I can usually forecast a couple’s happily-ever-after with chilling accuracy. George, on the other hand, remains a glorious anomaly in a button-down shirt.
“Hey,” I manage to say, my voice blessedly not cracking, so we’ll call that a success.
He appears wholly at ease, the calm of a person who’s arranged a logical solution—namely me—and thinks that’s all there is to it. I should feel that same calm, but my inner narrator’s playing a short film on a loop.
“Do we have five minutes after this?” he asks, as casually as if he’s requesting a shared spreadsheet.
That little film in my head immediately skips several sensible intermediate steps and heads straight for the emotionally significant ending, complete with music and lighting I did not authorize. My heart gives one clumsy, humiliating thud.
I hold his gaze a half second too long while I try to pin a normal, professional expression over what is, at this point, a fairly unreasonable amount of emotional backlog.
He cocks his head slightly, and that pen slips behind his ear. I debate whether to tell him it’s there or enjoy the tiny slice of comedic chaos for myself.
“Right,” I say, standing like that might somehow bestow authority upon me. “Sure. Absolutely. Five minutes. That’s fine. I can easily reserve five-minute appointments for one of my favorite people.”
George nods thoughtfully.
"I just need to go over these data sets with you, and clarify the specifics we are measuring."
I try not to deflate. Of course it's about work.
The movement draws me closer, and I notice George shift, just a fraction—an unspoken dance when personal space picks the wrong timing.
“Just so you know,” I say, deciding I’m in too deep to be subtle, “if we ran your compatibility profile at ERS, you’d be engaged in six months.”
Something flickers at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile, almost not. “That sounds horrible,” he says simply, picking up his tablet.
It’s not malicious, just an offhand brush-off. Somehow that makes it land harder.
He’s turning away, already halfway back to his data fortress, when his hand finds the mysterious pen behind his ear. A brief, puzzled look crosses his face.
“Hidden talent,” I say. “You can summon office supplies out of thin air.”
George looks down at the pen again. He lifts it, and stares at it. In that instant, he looks baffled and utterly human.
"Maybe you're magical, George. Is that why you're so secretive and stoic?"
A strange look crosses his face. "I'm not secretive and stoic." He presses his lips into a thin line. "I'm introverted."
“Ah,” I say. “Important distinction.”
He pockets the pen with the careful efficiency of someone who refuses to waste useful resources.
For a moment he just stands there, considering something on his tablet, the faint crease returning between his eyebrows. Then he glances at me again, like he’s verifying a calculation.
“Five minutes,” he says, as if confirming the appointment. “After these clients are taken care of.”
“Right,” I say, trying very hard not to sound like that sentence has rearranged the structural integrity of my internal organs.
He nods once and turns back toward the door.
I watch him go, then look down before anyone can catch the smile trying to escape.
George has asked me—of all people—to be his temporary girlfriend.
I should probably be focusing on the word temporary. Unfortunately, my heart has never been especially good at listening to instructions.
