ANNIE:Yes
A minute passes. Thentwo.
CONNOR:What do you use as your excuse to talk to me
I want todie.
ANNIE:I am exiting this conversation now
CONNOR:Are all these dashboard questions made up just to spend time with me?
ANNIE:No
CONNOR:But you just said…
ANNIE:That’s different! I actually have to work with you
CONNOR:So does Carrie
ANNIE:I give up
The events of the workday continue to unfold around us. We don’t talk in person or online for the rest of the day, but every time we make eye contact he gives me the most satisfied, shit-eating grin of his life.
At four o’clock he opens his drawer and pulls out a pack of candy. The rustling of the plastic bag is especially loud, and just when I’m about to snap at him to take it somewhere else I realize he’s only doing it to get a rise out of me. I give him a stern look—his face is a portrait of innocence. He tips the open pack toward me in offering. I decline.
Connor is adamant he wasn’t on a lunch date, but so what? He wasn’t the one who initiated it, so technically he has no idea. Nor did he deny being interested in Carrie. What I need to find out now is ifshe’sinterested inhim.Dancing around the subject will get me nowhere. I decide to go bold.
—
“Knock, knock,” I say, inviting myself into Carrie’s office.
She’s not alone. Andy is here, perched on the edge of the desk.
Perfect, would you look at that. Another man who likes my best friend more thanme.
“Two seconds,” Carrie says without looking up. “If I don’t send this email before six my boss will freak.”
She hammers out the rest of her email, sends it off with a littlewoosh,then spins her chair toward Andy andme.
“What’s up?” It’s unclear whether she’s addressing this to me, or Andy, or both of us. He and I exchange wary glances. I motion to him like,afteryou.
Andy straightens up off the desk, clearing his throat.
“I thought we might go for a drink after work,” he says. He looks pointedly away from me as he says this, lest I get the impression he is including me in this invitation.
“Oh,” Carrie says. I can practically hear the cogs of her mind turning. Her eyes dart toward me and then away again—a silent plea to supply her with an excuse. Fortunately, I haveone.
“Sorry, Andy. Carrie’s spoken for. My roommate invited her to a gallery opening tonight.”
“Yeah, cool,” he says. “I love art stuff.”
I scoff at this. “No you don’t, you’ve told me a million times you hate—”
Carrie cuts me off. “Did she actually?”
“Hmm? Did who actually,” I ask, our last topic of conversation already forgotten.
“Sam. Did she actually inviteme.”
