I hope you’re happy.
My life is a shit show, and it’s all your fault.
I get to work and feel bad, so I delete the messages even though, believe me, I know how stupid it is.
The clock taunts me from the second I sit at my desk. I can’t tell if it’s my imagination or not, but I swear I can feel Anna and Bev looking at me and then at each other. I’m almost positive I catch Blake at it once too.
I hate this fucking job.
Minutes tick by, cranking my anxiety up steadily with each one that passes.
I try to focus on clearing maintenance requests. They require the least amount of cognitive function, but I keep doing dumb shit like mistyping my password when my screen falls asleep.
I enter my password again, this time with care. I’m going to get locked out of my account if I keep this shit up. My phone rattles on my desk as I do it. The vibration is unexpected and unpleasantly loud.
Fuck phone settings on top of everything else. It’s fucking rude how they interrupt you when you’re trying to get shit done.
It’s probably Caroline asking if I’m alive.
Either that, or it’s my mom.
Shit. I better add sending proof of life to my to-do list before they file a missing person’s report on me.
I log a request for a handyman to fix a jammed door handle and turn my phone over, swiping at the screen to wake it. The fucking device doesn’t recognize me from this angle. Too many chins, probably, so I enter my PIN angrily and open my messages.
It’s not Caroline or my mom. It’s Connor. I sit up a little straighter and look around furtively, like a dumbass who thinks Anna and Bev are not only obsessed with me, but they also have the psychic ability to read my messages before I do.
Hey.
Wanna ditch work? I’m grabbing coffee near you after class.
I read the texts at least eleven times more than the simple message they convey requires, using a colossal amount of effort to keep my face neutral.
Where?
What time?
Crema at ten forty-five
I look at my screen, pleased. I’m ridiculously impressed with myself for thinking to ask about the logistics of the meetup, given that I already know the answers. It’s deeply pathetic, as I’m pretty sure what I’m doing is stalking 101.
I’m so distracted by the turn of events that I accidentally excuse myself ten minutes earlier than I need to leave. I kill time by going to the restroom and fixing my hair. I’ve been wearing it neat, slicked back and uptight, out of spite against Havi for wrecking my life, and out of spite against myself for letting him.
It’s hard to explain exactly how or why it spites Havi, or me, for that matter, but believe me, it does.
I look in the mirror for a while, taking in the reflection of the stranger that stares back at me, then I yank open an extra button at my neck and roll my sleeves up to expose my forearms. It’sbetter, but not much. I wash my hands, shaking off most of the water before running my fingers through my hair. I start at the sides, using both hands to scrape it back, and then drop my left hand. My right hand finds its way to my crown, scrunching the thick mat it finds there and messing it up. It’s a rough tussle, a careless twirl that drags a lock down over my forehead. It’s an action so familiar that it’s muscle memory more than conscious action.
When I look up, I look like someone else.
Someone I used to know.
I walk to Crema at a leisurely pace, hands deep in my pockets, gait sure and unbothered for once.
I arrive in time to see Connor place his order. The walls behind the counter are painted a rich java brown, but floor-to-ceiling windows on the other three walls let sunlight flood in. Light bounces off Connor. Off his teeth and his bottom lip. Off his hair and his shoulders.
He stops talking when he sees me. His smile freezes for a second and then widens as he raises a hand to greet me.
I weave my way toward him through people waiting in line, and others standing around like assholes as they overthink their orders. I get to him breathless, having covered the space from the door to where he stands at a slightly hard-to-explain speed.
