What an absolutely dumb thing to say.
The words tumble through my mind as I walk to my desk on Monday morning. I pass Roman on the way, but he only nods at me before turning back to his secretary, who’s holding a few pieces of paper out and pointing with her thin, bony finger, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. Roman towers over her, and he’s once more fiddling with that stupid Rubik’s cube, spinning it absently as he nods again and continues listening to Shelly.
The Rubik’s cube shouldn’t make me snort, but it does, a reaction I struggle to hold inside.
The day goes more or less normally. It’s nice to have a routine, even though unexpected issues pop up from time totime. I spend the morning touching base with the places we visited in Lucky, checking in and confirming whether we can send a contract over or not. As I suspected, all of them are willing and excited to work with us. Once I’ve cleared that hurdle, I check on our ticket sales for the event itself.
And I don’t love what I see. The numbers are going up, but I’d like to see a sharper incline, so I email Bart.
Yep. I email him, even though it would be just as easy to get up and walk over to his desk. But then I would have to look at his face and listen to him talk, and petty as it may be, I don’t want to do those things. So I email him instead, asking what he thinks about running another online ad with further reach.
He’ll be fine with it, but he’s the one who does all that stuff, and frankly, I’m glad I don’t have to bother with it. Whatever else I could say about him, Bart is great at his job, which leaves me free to do my own.
I don’t go home right at five, even if I’d love to. My colleagues shuffle out while I stay hunched over my keyboard, and although they often go get drinks or a bite to eat after work, I never do. I guess I understand the idea of office friendships, but I’d rather spend my time off with the people I love.
That being said, however, when I do finish up earlier than normal, I don’t head straight home. I take a right in the hallway instead of going left toward the entrance, down past several doors until I reach Roman’s makeshift office at the end.
Because it’s occurred to me that we don’t actually have any sort of schedule figured out as far as my work at his home. I’d like to know what to expect so that I can plan ahead, and he’d probably appreciate the same thing. So I knock lightly on his door, smoothing my hand absently down my pencil skirt, and when I hear a vague sound, I enter.
I actually peek around the door first, because the noise he made wasn’t explicit permission to come inside. But he’s justseated behind his desk, frowning at his phone as it rings. There’s a smattering of papers on his desk, less organized than I’d expect, and he looks faintly tired.
His hair is still perfect, of course—which I should not be noticing, because he istwenty-five.
“Sorry,” I say as he continues to look at his ringing phone. Whoever’s calling, he doesn’t look excited to chat. “Should I come back later?”
“What do you need?” he says, giving me a quick glance. “Can you email?”
I nod, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ear. “I can send you an email.”
He waves vaguely at the door behind me. “Do that, then,” he says, and his attention is once more on the phone. “The company owner beckons.” He answers the call and holds it to his ear with a resigned greeting.
When he looks at me a second later and gestures to the door again, I realize I haven’t moved; I startle, give an apologetic nod, and hurry back out of the room.
And as I stand with my back to the door, I’m not sure why I’m so…surprised. Or taken off guard? I shake my head and start back down the hallways, my heels pinching my toes in a way I barely notice anymore.
It’s just odd to see the different sides of people, that’s all. To see who they are at work versus who they are at home versus who they are when they’re out and about. I haven’t known Roman for very long, but he has an uncanny way of focusing and paying attention; rarely when I’m around him do I feel ignored. And I don’t mind it—if anything, I grudgingly respect that he’ll send me away if he has more important things to do, like talk to his dad—but it’s different, another facet to someone I already don’t understand.
I don’t like not understanding. I want to know everything, because I want to be prepared for anything. All variables must be accounted for.
I listen to the radio on the way home, but I couldn’t tell you any of the songs that play. India is inside, and I bid her a tired hello before I go get changed. Once I’m in my comfortable clothes—my trusty leggings and a t-shirt—I get out my computer and pull up my inbox.
I have to hunt for Roman’s address, but I find it in the assignment he sent to me, Bart, and Mindy last week. Then, keeping my tone professional, I begin my email.
Mr. Drake,I begin, even though it sounds strange to address him like this,I’m checking in to finalize a schedule for my outside work arrangement. If it’s all right with you, going forward I’d like to clean and organize Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Saturdays are also open if more time is needed. I’ll hopefully be visiting my ex tomorrow after work, so I’ll let you know if this prompts any changes. I am, of course, open to any preferences of yours regarding our schedule and am happy to make other arrangements if need be. Regards, Aurora Marigold.
I read it several times over before nodding with satisfaction and pressingSend.
Because of how busy he seemed, it doesn’t surprise me that Roman responds several hours later. When I read his words, however, I’m hit with a wave of disconcertion.
MWF sounds great for the housework. Let’s play it by ear to see if Saturdays will be needed,he writes, and I nod. But then I get to the rest of the message:As for visiting your ex-boyfriend—we can go together from work. I’ll be ready around five or five-thirty. See you tomorrow.He signs off with nothing more than his name, and for a second I just stare at the email.
Then I snort, shaking my head at the sheer audacity.
Dear Mr. Drake,I type, my fingers flying across the keyboard.Thank you for the offer, but your assistance will be wholly unnecessary. Regards, Aurora.
And I’m about to shut my laptop when my inbox pings, his response coming impossibly quickly. I grit my teeth and open the message.
“Dear Aurora,” I mutter under my breath, “your opinion is noted, but I wasn’t asking. Sincerely, Roman. P.S.—stop glaring at me like that.”
