by Ethan Asher
I lean into Charleigh and whisper, "I visit Deanna more often than once every other month."
Charleigh’s face blanches and I immediately feel bad. I didn’t mean to be nasty, but it’s hard not to meet nastiness with nastiness, especially when niceness fails. She stands up a few seconds later and walks toward the front door with her mother.
Not much later I hear a low but heated argument between Charleigh and her mother. I turn the volume up because I don’t really care to listen in. The front door slams shut and Deanna returns, dropping into her seat with a sigh.
“Charleigh says ‘Good night.’”
I snort. “I’m sure she did.”
11
Charleigh
I’m officially screwed.
There's an email sitting in my inbox from Christiana with the subject line "Proposal Update?" I first noticed it this morning but have yet to open it because I know I won't have an answer that she'll like. It's not that I haven't finished my proposal—it's done. I wish it were something like that. I could fix that with an all-nighter. My problem is out of my control. My problem is that Guy has dropped off the face of the earth, and as much as I hate to say it, I need Guy.
If I don’t have his approval, then Christiana won’t even look at my proposal, which will mean she’ll go with Andrea’s and more than likely let her take the lead. I cannot let that happen. Andrea as my superior? I’d take being waterboarded while listening to “My Heart Will Go On” on repeat over that.
I check my sent folder just to make sure I didn’t imagine sending those dozen emails. They’ve been sent. Next I scan my call log and my text messages, and sure enough, I wasn’t dreaming about sending those either.
I glance at my monitor and then shut my eyes, silently praying that he’ll respond. Come on. Give me something. Just one word. My email chirps and I raise my arms to the sky as I mouth “Thank you.” Unfortunately, I wasn’t specific enough. I got an email, just not from Guy. It was another email from Christiana, resending her original email.
I smack my palm on my keyboard. A few people around me pop their heads out of their cubicles and glare at me. I raise my hands. "Sorry! Fly. Missed it, though."
My cheeks flush as I turn back to check my phone for messages again. No texts, not even from Marissa. I’d texted her earlier about my difficulties with Guy. I hoped she could shed light on this situation or force Jamie to do something about Guy. But she hasn’t responded either.
I spend the next half hour catching up on other work, but it’s rough going. Every email notification I hear sends my brain into a frenzy, even when they come from other people’s computers. I’ve been tracking Christiana’s movements, hoping she doesn’t come over and talk to me in person. She’s currently in her office, but that could change at any time.
I’m just finishing up another email when I feel a light chill on the back of my neck that makes my hair stand on end. I get up from my desk slowly, peeking over the top of my cubicle as I look around the office carefully. After a few seconds, I sit back down in my chair.
False alarm.
My body is in the preliminary stages of growing Guydar. I first noticed it last week, before Guy went dark. I was in the cereal aisle at the grocery store when I felt the same hair-raising chill on the back of my neck. But along with that chill, I felt a tingle run down my spine and spread across the back of my arms. I thought I'd just walked under an A/C vent, but after dropping a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into my cart, I walked out of the aisle and spotted Guy. Guydar.
He was still in his uniform, standing with his arms folded so that his biceps bulged even larger. It took a brief moment for me to notice him talking to Andrea. She was dressed to the nines, hair and makeup included. I mean, who goes to the grocery store on a Saturday night wearing that? I had on my go-to sweatshirt covered with stains of many sizes and mostly indeterminate origin. Most of them had been on it for so long that I don’t remember whether they were actually stains or part of the sweatshirt design.
Andrea tipped back her head and let out a horrific, exaggerated laugh as she latched her grubby mitts onto Guy’s arm. I laughed. But rather than a normal human laugh, I snort-laughed something that would be more appropriate during the rearing of a litter of piglets. And almost immediately I felt eyes turning my way, so before either Andrea or Guy could find me gawking at them, I performed an evasive maneuver. My cart nearly tipped, skidding onto two wheels as I spun it back around and down the cereal aisle.
Now, whenever I feel the hairs on my neck stand on end, I expect to see him. And for the first time, I wish it hadn’t been a false alarm because I need to talk with him ASAP.
Thankfully, Marissa texts me.
Marissa: Maybe he’s busy?
Not likely. Guy’s been very responsive to my messages until our little fight at my mother’s house. This is something different.
Charleigh: For nearly a week?
Marissa: Have you done anything that might’ve made him upset? Annoyed? Not exactly thrilled to talk with you?
Charleigh: What? Of course not.
Marissa: Are you sure? Jamie might’ve mentioned a few things that he heard from Guy…
Charleigh: Well…
I’d hoped to follow that text up with something that supported me, but there really isn’t anything. I know I haven’t been the easiest person to work with. I know I’ve been cold and confrontational. I’m not usually like this, I swear. I know that sometimes I can be hardheaded and forceful, but they’re the same traits that got me this job in the first place.
And the same ones that will GET YOU FIRED!
I press my teeth into my lip and then replace the message I was going to text with the only thing I should respond with.
Charleigh: Okay. Maybe I haven’t been the nicest person.
Marissa: That’s a start. Have you apologized?
Charleigh: Apologize? He hasn’t apologized for everything he put me through when we were kids.
Marissa: Have you given him the chance?
Well, not exactly…
Marissa: But anyway that doesn’t matter. Do you want this job or not? Because if you don’t fix whatever is going on between you two, you’re not going to get promoted. Andrea will be your BOSS.
If Andrea’s insufferable now, I can’t even imagine what she’ll be like when she’s my superior.
Charleigh: What do I do?
Marissa: You should apologize.
Charleigh: Do you think it would even work at this point?
Marissa: Of course. Guy’s not that bad. Jamie and I’ve been out with him many times. He’s fun!
Charleigh: …
Marissa: Oh umm…but he smells bad.
Marissa: Sorry. Seriously though. Just apologize and move forward. Things will work themselves out once you get this project rolling.
It makes sense why Guy’s not responding. A part of me knew it too, but I just didn’t want to admit it. I’ve been prickly with him from the start and it hasn’t done a single thing for me.
“Charleigh?”
Every cell in my body turns to ice when I hear Christiana speak my name. She never leaves her office to talk to anyone, so couple that with the unread emails in my inbox, this is not going to be a fun interaction.
Christiana pulls off her glasses. “Could we have a chat?”
I smile, but it feels like a grimace. “Sure. Of course. Right away.” I stand up but forget to push my chair out. My thighs smack into the edge of my desk and I fall right back into my seat with a loud thwack!
“I’ll be in my office,” Christiana says, placing her glasses back on, scanning me once before she turns to leave.
My stomach feels like I'd just dropped fifty feet on a rollercoaster. Chat? Christiana wants to chat? That's basically the last thing I wanted to hear at this moment because the word “chat” has a very loaded meaning in this office. A “chat” is just another word for a one-way conversation that leaves one person in tears. And in the immortal words of Jus
tin Timberlake: It’s gonna be maaaaay.
Christiana doesn’t say a word as I walk into her office. Her eyes are locked on me as I maneuver in between the two chairs in front of her desk and then take a seat on the left one. I press the wrinkles out of my skirt with my palms, doing my best not to let Christiana’s heated gaze get to me. But as soon as I raise my head to look at her, it feels like my breath has been squeezed out of my lungs.
"What's the status of your proposal?"
“It’s almost done. I’m trying to schedule a time to meet with Mr. Finch, but it’s been difficult to reach him.”
I can’t believe I just called him “Mr. Finch.”
Christiana rarely allows her emotions to show on her face. So when they do register, its effect is powerful. Something as simple as her brow raise makes my pulse pound even faster than it already is. “Really? He’s been one of my more responsive clients. Andrea’s already handed in her proposal. Is there a disconnect between you two? Is everything alright?”
I swallow hard. “Everything’s just fine. We’re just playing a little phone tag.”
“Well, I don’t think I need to remind you, but I need the proposal by the end of the week. We have a lot of scheduling to do, and we need to finalize which plan we’re going with as soon as possible. Even though Mr. Finch wants to move forward with you at the head, I might have to persuade him otherwise if you are unable to meet this deadline. It wouldn’t bode well for the rest of the project.”
“I’m trying, Christiana. Really.”
"Have you dropped by his house?"
I tilt my head. “No.”
“Then you still have some avenues open.”
“Yes, I do. I’ll get right on it.”
Christiana leans forward and opens a manila folder on her desk. She slides her glasses lower on her nose as she begins to scan the document with a pen.
Not another word is said as I stand up and leave her office. When I reach my desk I grab my phone and call Guy, hoping he’ll answer, but of course, he doesn’t. I send him a few texts.
Charleigh: Can you please grow up and stop ignoring me?
Five minutes later.
Charleigh: You’re such a NICE GUY.
Five minutes and two granola bars later.
Charleigh: Okay. FINE. I’m sorry I’ve been difficult to work with. Could you please respond so I don’t lose my job.
Guy: New phone. Who’s this?
I want to be mad, but his response actually gets a chuckle out of me.
Charleigh: Real funny. Can we meet?
Guy: I suppose.
Charleigh: Just respond to one of the thirty emails I sent you with all the dates.
I set my phone down and no less than a minute later, I get an email from him and then a text a few seconds later.
Guy: See you soon.
With my job on the line, “soon” isn’t soon enough.
12
Charleigh
I check my makeup in Franny's vanity mirror. It's the fourth time I've dissected my appearance in the last fifteen seconds. Lip gloss: a-poppin’. Mascara: a-rockin’. Eyebrows: uh, present? I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to eyebrows. But the rest of my makeup hasn't looked this good in years. That doesn't stop me from still freaking out.
Deep breaths. That’s all you need.
I close my eyes and fill my lungs with as much air as possible. I hold the breath for a few seconds because that’s as long as I can manage. I’m the only person I know whose deep breaths cause her to be out of breath. And don’t ask me for help inflating balloons. My record is four without passing out.
So no more holding my breath. I’m not usually this nervous before meetings, but I need this one to go well. I need to be friendly. I need to be happy. I need to be the version of Charleigh that doesn’t hate Guy with every ounce of her being.
I shut the vanity mirror and close the visor. After grabbing my purse off the back seat, I check my phone and find I’m five minutes early. Perfect. I hop out of Franny and head for the front doors of Common Grounds.
It’s mid-morning so the morning rush has passed and the lunch crowd hasn’t arrived yet. There’s a motley crew of people from all walks of life scattered among the tables: hipsters in the back, a table of elderly men at the front, and a mother chasing a toddler hopped up on sugar while her infant wails in its stroller.
The toddler's looking over his shoulder at his mom, clutching his cookie in his raised hand. Unfortunately, he's too distracted by outmaneuvering his mother to notice the immovable wall in front of him. And by immovable wall, I mean Guy. The toddler plows into him, keels over backward, and stares up at Guy blankly. There are about four seconds of silence before the kid starts wailing.
“I’m so sorry,” the mother says, bending over to collect her kid. Her hair looks like someone rubbed a balloon all over her head to build up a static charge.
“It’s not a problem,” Guy says as she retreats to her table, dragging her flailing toddler with her.
Guy dusts himself off, giving me a few moments to watch him. He’s wearing his highway patrol uniform. It’s just the right size. Tight enough that he can move around unencumbered, but not so tight that the buttons would pop off if he were to bend over. Which would be, uh, super gross.
Just as I finish taking him in, Guy turns to me and smiles. There's a jolt in my sternum, a swarm of nerves in my gut. He knew I'd been watching him the entire time. I push both feelings as far away as possible and head toward him.
“I see you’ve moved on to punting toddlers. I’m shocked that you didn’t steal his cookie while you were at it.” It comes out so fast I didn’t even see it coming. I was supposed to be on my best behavior, but just the sight of Guy is drawing out the other side of me. The part that doesn’t care about keeping her job.
Thankfully, Guy doesn't mind. He snorts—that half smile of his growing on his lips. His eyes are set on mine, and the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand up again. "Good morning to you too, Charleigh." His half smile deepens into a full smile. I'm doing my best to force the flashbacks of our kiss out of my mind, but they keep rearing back up.
“What can I get you?” he asks, placing his hand on my back and guiding me forward.
“I’ve got this. You’re my client, remember?”
“I suppose I am.”
I order my usual decaf latte, and after a few moments of indecision, coupled with Guy's gentle prodding, I settle on my usual chocolate chip scone. Guy orders a coffee. Black.
We stand awkwardly at the counter waiting for our drinks—mine, really—to be made.
Make conversation. You want to keep this job, right?
“So…” I say, rocking back and forth. “How’s life? Saving lives. Protecting and serving. All that stuff.”
Guy doesn’t respond to me right away. He’s doing that thing with his eyes again that makes me feel naked. I grab at my elbow from behind my back as I rock on my heels and chew the inside of my mouth.
“It’s fine. How’s work?”
“It’s fine.”
Guy smiles at me. “Fine.”
Wow, it’s going swimmingly!
The barista gets our drinks out on the counter, and not a moment too soon. Now that I’m trying to be nice to Guy, it feels like I’ve completely forgotten how to interact with him. Everything feels unnatural and forced. I don’t like it.
Guy walks toward a table in the back.
“Do you mind if we sit up front by the window?”
“Just in case you want to make a quick exit?”
Deep breath. Don’t Snap. Deep breath. Okay.
“The light’s better. And I like watching people walk by.”
Guy motions with his hand. “Lead the way.”
He's partly right. The choice of table is strategic. If we're out in the open instead of hidden in the back of the coffee shop, we'll be on our best behavior. I will be at least, because I'm not about to be banned from the only coffee shop in a twenty-mile
radius that serves palatable baked goods.
I place my scone and latte on the table as I sit down. Guy sits down, coffee still in hand. He leans back, half his back against the chair while the other presses against the glass.
“I’m glad we could finally meet.”
“Is that sarcasm, Charleigh?”
"No, why would you—never mind." I wave my hand and then take a bite of my scone. Guy hasn't taken his eyes off of me. It feels like he's dissecting me, as though I'm under a microscope.
“I like what you did with your,” I make a circle in front of me, “hair. It looks…smooth.”
Smooth? Was that even a compliment? What are you doing?
“Thanks?”
“I mean it. Have you been working—”
Guy raises his hand. “Charleigh. Enough. Stop pretending you enjoy my company and let’s get this done with.”
Alright by me.
“As you wish, Mr. Finch.”
He shakes his head as he slowly closes his eyes. When he opens them again they seem to ask me, “Really?”
“But before we start, I want to apologize for my behavior again. This hasn’t been easy for me.”
Guy takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes still on mine. I know he can sense the sincerity in my tone. I’m not forcing the apology out like my sorry excuse of a compliment. I mean it.
Finally, he says, “That’s big of you.”
Don’t push it.
“Ready to see the plan?”
Guy nods. I pull my laptop and a paper copy of my plans out of my purse. I hand Guy the paper copy and then open the plans on my laptop. I’m only a few seconds into my presentation when Guy interrupts me.
“I can’t see.” He taps the top of my laptop.
