He jerks in surprise like I just clashed a cymbal. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Can you just tell me?” I fling the stupid pillow onto the bed and take a few steps closer.
He takes the same amount of steps back toward the hall. It’s beyond painful to witness.
I literally repel him.
“It’ll keep until Wednesday. Honestly, it might not even be worth talking about by then.” He checks his watch. “Oh—next weekend. I’m gonna do a dinner party. Mal talked me into it. Are you free?”
I’m relieved. If that’s all this is about, I’ll be able to proceed with my week as normal.
“Like in two weeks? Yeah. What are you cooking?”
“Haven’t decided yet, but I was gonna go to the Farmer’s Market and see what I can come up with.”
“Sounds good.”
“But about this Wednesday—you can meet?”
I frown. “Wednesday isn’t about the dinner party?”
“No,” he says obliquely. “Something else. I gotta catch the train. See you later.”
“Wait—”
“Wednesday,” he says, and he continues to leave. “Seven, if that works.”
“Five-thirty,” I call after him.
“Okay,” I hear him say from the living room. “Five-thirty.”
The door closes, and I drop back a few paces into my bedroom, my hand on my heart. I wish I could say I have a good feeling about this—that this is the kind of opportunity I’ve been waiting for and totally makes up for him no showing on Sunday, but I’m now chock full of dread.
And I’m supposed to live like this for two days? Why can’t it be tonight? Or at lunch, even? This is going to make me crazy. It already is, and it’s been five seconds. What could he possibly need to talk to me about besides moving out? Maybe he wants to get a cat? But why wouldn’t he just say so?
I put my face in my hands and let out a low scream. I fuckinghatemyself.
Not giving a fuck what I’m wearing anymore, I grab the first thing I reach for in the closet. It’s not a dress-up-all-the-time kind of company, but I usually try to look nice. We don’t have any meetings today, though, so I’ll be wearing jeans and a sweater because I can’t be bothered to put together a look. Isaac can take it or leave it.
My hand is shaking by the time it’s time to shave my face, so I put the razor down and make the executive decision to go in with scruff for the first time ever. My contacts? Fucking forget about it. There’s no way I wouldn’t have a meltdown if one slid off my finger, and I had to go looking for it.
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t even recognize you,” Isaac says as he stops at my desk.
I look up at him through my wire-rimmed glasses.
His gaze softens immediately. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” I say, the word sounding long and pathetic. “Would you like me to email your schedule for the day?”
He scowls. He looks incredibly good this morning in a crisp blue shirt and charcoal gray slacks. His wool coat is draped over one arm. His shave is perfect, the line of his beard so precise it looks professionally done. Healsohas a glow most people don’t have in the winter. Everybody had a great weekend but me, I guess. “No,” he says. “I’d like to go over it with you like we do every day so we can decide how to tackle it.”
It’s a schedule, I want to tell him. It doesn’t need tackling. It just needs to be followed because it’s all like—right there.
Needless to say, Isaac was the inspiration for the scheduling software I’ve been working on. It started as a modest integrated Alexa-slash-Siri reminder system for him, but it quickly evolved into everything I think an individual calendar should be. And now it’s become a workforce scheduler that can be used for hundreds of employees or scaled down to a personal self-management system. “The only calendar anyone would ever need again” is my working pitch.
Granted, it’s morphed into a bit of a monster, but if I can get it to work, I’m convinced it’ll help add order to disorganized people’s and company’s lives. Even Isaac’s. And maybe, in the meantime, it’ll make me rich. Ever since I deleted my Chaturbate account and stopped jerking off for strangers on the internet, I’ve had to be a lot more careful about where I spend my money, and I’m sick of worrying about it. Being a solo cam boy wasn’t as bad as Hunter charging strangers for a view into our sex life, but a history of sex work tends to come up when applying for jobs in the tech sector. Those hiring managers are way too good at image searches.
Luckily, Isaac never saw my internet history, or, more likely, he didn’t care. I nod at my boss. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’m returning an email.”
