“Me too.” He chuckles. “Great minds.”
Or small bladders.
As I move up the steps, Spencer trails close behind. Too close. Speeding my pace does nothing to open the gap between us because his legs are a lot longer than mine. I’ve got to work twice as hard to get any distance between us. I glance over and can’t help noticing he’s wearing the same clothes he wears to work, a white button-down shirt, gray slacks, and dress shoes. I guess he didn’t get the memo, literally, that told us to dress for “fun in the sun”.
His coal-black hair is slicked back with the gel he seems to prefer. There’s so much in it today that it reflects the sun. Spencer has distinctive features. Take his nose for example. It’s extra-long and pointy, but it fits his face because that’s extra-long and pointy too. He resembles a vulture if I had to describe him to someone who’s never met him. A tall, thin vulture with shiny, slicked back hair.
The guy is creepy, and I can’t quite put a finger on why that is. Well, maybe it’s the fact that not a day goes by where he doesn’t enter my cubicle under the guise that he’s checking my work, except when he does, he stands behind me and leans over my back like he’s looking at my computer monitor. When he does that, I’m unable to move my chair away. I’m forced to sit stock-still and take in the smell of his awful cologne.
At the top of the steps, I quickly say, “Okay. Well, see ya.” I rush right, like I’m heading to the restrooms, except he’s still right behind me.
“I’ll get you a drink.”
I came up here to get a drink, but now that he’s offering, I think it’s best I just return to my seat. “No, thanks.” I don’t want to owe this guy anything.
“My treat.”
“I’m not thirsty.” I speed-walk into the women’s restroom knowing full well that Spencer wouldn’t dare follow me in.
I should just stay in the bathroom.
Once I’ve done my business, I take my time washing my hands. I even fiddle with my hair a little bit in the hopes that the longer I take, the more likely Spencer will go back to his seat. At the doorway, I squeeze my eyes shut and suck in a breath praying he’s gone, except when I walk out of the ladies’ room, he’s waiting.
Swerving around him, I start the trek back to the stairs, but he’s right with me. “I went ahead and got you a beer, Willamina.”
Why do I get the feeling that beer has been roofied? That’s how this man makes me feel, nervous and a little frightened. He won’t seem to take the hint. I grasp the beer and thank him in the hopes that will appease him. Except it doesn’t.
“Thought you said your boyfriend was going to be here.” Spencer sounds smug, like he doesn’t believe me.
The thing is, I don’t have a boyfriend. I haven’t had one in years, but I made up a story one day a few weeks ago because I figured it’d give him the world’s biggest hint. “Oh, he’s running late.” I’m going to hell for lying, but it’ll be worth it if Spencer moves on to someone else.
“Sure, he is.” Now the smug has turned into downright snarky.
“He is.” He’s not. Honest to goodness, this man is relentless.
Spencer chuckles as he says, “I know you’re lying, Willamina.”
I stop walking and face him. His words irritate me even if they’re true. “Lying? Why would I lie about my boyfriend?” I feel I’ve been smart. I’ve been vague about the details surrounding my fictitious boyfriend because Spencer and even Bonnie (because she’d unintentionally blow my cover if she knew the truth) have forced me to tell them more than I would have liked because there are always questions.
Like this snide one from Spencer, “So, Willamina, did you go out with yourboyfriendthis weekend?”
Bonnie’s are more personal and usually asked over lunch. “How big is his dick?” That one made me sputter, so she attempted to encourage me with, “Go on. We’re besties. You can tell me.”
Spencer asks more pointed, probing questions. “If youreallyhad a boyfriend, wouldn’t you talk more about him? Have photos of him on your desk?”
I respond with statements like, “It’s new.”
He’s not one to let it go, though. “I thought you said you’d been together for months.”
Spencer and I are at standstill thanks to the large crowd milling about on the mezzanine. I’m stuck listening to him as he says, “Willamina. Admit it. You don’t have a boyfriend. How could you? You’re not––”
I can’t listen to this any longer. Turning on my heel, I take one step toward our section and blurt, “There he is now.” I point to a spot off in the distance.
“Where?” Spencer sounds skeptical.
I search the area that I just gestured to and only see one option. It’s a guy standing near the steps leading to our section. He’s looking toward the baseball field, which means the only thing I can see is his back. He’s wearing tan shorts, a gray tee, and a baseball cap turned backwards.
“Him.” I point again. “The guy in the gray shirt.” The guy with the broad shoulders that really fill out the gray shirt.
