“Of course I did! Who do you think covered for you?”
“How did you cover for me?”
She shrugs innocently. “I may have planted the seed that the security guard was checking on some suspicious noise that came from his office,” she explains. “And maybe that he was doing his nightly rounds.”
“Oh my god,” I exclaim with quiet realization. “You saved my ass. I mean, I’m sorry the security guard?—”
“Scott,” Olive interrupts, a smug smile adding a little salt to my long-healed injury, making it soften with guilt.
“Uh, yeah, Scott. Hopefully he didn’t get into too much trouble.”
“He didn’t,” she assures me. “Just a small slap on the wrist. Nothing to keep you up at night.”
“Yeah, well, you know…thanks.”
She taps my shoulder, proving her point that I may drown in this office without her or even cause another accident. This time with no scapegoat. “Don’t mention it. Just maybe grab me a Coke from the vending machine.”
“Consider it done.” I smirk, but my smile fades quickly as soon as Olive steps away, and I see how thick the stack she set down is. A deep, disgruntled groan is all I can manage to greet it with. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. “I need a break.”
“Go get some air,” Olive calls, tapping away at her phone from an unoccupied desk two cubicles down. She has her own makeshift workstation going, and I notice how she settles in the same way I’ve cocooned myself in my own cubicle, surrounded by loosely strewn trash and a few pens and highlighters. I guess we’re going to be here for a while.
“Yeah,” I tell her, scooting my chair back. “I’ll go grab you that Coke.”
“Okay,” she answers, her voice sounding far-off with her shoulders hunched and her head hanging between her shoulders.
I reach for my phone as I wait for the elevator, waiting patiently as the numbers ascend to the twenty-seventh floor while I look through my messages. The last one in there is a back-and-forth thread between myself and Grace. She ended up watchingReturn of the Jedilast night with either her phone on speaker or pressed to her ear. Either way, it felt as if I was watching it with her. Me with my memory and her with it playing live in front of her. My last message to her—sent this morning as I was sitting at a red light—was an inquisitive one, asking when she was going to continue her apparentStar Warsmarathon now that she’s invested so much of her time. She responded with a vague “wouldn’t you like to know.” A complete non-answer that left room for some flirting and maybe an invitation. But of course, I sent back an unenthused like-button option which turned into the disappointing demise of our back and forth. Not the outcome I hoped for.
Is there a way to sound nonchalant over text without seeming rude or cold? I was going for chill and easygoing, hoping to smother some of the overzealous enthusiasm rattling my insides. Hopefully without adding an unconvincing “or whatever” to the end of each message. But how the hell am I supposed to play it cool? She’s watchingStar Wars. The damn movies that were the centerpiece of my childhood. I had to snuff out every single urge to leave my office last night to dash over to her place and slump right into her couch cushions to watch them with her. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I can’t even begin to address the other less savory thoughts swimming through my head. Like ones that involve me and her and her couch with us in a more horizontal position. Hopefully with fewer clothes and me on top—No! Jesus fucking Christ.
Look, I know what we agreed on. I get it. A friendship. That’s what we’re meant to be. That’s what we established.Friends.The thought makes a scoff and an intolerant eye roll tumble out of me. It doesn’t matter if I think it’s a harebrained approach to salvaging a post-hookup relationship. Slapping such a cursory title between us when it feels like something the complete opposite. At least, it didn’tfeelcursory until Grace started showing me this completely enrapturing side of her. The Grace who builds LEGO and watches my favorite movies and willingly tries foods I like. The Grace who’s so easy to be around, who can hold a conversation, who can make me fucking laugh like I’ve never laughed before.
We just seem to constantly jibe. And the way all the parts of our likes and dislikes seem to click into place feels significant. How the little details that individually don’t really mean anything, but when thrown together, it’s heavy and monumental. It’s a chemistry that can’t be forged or developed. It’s natural. In the way soft moss likes shady, moist conditions. Things have to adapt and orient for moss to thrive, and that’s exactly how it is with me and Grace. Things just…align. And as they align, everything feels perfect. But it’s the defects that are hard to ignore. The ones we tend to pick at and focus on. Defects lead to obstacles, which in turn lead to drawbacks. Dilemmas. Headaches. Ones we can’t take back and ignore, turning into something even more consequential like resentment and broken hearts.
For now, I push aside those defects. I ignore them and cover them up with the more aesthetically pleasing attributes keeping us glued to our phones. For the next text message or emoji or GIF or even the occasional phone call. I’m channeling my attention to Grace and me and the fascia of a friendship that’s grown stronger over the weeks. Friends. Since that’s what we decided to call each other, I’m going to friend the fuck out of her.
“Hello?” Grace answers on the first ring. I step into the elevator with my chin ducked toward my chest, a hand in my pocket, and a smirk answering Grace’s easy voice, ready to head down to the sixth floor where the breakroom and the vending machines are.
“Hi.” My voice comes out loose and relaxed, the complete opposite of the tension pulling my shoulders taut just minutes ago.
“I was just going to call you.”
I grin. “You were?”
“Yeah,” she answers. But then she stays silent, and I take it as my cue to pry. To dig deeper and see if there was a purpose to her planned yet thwarted call.
“Just because, or…”
“I was going to watch another movie tonight, and I thought maybe you’d want to join me. I can order a pizza?”
“Oh…” I do a mental calculation along with a rundown of how long I’d be able to survive off boxed macaroni and cheese and canned soup if I quit my job now. Maybe I can sell my car—and a kidney—to pay my rent for a few months. Anything as long as I get to leave work right this second. My plans to slam my resignation on my boss’s desk and have him walk into it first thing Monday morning are interrupted by the harsh reminder of what it would feel like to get around via bicycle. The man I’d be in Grace’s eyes locking a chain to a bike rack when I go to the store or to get coffee or to Grace’s condo. Add the imagery of me in a helmet and the insult-to-injury effect would probably maim me for good.
The lack of enthusiasm and my non-answer translate as hesitation, and Grace catches on.
“Or, not,” she quickly retracts, making me want to kick myself in the ass. “If you have plans, it’s fine?—”
“No, Grace. It’s not that,” I try to explain. How perfect would it be if I could sustain off thin air and grass and the biggest worry holding me hostage would be how I like my grass, straight from the source or plated with a glass of lemonade? “I’m working all day.”
“Oh.” There’s a wave of relief plaited in the single-syllable word, and I don’t know how to fully interpret that. “That’s fine. I guess another time then.”
