I hit send with a wide grin on my face, and I stare at my phone. Sure enough, another alert buzzes through. The money with an even higher sum lights up my screen with Grace’s name and the Cash App logo.
Fine. I’ll do the same.
My brow shoots up to my hairline. I make good on my threat and tack on another twenty.
I think you’re underestimating just how stubborn I can be.
The money comes right back.
And I think you’re underestimating how determined I can be.
I chuckle. I don’t know whether to be annoyed, entertained, or just flat out turned on. Maybe all three. I tap out my final coup de grâce as I send it right back.
If you send this back, I’m bringing the cash to you in person.
I wait for a response. It never comes. I go back to my last transfer, hoping there’s something there. An inscrutable emoji or punctuation mark I can dissect and overanalyze. But there’s nothing. Just the same transactions and icy notes she sent over. I guess my final blow worked, but now I’m regretting it. My phone turns into a pot of lukewarm water on a stove as I sit and watch. And watch and watch. All while the thought of her burns a fiery hole in my head. Her thick wavy hair that she expressed an especially keen interest in having tugged, or rather pulled. Her smooth skin and the small oval mole over her ribs below her left breast. Even the sight of her toes, curling and flexing when I touched her exactly how she liked.
Jesus Christ, I can’t stop thinking about her. I’m growing obsessive. This compulsion I’m reminded of every time I see a silver Volvo or a whiff of something that resembles tequila—usually a dollop of hand sanitizer—or an overzealous dog begging for my attention. It feels almost Pavlovian. Except instead of a bell or some other indicative noise, it’s literally anything that reminds me of Grace. Maybe I shouldn’t have threatened her with an uninvited visit. Held on to this back and forth for a little longer, no matter how badly it drained my bank account.
“Hey!”
My thoughts on Grace’s lips, how they seem to loosen and pucker when something feels good and how they look when her teeth are pressed against her lower pout, are interrupted by the sudden jump scare of Olive, Mr. Sheridan’s assistant, leaning over the top of my cubicle wall.
“Hey, Olive.”
“You’re picking up Mr. Sheridan’s car?”
“Looks like it.”
Mr. Sheridan. Or sir. Either one to remind us of our place and his. Not his first name, Matthias. Or even his full name Matthias Francis Sheridan III. The ten syllables of his name sound superior and patronizing. Like nails on a stern chalkboard, slapping my work ethic into gear out of fear rather than ambition. Oddly enough, while I expect some level of vanity in maintaining his personal life as personal, it seems even someone with his level of arrogance lets small nuggets of gossip slip from time to time. The latest scandal is that his new girlfriend, a twenty-six-year-old beauty advisor at the MAC makeup counter at Bloomingdale’s, convinced him to buy her a brand new 3 Series in exchange for a certain “job” in his office. At least the ever-churning rumor mill keeps work interesting.
“I called you an Uber,” Olive tells me. “It’ll be downstairs in about seven minutes.”
I exhale a deep, frustrated sigh, craning my neck back as if it’ll somehow snap the tension at its breaking point. This is what Cinderella must’ve felt like.
“You want me to go get it? I am his assistant after all.” Olive adds a look of apology perched on the back of her offer. It’s tempting, but the potential consequences aren’t worth it. I could probably bet a hefty amount of money, like the frivolous funds sent back and forth between me and Grace, that this task has little to do with convenience for my boss but is more of an expression of his power trip. A power trip that if I somehow sidestep, I’d never hear the end of.
I shake my head. “You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out I somehow managed to avoid being his little gopher for the day.”
“Sorry.” She does that thing when I’ve become the subject of Mr. Sheridan’s browbeating ruses. A small, placating frownturns her lips upside down, and she says, “You want to go out for drinks after work? My treat?”
“Nah,” I tell her, waving off her offer. “If you bought me a drink every time he treated me like shit, I’d be a drunk, and you’d be broke.”
She giggles, though anything more than a smile or a nod seems out of place. “Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
“Will do.”
She looks down at her phone in her hand. “Four minutes,” she reminds me, waggling the screen in my direction. “And it’s an Uber Lux.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, lightly pounding my fist on my desk to signal my exit.
I take one last look at my phone, my figurative still simmering pot, and see there’s still no response from Grace. I wish it was tipping over, boiling and bubbling and hot to touch with Grace’s name filling the screen. But it remains in my palm like an annoying cold brick offering me nothing but a heavy weight and a distraction. Maybe my threat, as empty as it was, worked. But now I’m rethinking my steps that led to this self-inflicted silent treatment. I should’ve played it in her favor for a few more transfers. Kept the ball volleying back and forth to hold on to her attention. Or just showed up at her front door, a wad of cash in my offering hand, without a single warning.
I walk past Olive’s desk as I leave the office. She waves, the smile on her face wavering between a simple farewell and pity. I consider her offer. Much like my offer to Grace and what led me to this conundrum. And while Olive’s offer does sound tempting, if not to loosen the tightening knot coiling behind my temples, then at least to remind myself that I can spend a night without obsessing over Grace and her lack of response because I have plans.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grace
