“Is the blackberry not right?” I ask.
“No, it’s fine. It’s just…last night, everything happened kind of fast and we never really discussed what it meant. And I wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Of course we are,” I say.
“Yeah? Tell me, what page is that?”
“You know. The one…that we’re on.”
Her smile is cheerless as she sets the cup down on the counter. Our gazes linger on the mahogany surface for a moment. I wonder if she’s remembering…I know I am.
“I feel terrible,” she says, immediately cutting down the arousal climbing up my spine like a precocious invasive vine. “It was irresponsible of me not to make it clearer beforehand that this”—she points between us—“it can’t be an ongoing thing. That’s not something I’m able to do right now. It isn’t professional, and with me leaving soon and the goose and the emotional baggage I’m still unpacking…there’s just too much potential for things to go sideways. You understand that, right?”
My response initially feels stuck, blocked by the sudden heavysensation behind my breastbone, as if Annie’s words have collected there in a big, solid mass putting pressure on my heart. “Y-yeah, no, totally. Which is why I also intended it to be just the one time,” I eventually manage to lie. I attempt to casually lean against the wall but misjudge the distance and almost fall over. Hopefully my recovery is smoother in reality than it is in my head but given that Annie looks like she’s biting back a grin, I sort of doubt it.
“Really? Because I wouldn’t blame you at all if you assumed otherwise.” I follow her gaze to the mocha, which she’s clearly read as the offering of affection I intended it to be.
“Oh, no, that’s just…that’s nothing. A courtesy service. I do it for all of my casual hookups.”
Her eyebrows raise. “You don’thaveany other casual hookups.”
“Well, it’s what I would do for them if I did. You’re the first of many to come, I’m sure.”
“Anyone would be so lucky.” Annie steps forward and brushes a piece of hair away from my face. “It was wonderful, Cal. Being with you. It absolutely isn’t anything personal.”
“Yeah, I get it. It’s fine. Seriously. I had fun, you had fun, fun was had by all. And now we can go back to not having fun. As I assumed was the original plan all along.” This is the least persuasive anyone has ever been, but Annie takes pity and doesn’t call me out on it.
“Thank you for understanding,” she says instead, and stands on her tiptoes to plant a tiny, painfully platonic kiss on my cheek before taking her drink and sashaying away.
—
It’s a slowday at the shop, and I use it to catch up on the administrative tasks I’ve neglected while trying to deal with the goose’s appearance and subsequent disappearance. An addedbenefit of taking care of things that require me to be in the back office is that I avoid being around Annie. I’m still mortified by how badly I misread our encounter, and—despite my admirable attempts to hide it—I know she’s fully aware of just how much I let my imagination run away with the idea of being with her. Space is probably good until some of the embarrassment fades and last night’s lingering lust fully dissipates so I can think clearly.
Because I woke up this morning at peace with the idea of wanting more of her, for as long as possible. And now I need to adjust to the reality that Annie O’Neill simply isn’t going to be on the table. Or the counter. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
Which is fine. We’re adults. Sometimes adults go into things with different expectations, and now that hers have been made clear, I can adjust mine to match. I am nothing if not flexible.
Oh, who am I kidding? My lies are as transparent to myself as I know they were to Annie.
She suddenly appears in the doorway of the office as if summoned by my thoughts. I glance up, then back to the laptop screen, trying to play it cool.
“It’s after six. I went ahead and closed up,” she says. “Are you about ready to go?”
“Go where?”
“To look for the yellow VW Bug,” she says. “We were going to try to find it tonight. Remember?”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Let me just save this spreadsheet.”
“Did you really forget that we were still looking for the goose?”
“I didn’t forget. I’ve just been”—thinking about how desperately I want to taste you again, and lamenting that I never will—“staring at numbers all day. Fried my brain a little.”
We set out for Gustav’s neighborhood, figuring we’ll start there, then expand the search in the direction we saw the car drive off. I feel like a total creep driving a mile below the speed limit so that we can get a look at every vehicle parked in front of every house and business, but I can’t think of anything that would be more practical.
“What if it’s in someone’s garage or around back or something?” I ask.
“And what if it’s parked in plain sight?” she counters. “Don’t be so pessimistic. It’s worth checking, at least.”
