle. Who was that? The guy from 15C? An old classmate from BU? Shit, she’d better pretend to know who on earth he was. Not a client, please not a client.
“Hey,” she offered, waving cheesily, overcompensating.
“Didn’t recognize you at first without…you know.” He made a gropey hand gesture that had heat flooding Caitlin’s cheeks, thinking he must have her confused with some woman who’d fondled him.
Oh, wait. He was miming squeezing a stress ball. It was Mr. Cute from the Red Cross, last week.
“Oh, yeah.” Her flustered laugh admitted that she’d been stymied. “You too.”
The train squealed to a stop at Central Square, and the lady with the shopping bags exited. Mr. Cute crossed the aisle to sit beside Caitlin. His boldness was both intimidating and refreshing, his friendliness a nice but foreign-feeling change of pace from Kevin’s stoicism.
“You’re not one of the usual Thursday people,” Mr. Cute said. He seemed far bigger this close up. In a nice way.
“I donate all different times, but usually weekends. Whenever I can manage, with my work schedule. You always do Thursdays?”
He nodded, and she catalogued the exact blue of his eyes. Prussian. “Same time, every two weeks for…” He did some calculating. “Nine years?”
“Oh, wow. I guess you do know your fellow regulars, then.”
“It’s the only weekday I get off.”
She paused, mustering the energy to flirt. It’d be a waste not to, dressed as she was. “Nine years, and you still shut your eyes when they stick you?”
He smiled. “Oh God, yeah. I hate needles.”
“Maybe you picked the wrong charity.”
“Nah. My little sister had leukemia, so it sort of chose me.”
“Oh. Did she…” Caitlin frowned in a way she hoped gently conveyed her condolences.
He nodded.
“That’s sad. But good of you to donate.”
“Why do you do it?”
She smirked, feeling lame in the face of his loss. “It makes me feel sort of full of myself, when I’m done.”
He laughed. “Good a reason as any. Whatever gets bodies in the door.”
“And it’s like three blocks from my house, and it keeps me from obsessively checking my work email for a couple hours at a time. I signed up for a blood drive at my office once, maybe two years ago, and then I went back on my own and they somehow smooth-talked me into pheresis.” She shrugged.
“They’re good that way.”
“Good at charming people out of their humors.”
He looked her over, a cataloguing glance at her bare legs. “You aren’t a flasher, are you?”
She laughed and lifted the hem of her long coat enough to prove she was indeed wearing a dress underneath, albeit a brief one.
“Lemme guess. Office Christmas party?”
She shook her head sternly. “Just hearing you utter the C-word could get me a talking-to from HR. Holiday party, please.”
“Oh right, my mistake.”
“Probably not even a party. A festive social gathering neither endorsing nor condemning any one religious dogma.”
“So, a Christmas party?”
She smiled, nodding.
“What’s in the bag?” He sat up straight to peer past the curls of silver ribbon.
“Champagne.”
“Nice.”
“The men got Scotch. How sexist is that?”
“Very?”
She shrugged again. “Jeez, I dunno. I’m probably just punchy from the late night.” And getting dumped.
“My name’s Mark, by the way.”
“Caitlin.” She balanced the gift and bag in her lap, and they shook. She wished he wasn’t wearing gloves so she might feel how smooth or rough his palm was. “What about you? What’s landed you on the last train of the evening on a Friday night?”
“I work for a youth center. Not far from the Red Cross, actually.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” He donated his vital fluids and he worked with children? Dreamy.
; “I coach intramural basketball, and our team was playing some kids in Porter Square. Then I stayed to have a beer with an old roommate who lives over there.”
“Did you win?”
He smiled. “Fifty-six to thirty-nine, thanks for asking. Go Dingoes.”
“Dingoes?”
He unzipped his jacket to reveal a dark-green hooded sweatshirt with a cartoon of a vicious-looking canine silkscreened in white.
“Very…ferocious.”
“That’s what happens when the kids get to name the team. I campaigned for the Back Bay Bruisers.”
“That has a ring to it too.”
“I like to think so, but a coworker pointed out that sensitive parents might worry it condoned unsportsmanlike violence.” He zipped his coat back up.
Caitlin bit her lip, forcing her gaze to quit dropping to his mouth. Nice mouth. And she was suddenly free to kiss any mouth she liked. Though not on a subway train, four hours after getting dumped beside a laser printer. She telepathically willed Mark to ask for her number.
The train emerged from the earth to cross the Charles. As always, the view made Caitlin’s heart rise. She’d lived here a decade, but that skyline beyond the glittering river still thrilled her now city-hardened heart just as it had when she’d been fresh off the plane from rural Washington.
“Best view in the whole town,” Mark said.
“It is.” Pretty in the summer sun with sailboats and scullers crisscrossing the river, gorgeous under the black winter sky, the lights of Boston sparkling in the water’s reflection. A postcard.
She met Mark’s eyes. His awfully blue eyes. “Did you grow up around here?”
“No, Connecticut. But I’ve been here since I was twenty-three.”
“Connecticut—that must be pretty.”
“You’ve clearly never been to Hartford.”
She smiled. “No, I haven’t.”
“But no, you’re right. It’s got its nicer points. What about you? You come here for school?”
“Yup. Transferred to BU my junior year. Did you?”
