“Wow, he’s been with the companyages,” she tells me. “Like, nine years.”
“I didn’t even think Taskio had been around that long.”
“Me neither. OK, how old do you think heis?”
“Now that Idowant to know.” He could honestly be anywhere between twenty-one and forty.
“He’s thirty-two,” she says, scrolling. So I wasn’t far off, then. He’s only two years older than me. “Actually, his birthday is kind of soon. May 15th. And his salary ishuge.Jesus. I am in the wrong role.”
“What’s the figure?”
She prims up at this. To reveal it would be a violation of the vows she made to human resources.
“More than yours,” is all she’ll tellme.
“What else can you see?”
“That’s basically it,” she says. “His emergency contact is his mom.”
“You made that seem like it was going to be a lot more exciting than it was.”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Now we know he’s single.”
I squint at her. “How?”
“Because if he wasn’t, his emergency contact wouldn’t be his mom.”
“Or maybe he was single nine years ago when he first filled in that form?”
“True,” she concedes. “We’ll call it inconclusive.”
I catalogue everything I’ve learned about Connor so far. He’s smart, possibly a genius, loves hot dogs, is maybe single, has a mom, is thirty-two, hangs out with creepy Brad, makes good money and has worked here since the dawn of time. Adding to that my own observations: he is infuriating, with a dangerous sense of humor lurking beneath the surface that he will unleash on you at surprising times and in surprising ways. I must proceed with caution.
I hang around chatting with Carrie for another few minutes, filling her in on the skills test and drinks at Murphy’s.
“Which reminds me,” I say, calling to mind a past grievance. “Andy was asking if you’re still going out with the Merrill Lynch Murderer. How did he even know about that?”
She doesn’t look up from the day planner she’s flipping through. “Because he asked me out at the time and that’s what I told him.”
“Oh,” I say. So Andydoesask people out. Just not me. Cool.
“Relax,” she says, her eyes flicking up and back down again. “I said no. I know he’s your super special secret work crush.”
“He’s really not,” I promise her. Any misguided hopes Ionce cherished in regard to Andy died a long time ago. “Do you want to go out with him? You can, you know.”
“Like all men in this city, he is a waste of my time,” she says, slamming her planner shut. “And I don’t need another fuckboy to text with.”
This surprises me, a little. Carrie usually loves dating, and Andy fits the profile of her type to the letter. It’s not like her to sound so cynical.
“Maybe you just need to switch things up? Date someone completely different.”
“Mmm. I’ll keep that in mind.” She nods, like I’ve just given her the dumbest advice in the world, which in fairness, I have.
I drop it and change the subject, but the more I think about it, the more the idea takes hold.
When was the last time Carrie went out with someone who held her interest for more than five minutes? She’s gone out with more Andys than I can count. What she needs is someone nicer, a little less flashy. And I am going to make it my business to findhim.
—
