It抯 tedious, time-consuming work, but finding those little slivers is like finding clues in a mystery. The thrill keeps me going, chasing the truth even harder. I don抰 register the ding of the elevator or the steps in the hall until Ben抯 imposing form fills the doorway. His gaze lands on the heels I kicked off, as if they抮e the first piece of evidence at a crime scene. 揇on抰 you have somewhere to be??he asks. 揑t抯 Friday night.?
I shrug. 揟he files just arrived. And I could point out that you also are at work.?
揑 had a client dinner. I just came back to get my laptop.?His brow furrows. 揅an抰 it wait? Get the first years in on it Monday.?
I could admit I have nothing better to do tonight, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
揑抎 rather do it myself,?I tell him. 揟hat way I know nothing抯 been missed.?
揥hat are you looking for, exactly??He sets his bag down and walks toward the table.
My skin seems to tingle at his approach. 揂nyone who was written up but not punished during their review,?I reply. He perches on the arm of a chair. The jacket is already off, but when he reaches up to loosen his tie, I have to struggle to maintain focus. 揥hen Lawson asked for a promotion, they started calling her all these gendered words梥hrill, abrasive. I抦 looking for all the men worse than her who still got ahead.?
His tongue goes to his cheek. 揟hat seems like a needle in a haystack.?
I smile, because I抳e already found the first of several needles. 揂nd I suppose your suggestion would be to just give up and hope they offer to settle again??
揘o. But it seems like the kind of thing you could trust someone else with.?He unbuttons a shirt sleeve and starts to roll up the cuff.
My eyes narrow. I抦 not sure why the fuck he抯 acting like he plans to stay, but I certainly don抰 want him here. I抦 already painfully distracted and he抯 only been in the room for thirty goddamn seconds. He pulls out a chair and prepares to sit.
揥hat are you doing??I demand.
揌elping you, obviously.?
Ugh.
揙n a Friday night in October? Isn抰 there a cheerleader waiting for you under the bleachers??
He gives a tired laugh. 揧ou make that joke so often I抦 starting to wonder if you think it抯 true.?
揧ou dated a nineteen-year-old, Ben.?
揊or fuck抯 sake,?he says wearily, running a hand through his hair. 揥e went out once, she was twenty-one, and I had no fucking clue she was that young. She owned her own business梙ow was I supposed to know??
I smile sweetly. 揗ost dates involve this thing where you learn about each other. Evidently, yours do not.?
He leans over and examines the piles I抳e arranged. 揑 enjoy hearing about how dates are supposed to work from someone who has such limited experience with them.?
I don抰 have a quick response because, of course, he抯 absolutely right.
I focus once more on the reports in front of me and hope he抣l go away, but he takes a seat and grabs a file instead. I do my best to forget he抯 here, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Even his small movements梩ugging at his tie, running a hand through his hair梩hrow me off my game. He taps a pen against his mouth, and my eyes fixate on that indentation in the center of his lower lip. I sometimes picture resting my thumb there, measuring the size of that divot.
It抯 a welcome distraction when my mother texts to tell me the couple bought a Christmas tree farm together at the movie抯 end. I抦 smiling as I reply, and Ben抯 gaze darts to the phone with a sneer. I swear to God if he criticizes me for two seconds of personal time this late in the day, I will literally explode.
I cross the room to grab another box of files and catch his gaze on the seam of my stockings, traveling up to the hem of my skirt. His jaw shifts, and he throws down his pen in disgust, looking away.
Maybe I抦 not the only one who抯 distracted.
揧ou okay??I ask. 揧ou look like you抮e having a stroke.?
揑t抯 cute that you抮e worried about me,?he says, even more irritated than before.
揑t抯 cute that you think that was worry, not optimism.?
I dump the box on the table and go to the other end of the room, mostly because I need space from him. I pop a coffee pod in the Nespresso, though I抦 already so wired I half-expect small sparks to shoot from my fingertips momentarily.
揌ow are things with Thomas??he asks.
I turn, squinting in confusion. 揥ho??
揧our chef, with his romantic cottage on the shore.?
揧ou continually utter the word chef as if it抯 a euphemism,?I reply. 揑t抯 a real job.?
揂nd you say chef as if he抯 Gordon Ramsay, when he抯 probably just the guy in charge of the deep fryer at Bennigan抯。？
The devil on my shoulder is suddenly there, goading me louder than he ever has before, manipulating me like I抦 his fucking marionette. I抳e led an extremely careful life. It抯 that thing inside me that wants to overthrow the system. That wants to take my career and my future and my carefully honed image and set them on fire. 揝omeone like that will get a lot further with me than you ever will,?I say.