He looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Up until this very moment, I wasn’t convinced you weren’t in league with the Garden Girl editor in chief.”
“Don’t rule it out yet. I’m wooing you into trusting me.”
He stands back up, and I follow suit. “When I go to LA for that conference, can you take it to your place?”
I roll my eyes even though the way he’s fussing over this plant is endearing. “Alex, it’s not a puppy. It might dry out a little, but it’ll be fine.”
He frowns. “You can’t force me to get a living thing and then tell me it’ll be fine if it sort of dies. I’m leaving you with a key.”
When we head downstairs, a gust of fall weather threads into my hair. We walk to a bakery two blocks over that Alex promises me is to die for. “They have twice-baked almond croissants,” he tells me as we’re led to our table.
I brighten up as we sit down. “Hey, I’m not allergic to almonds!”
Alex unwraps his silverware. “Thank God. I would have had to cart you out of here. They’re that good.”
We peruse the menu and order a carafe of coffee to share. I don’t miss the way our waitress eyes Alex appreciatively. He’s got the weekend look nailed, projecting a well-rested but disheveled air that makes you want to know how he’s spending his Saturday so you can re-create it for yourself, or even ask if he’d like some company and maybe a blow job on the house.
“One check or two?”
“Two,” I say at the same time Alex says, “One.”
He holds up a finger when I start to protest. “Let me pick up your tab as a birthday gift?”
There’s a genuine question in his eyes, like he’s really asking me if I’m okay with it and not demanding me to agree.
“Thank you,” I murmur softly.
The waitress leaves, and Alex picks up his menu, hiding behind it. I grasp the table on either side, look out the window—sidebar: Is that @dudewithsign who just walked past with a stack of blank cardboard?—and take a moment to gather my bearings.
Because the truth is …
The truth. Is. Even though I’ve been ignoring it, I’m not so delusional as to think there isn’t a word for what’s going on here.
“Dating.” The word is “dating.”
Hooking up, exclusively. Hanging out one-on-one. Taking care of someone’s plants when they’re out of town. Asking questions about each other’s past. Offering to pick up the tab.
This is what dating is like.
But Alex and I … We’re not dating.
Are we?
I know dating can mean about a million different things. Some people do it with an endgame in mind, dating with the intent to be in a relationship. To have a life partner, build a future, sacrifice things for the sake of each other’s happiness and all that jazz. But others date to stay entertained. It’s just a hobby to pass your time until the tide of either of your lives takes a turn. You don’t ever break up, but at some point, you’re just not dating the other person anymore.
I’m starting to wonder, as I sit in this gorgeous café with this gorgeous male specimen on this gorgeous Saturday morning, mildly hungover, mascara under my eyes, teeth unbrushed, and unbothered by it all—if this is what’s happening between Alex and me. If we’re dating by the second definition of the word. It would make sense, considering that’s pretty much how dating has operated for me since I moved to New York. Alex is likely in the same boat.
“I’ll have the breakfast sandwich,” he says, putting down his menu. He must catch my far-off expression because he waves two fingers at me. “Case? You there?”
“Sorry.” I give my head a small jerk. That’s when I notice our waitress is back, pen and pad in her hand, our coffee on the table. “Oh! The omelet, please.”
When she leaves, Alex leans forward. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod and grab the carafe to busy my hands. “Mm-hmm. Just, thoughts.”
His eyes narrow. “What thoughts?”
“Erm. Work stuff.”
Alex looks unconvinced. He grabs the cream and dumps an overwhelming amount into his mug, followed by a heap of sugar. “Let me guess. You’re deciding how to spend your Q3 bonus. Cosmos tea or dried oleander powder? It’s a tough call.”
“The fact that you know oleander can kill you means you definitely researched what plants to avoid. And anyway, a bonus? You’re funny.”
He smirks. “Is it my fault we’re not getting them? All those sunk costs you keep complaining about?”
I sigh. “Honestly, I wish that’s all it was, but the financial misses are much bigger.”
Alex frowns. “Really? How bad is it?”
The muscles of my stomach tighten as the truth pulses nightmarishly behind my skull. I feel powerless, knowing the decision to stay independent or sell to another company is out of my hands. But I can’t change our financials, and isn’t that what I always loved about numbers to begin with? They are immutable. They do not lie.
“Casey.” I look up. Alex is watching me, expression thoughtful. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I mean, as long as it wouldn’t get you into trouble, you can tell me.”
But I can’t, Alex, because Tracy asked me to keep it to myself. And before that, she asked me to use you so I could give her a history lesson. And I’m still not sure what one has to do with the other, and I don’t like keeping things from you when I want to tell you every secret I’ve ever known while you rub circles on my wrist, just like you did this morning in bed.
“We’re in some trouble,” I say, knowing that if I flat-out lie, he’ll be able to tell.
Alex blows on his coffee, seemingly unflustered by my admission. “It’ll pass. We just have to wait the launch out,” he says, too confidently.
But there’s no time. Alex doesn’t realize Tracy and the others are making decisions right now. “How do you know launching one subsidiary company will be enough?” I ask.
“Because you believe it will,” he says, instantly, automatically.
My eyes narrow, but my chest warms. “You’re giving my judgment too much credit.”
“I’m not. You wouldn’t be working so hard on this if you didn’t think it was a smart idea, and I trust your instincts more than just about anyone.”
“You took this job before we’d even met,” I argue.
“So maybe knowing you makes me even more inspired than I was before.”
“‘Inspired’？” I reply. “That’s the word you’re going with?”
“Why not?” Alex asks, leaning back.
“I’m not trying to be self-deprecating. But really, out of all the words my coworkers would use to describe me, ‘inspirational’ is definitely not one of them. ‘Analytical,’ maybe, or even ‘meticulous,’ but definitely not—”
“That’s bullshit.”
I snap my gaze to him in surprise. “What?”
Alex looks back at me, his expression perfectly serious. “Casey, I think you’re inspiring as hell. Do you have any idea what people at work think of you?”