I look to Carrie, who has been quietly pacing. “Maybe he does like you,” she says eventually. “Maybe he takes the whole no-dating company policy thing seriously.”
“No one takes that seriously,” I argue. “We all know that.”
“I know, but, you have to admit it is a tiny bit messier when the person in question is your direct report. Really not a good look.”
“I guess,” I say. Maybe that’s it. Could that be it? Ben’s warning that Connor is against workplace relationships resurfaces. But I’m not convinced.
I was hoping to discuss this for the rest of the night, so I’m chagrined when Sam changes the subject and suggests some arthouse screening starting in an hour. A return to an earlier conversation, I think; Carrie seems to know exactly what she’s referringto.
“No,” Carrie says decisively. “I’m going home.”
Sam is not impressed with this response. She sniffs and retreats back to her bedroom—since we won’t do her bidding, she has no further use for either ofus.
“Bye then,” Carrie calls after her, an edge to her voice. She turns to me and shrugs. “See you tomorrow?”
“If I make it through the night.” I shudder.
She gives me a squeeze, tells me not to worry, and then she’s gone.
I look around the empty living room. Something about the last few minutes felt off, though I can’t exactly put my finger on what. Sam left the room in something close to a flounce. Carrie, too, seemed displeased. What was that about?
It might just be that they have both reached the maximum amount of time they can tolerate in each other’s company—they’ve been together nonstop for twenty-four hours now. After a rocky start to the weekend, itseemedlike they were getting along, though what do I know? I’m just someone who kisses their boss!
The thought sends a fresh wave of shame through my entire body. I’m too jittery to sit still, so I start tidying, beginning with the clothes on my floor and moving through the apartment room by room until I’ve scrubbed the shower clean and organized the junk drawer.
At one point my phone pings, and I practically vault the sofa to get to it, in case it’s Connor texting to saysorry, you’re firedor maybesorry, I’m gay,but I don’t know why I’d think that,because as far as I know he doesn’t even have my phone number. Turns out it’s just Shannon, replying with a thumbs-up to a text I sent her two daysago.
“What’s the deal with your friend,” Sam says later, standing in my bedroom doorway.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, jumping back from my pile of laundry. The woman is as stealthy as a cat. “You scared the shit out ofme.”
“I knocked.”
She didn’t. I resume my sorting. She folds her arms impatiently.
“So?” Sam repeats.
I pause, then turn to face her, my senses on high alert. It’s such an un-Sam question.
“Why do you ask?”
“She’s…interesting,” is all Sam offers.
I scan her face. “She’s—very straight.”
Sam smirks. “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure,” I tell her frankly.
“Her loss,” Sam shrugs. “Anyway, I need her number.”
I stare at her, searching for some hidden motive.
Sam rolls her eyes. “Calm down. She just asked me to give her the details of Mel’s piercing studio.”
That, at least, makes sense. Carrie already has about eighteen holes in each of her ears. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn she’s planning more. I read out Carrie’s number. Sam types it into her phone, then salutesme.
“Please don’t terrorize my best friend over text message,” I say to her retreating form.
