by Tessa Clare
I pull the duvet off the bed. A figure wearing a pink nightgown is underneath it. Like me, the figure has brown hair and gray eyes – but that’s where the similarities end.
“Autumn, how many times do I need to tell you that you can’t sleep in my bed?”
The little girl yawns, stretching her limbs in the process. “Bad dreams. Couldn’t sleep.”
I’m skeptical of my sister’s excuse. “Didn’t you just turn thirteen? How many teenagers still need to sleep with their older sisters at night?”
“I’m eleven,” Autumn mumbles.
I open my mouth to retort, but my sister’s snores resume before any words can come out. I give Autumn a light nudge, but I give up when she doesn’t budge. I roll to my side and attempt to fall asleep, but my sister’s snoring is distracting. That’s why I don’t let her sleep in my bed! Letting out a disgruntled sigh, I sit up and clutch my legs to my chest. I can feel a headache coming on.
It’s been four days since I last saw Roman. He hasn’t texted or called, and I haven’t either. I’m still aghast that he thought that I was using him. Who does he think I am? I thought that I hated being accused of lying more than anything in the world, but that night with Roman made me realize that that’s not the case. What I hate is being accused of manipulating. Both of those traits are prevalent in the McIntyre bloodline, and I don’t want any part of it.
I sit up from my bed and make my way towards the kitchen. I take the elevator, as it’s too early in the morning to shuffle down three flights of stairs. I’m prepared to say good morning to the maid, but I’m greeted by a slab of polished metal instead.
“What do you think?” my mother asks as she comes around the kitchen corner.
I stare at her. “What is it?”
“It’s CLEO,” my mother replies, a proud grin on her face. “Our new housekeeping system.”
I circle the slab of metal. I’m not sure how the block is supposed to keep our three story mansion clean. “Where’s Charlotte?”
“Well, we had to make some arrangements,” my mother says nonchalantly, as though it’s not a big deal that we let our maid go into a world of high living costs and low employment. “Charlotte is just one person, and she gets tired fairly quickly. This machine does all the same work that Charlotte did, but it can run 24/7. All we need to do is charge it once a week.”
My mouth drops in horror. “Hang on! You replaced our maid with this piece of crap?”
“It’s not a piece of crap! See…”
She moves in front of me to press a blue button on the side of the slab. Instantaneously, coiled arms and a cone-shaped head pop out, causing me to jump back. My mother looks straight into the machine and instructs, “Make me scrambled eggs with bacon.”
“Certainly, Miss McIntyre,” a deadpan robotic voice answers. It wheels over to the refrigerator, where it uses clawed hands to pry the fridge open.
My mother gleams with excitement. “You see? It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Would you like real bacon or synthetic bacon?” the robotic asks in monotone.
“Real bacon,” my mother clarifies, causing me to wrinkle my nose. The idea of eating animals when synthetic bacon tastes almost the same seems barbaric to me.
I watch as the machine pulls out the ingredients to fulfill my mother’s request. I cross my arms in a huff. “I can’t believe you fired Charlotte.”
My mother waves a hand dismissively. “She’ll be okay. I’m sure she’ll be able to find work.”
“In this economy?”
My mother looks up to contemplate this. “She’ll just have to find new skills. Housekeeping is practically a dead profession. She’s lucky to have been with us for as long as she did.”
“You act like the job market isn’t as tight as it is,” I say pointedly. “Roman has a Master’s degree, and he’s still stuck working as an entry-level technician at twelve sterling an hour.”
As soon as my mother’s eyes go wide, I regret the mention of my failed date.
My mom had been married to my father for twenty years, up until his passing. Their relationship was tumultuous, at best. My dad lived in District 1 for nine months out of the year, and my mother had no desire to move our lives out east. Vows to visit every weekend turned into promises to visit once a month. Even those promises were often broken. Over the years, I’ve grown skeptical on love. I know my mother deeply regrets this. The hope in her eyes is all too apparent.
“No,” I say as soon as my mother’s mouth opens. “Don’t even start.”
“Come on!” she urges. “He’s cute!”
“He’s also ridiculously insecure.”
“Would you rather go for someone that’s ridiculously arrogant?”
My eyes narrow. “Says the person that married a politician!”
My father is still a sore subject. On the one hand, my mother did grieve for him once he passed; but it didn’t change the nature of their relationship. When silence fills the air, I know that the conversation is over.
“Your scrambled eggs are ready, Miss McIntyre,” CLEO interjects, setting a plate of eggs on the counter. The aroma hits my nose, and I’m tempted to ask the robot for the same thing, but I’m still upset that it cost our former maid her job.
“I’ll just pick something up on my way to work,” I say as I make my way towards the elevator.
Tate is in the middle of a morning rush when I waltz through the door. He’s in the process of adding whipped cream to a latte when I step behind the counter, ready to help with his line of orders. He glances at his Mobiroid and back at me. “You’re early.”
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“Your shift doesn’t start for another hour.”
I eye the line of empty cups behind the counter and queue a shot in the espresso maker. “You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t say anything more.
After twenty minutes of struggling to control the line of orders that are quickly accumulating, we begin to bicker after we both make the same drink for the same customer (“I started working on it first!” Tate insisted, even though I handed the man his iced mocha before Tate could finish measuring how much milk should go into it). After a heated debate that nearly cost us a few customers, I send Tate to work on the opposite side of the bar. These are the times when I wish my mother would grant me access back into my trust fund.
It takes two hours before the rush finally dies. When it does, I queue myself a double espresso. I shoot it down my throat before my mind can register the bitter taste; though when it does, it hits me full force. I cough in my sleeve, my throat burning. Tate walks into the bar as soon as my eyes begin to water.
He rushes behind me to give me a pat on the back. “Are you okay?”
I’m still coughing, but I nod as I pour myself a cup of water. Tate gives me a few pats on the back as I chug the water down as though it’s a lifeline.
“It’s just not your week, is it?” Tate asks.
I wipe the tears in my eyes and shoot him an incredulous look. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for one, you’re not wearing any makeup.”
My jaw drops. “I was in a rush! And I don’t need makeup.”
“You always wear makeup,” Tate points out dryly. “Something about boosting your self-esteem, which I don’t think you need. Your ego is high enough as it is.” I roll my eyes. Tate continues, “And you can’t have been in a rush, since you were over an hour early.”
Tate crosses his arms, the biggest giveaway that he’s about to approach a subject that he knows I’m not going to want to talk about. I try to busy myself by wiping down the espresso machine.
“Did my questions work?” Tate inquires. “You never did say how your big date went. Did he say that he would fight a horse-sized duck? That’s a dead giveaway if he’s the wrong guy for you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That’s another sign that something is wrong,” Tate points out. “You always want to ta
lk about it – at least, to me. Last time a date went sour, you burst through the door and said that his junk smelled like urine – quite loudly, I might add.” He wrinkles his nose at the memory. “Don’t tell me that you caught feelings on the first date.”
I turn red. “No! I…”
“You totally did!” Tate gasps. “I knew that there was a hopeless romantic in you somewhere.”
“I did not!” I contended, turning my back to him as I wipe the espresso machine down. “Besides, even if I did, I don’t think that he’ll be calling me back anytime soon.”
Tate lets out a sigh that’s almost as bad as Roman’s rejection. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say in annoyance. “He’s just insecure.”
“So, reassure him about whatever he’s insecure about,” Tate says blatantly, as though it were elementary school math. “It's easier to spend a few extra minutes telling a person that you like them instead of spending a lifetime in regret.”
“He thought that I was using him,” I admit, biting my lip. I keep my eyes glued to the espresso machine, unwilling to look at Tate. “I think I was, even if I didn’t want to admit it to myself.”
Tate’s expression softens. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “If you were just using him, then why is it still bothering you?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t get the opportunity. A woman with three children walks through the door, forcing me to put on my best smile. Soon, I have a substantial order of blended mochas to keep my mind occupied.
I spend the rest of the day attempting to distract myself. Once I finish the order of drinks, I take the espresso machine apart and clean its coffee-grind infused inside. Tate leaves two hours before my shift ends. When the last fifteen minutes of my shift comes around and I don’t have any projects that I can finish in that span of time, I’m forced to acknowledge the fact that Tate is probably right.
I close my eyes as I think about the way Roman’s hand felt on mine. There was something different about it, but I can’t explain what it is. He has the same number of fingers as anyone else. He had grasped my hand the same way that anyone else would. And yet, no one had caused the same amount of tingling that he did. No one had made me laugh the way he did. No one made me feel comfortable with myself as quickly as he had. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have the McIntyre name to live up to. It takes a few minutes before I decide what I want to do; but once my mind is made up, there’s no turning back.
I queue three decaf shots of espresso before grabbing an empty cup. I make a decaf caramel macchiato that I finish just in time for my relief (a middle-aged woman that I hardly ever speak to) to take over for me. Soon, I’m putting on my face mask and making my way towards the car with the decaf creation in my hand. When the robotic voice asks for my destination, I enter the Divinity Bureau headquarters.
It’s 4 o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, which puts me right in the middle of rush-hour traffic. I hope that I can catch Roman before he leaves for the day. But the never-ending line of cars stretches ahead, and time ticks ahead. Before I know it, the drink is cold, and it’s five o’clock. I’m sure that Roman is just about to leave the office.
“Sweet Hades,” I curse. By the time I reach the exit, it’s already 5:30 PM. Roman is certainly gone by now. My best bet is to turn the car around and let my heartfelt declaration wait until tomorrow.
“Now exiting the I-205 freeway,” the car’s robotic voice says as it makes a right turn.
I need to change the vehicle’s destination, but the map of the road is populating the screen. I attempt to press the back button, but my fingers slip. I press the wrong button.
“Now transitioning into manual drive mode.”
I freeze. “No, no, no!”
I have no idea how to drive. Not only is it illegal, but I don’t have a reason to. By the time my car finishes transitioning into manual mode, I’m in the middle of city streets and ahead of three impatient drivers. My eyes search the vehicle for what looks like a steering wheel, and I press the closest pedal that I can find – the gas pedal. I jolt forward as the car speeds down the street, causing a shriek to erupt from my throat. I am certainly going to die.
Buildings are passing me by faster than I can acknowledge that they’re there. I swerve past a line of cars by driving on the sidewalk. I come across a traffic light, but I can’t stop quickly enough to avoid passing through the intersection. When I’m finally in the clear, and there aren’t any cars behind me, I slam my feet on the brakes. My head collides with the steering wheel.
It takes a few minutes to calm my racing heart. Am I alive? The pounding in my head answers that question. Yes, I’m still alive. When I’m finally at ease, I press a button on the dashboard to revert to auto-drive mode. Still saved as the last destination that I had entered, the robotic voice says, “Auto-drive mode reinstated. The destination is the Divinity Bureau.”
I take a deep breath. I would need to input my home address, but my mind is still racing.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
My eyes fly open. I turn my head to study my surroundings; and sure enough, the pointed tower of the Divinity Bureau’s headquarters is in front of me. I can’t believe my luck.
I glance at the coffee cup. I’m not going to drink it, and it’d likely go to waste. Maybe I should just see if Roman is working. I’m already here; and if he isn’t, then there isn’t any harm or foul. I think about how crazy it is that I’m following him to where he works. He’d never follow me to mine!
Without any protests happening in front of the bureau, there aren’t any police to block the entrance. I make my way through the revolving doors with ease.
Security is another issue. A conveyor belt sits in the middle of the lobby, along with a giant machine that I’d need to stand in to make sure that I don’t have any weapons on me. All of this is guarded by a man in a white button up shirt. He’s wearing a badge and gun like a medal of honor – and he’s eying me suspiciously, keeping a hand on his gun.
“You need to remove your mask,” the guard says.
“What?” I ask, confused. Then it hits me that I’m still wearing the facial mask that I wear to protect my face from smog. “Oh, this? Sorry…” I pull it off quickly and clumsily.
“Do you have a badge?” the guard asks.
I clench the drink tightly. “No, I, uh…”
“Well, for one, drinks aren’t allowed in the building.”
“I was bringing it for a friend that works here,” I explain. “I’m not sure if he’s here. His name is Roman, and he works in IT…” I drift off, certain that my visit was a terrible idea.
“Did your friend not tell you that drinks aren’t allowed in here?”
I shake my head. “No, he doesn’t know that I’m here.” That’s the wrong answer, and I realize it when I see the look on the guard’s face. “It’s nothing like that, I swear. We went out on a date a few nights ago, and he got mad at me. I wanted to bring this to make it up to him.” The guard presses his lips together. “I’m not a crazy stalker, even though it probably sounds like I am.” The guard tightens his grip on his gun. “You know what? I think I should probably go…”
A voice stops me from going anywhere. “April?”
Both the guard and I turn our heads towards the source of the voice, where Roman is standing on the other side of the machinery. He has a messenger bag swung over his shoulder, and his feet are angled towards the exit. The guard looks as shocked to see Roman as Roman is to see me. At the same time, the guard and Roman ask, “What are you doing here?”
I answer first. “Well, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by to bring you coffee and possibly see if I can convince you not to hate me just yet.” I hold the cup of coffee up. “I brought you a caramel macchiato. Decaf.”
Roman takes a step towards me. “I don’t hate you. I just…”
“Roman,” the guard interjects. “Loitering in the building is against
bureau policy. Why are you still here?”
Roman glances at me before averting his gaze to the guard. “An operations coordinator got terminated yesterday. I needed to see what was on his computer to make sure that he didn’t have any sensitive data that could be exposed to the public.”
If I wasn’t so mentally exhausted, I would have picked up on the fact that Roman is definitely hiding something. He has a cover story, but he’s staring straight into the guard’s eyes as though he doesn’t want it to be obvious that that’s what it is: a cover story.
“It couldn't wait until tomorrow morning?” the guard asks.
“It seemed like it could be urgent,” Roman says. He turns his attention back to me. “April, can we go outside?”
I nod, eager to get away from the guard. The man is shooting glares into the back of our heads as we pull on our masks and walk through the revolving door. As soon as we’re outside, I let out a breath of relief; but the relief disintegrates as soon as Roman turns to face me.
I open my mouth to speak. “Look, I…”
“I’m sorry,” Roman says immediately. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.”
My mouth nearly drops in shock. I had spent two hours in traffic to apologize, and Roman was offering the apology on a silver platter. I hold the cup out to him. “I brought you coffee. I put it in an insulated cup, but it might still be cold by now.”
He laughs, taking the cup from my hand. “Thanks. I needed the caffeine. It’s been an exhausting day.”
I bite my lip, unsure if I want to break the news to him. “It’s decaf.”
Roman’s eyes widen, though the appalled expression on his face quickly turns to amusement. “I see.”
“Well, I thought you didn’t drink caffeine in the afternoon!” I say, a bit too defensively. “So, I made it decaf.”
“Of course it is,” Roman says, his cheeks red. A chuckle erupts from him. Soon, that giggle turns to a loud laugh that leaves him bending over. “Go figure!”
I’m standing over him, confused. “I don’t understand what’s so funny.”
“Well,” Roman admits, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “The thing is, I have an iron caffeine tolerance. Sometimes, I’ll chug an energy drink at two o’clock in the morning while I’m in the middle of a major battle – a video game battle, by the way, not a real one – and I can still fall asleep a half hour later. I honestly just had you remake it so that I could spend a little extra time talking to you.”
