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Authors: Charity Shumway
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Boots reached for it. “No, let me,” I said. And she shot me back a withering look. “I don’t think so,” she said, and put down her credit card.
Why are checks so fraught? I knew Boots thought that I thought that if I paid, I’d somehow taken her on a date and that I’d expect something, but if she paid, she was in control of the night. I’ve never been any match for her withering looks—I learned that long ago—so I sighed and said fine. She signaled the waiter right away.
I had fooled myself into thinking she was having the same kind of night I was—a night of longing and wondering—but the speed with which she disposed of the bill put an end to the illusion. She stood up and reached for her bag. “Nice seeing you,” she said. And only a few seconds later she was walking down the sidewalk away from me.
Reading Secret Agent Romance’s dispatch, I did a calculation. If the June issue went to press in May, that meant the night out was probably sometime in March or April. Which meant he was possibly over this woman by now . . . or possibly still deeply into her. I also calculated that this woman and I were likely about 180 degrees apart in personality. I wanted to give withering looks, I practiced giving withering looks in the mirror, but when faced with withering-look-inspiring situations in real life, my face always failed to fully cooperate. Or less my face, more my whole person.
After spending a few minutes trying on various expressions, I finally called my mom back and listened to her crow. In actuality, that part of the call only took a minute, though as predicted, she seemed to think I’d done some sort of soft shoe followed by a hard sell.
“Well, I don’t know exactly how it happened,” I said, “but I’m excited.”
Then she sighed, her voice cracking a little, and said, “I’ve been so worried.”
With his constant, lowing “come back home,” I’d known my dad had been worried all along (though never quite worried enough to offer to help with rent), but my mom had always sounded like she thought I was some sort of plucky adventuress, even if her idea of what it meant to be a plucky adventuress was straight out of Thoroughly Modern Millie.
“Don’t be worried, this is a great job,” I told her. I left out the part about the job being temporary.
“And they’re paying you good money?” she said.
“Enough,” I said. Though, of course, I had yet to find out how much “enough” was going to be.
After we said our good-byes, I texted Sarah. “Did you tell Dad about my job yet?”
My phone buzzed hours later, in the middle of the night. “Yep. He’s really excited!”
Maybe one of the reasons my parents hadn’t been a good match was that my dad could be really excited but would probably still wait three weeks to call, whereas my mom had left three voice mail messages the night I phoned with the news.
The next morning I buzzed at the archives warehouse door, and the mysterious someone let me in again. No sign of Ralph or anyone else as I made my way back to my area and unlocked my door to find everything just where I’d left it. The trash had not even been emptied. Fortunately, that meant only that my empty sandwich bag and a few scraps of paper had spent the night, but I made a note to carry anything with rot potential to a more central trash in the future.
All this solitude might have made me lonely, but in fact, I liked it. Unlike all the offices I’d painfully temped in over the last year (the law office, the life insurance office, the accounting office) where I’d been a ghost, the girl no one really notices or acknowledges—you’ll be there a day, maybe a week, who wants to exert effort for that?—here, I was official. I had keys. I belonged. And as the only person in this office, other than Ralph, I was the alpha ruler of my domain. No gingerly stepping, no polite, restrained smiling. In the quiet of my new office, I could roar. Not that I did, but
Why are checks so fraught? I knew Boots thought that I thought that if I paid, I’d somehow taken her on a date and that I’d expect something, but if she paid, she was in control of the night. I’ve never been any match for her withering looks—I learned that long ago—so I sighed and said fine. She signaled the waiter right away.
I had fooled myself into thinking she was having the same kind of night I was—a night of longing and wondering—but the speed with which she disposed of the bill put an end to the illusion. She stood up and reached for her bag. “Nice seeing you,” she said. And only a few seconds later she was walking down the sidewalk away from me.
Reading Secret Agent Romance’s dispatch, I did a calculation. If the June issue went to press in May, that meant the night out was probably sometime in March or April. Which meant he was possibly over this woman by now . . . or possibly still deeply into her. I also calculated that this woman and I were likely about 180 degrees apart in personality. I wanted to give withering looks, I practiced giving withering looks in the mirror, but when faced with withering-look-inspiring situations in real life, my face always failed to fully cooperate. Or less my face, more my whole person.
After spending a few minutes trying on various expressions, I finally called my mom back and listened to her crow. In actuality, that part of the call only took a minute, though as predicted, she seemed to think I’d done some sort of soft shoe followed by a hard sell.
“Well, I don’t know exactly how it happened,” I said, “but I’m excited.”
Then she sighed, her voice cracking a little, and said, “I’ve been so worried.”
With his constant, lowing “come back home,” I’d known my dad had been worried all along (though never quite worried enough to offer to help with rent), but my mom had always sounded like she thought I was some sort of plucky adventuress, even if her idea of what it meant to be a plucky adventuress was straight out of Thoroughly Modern Millie.
“Don’t be worried, this is a great job,” I told her. I left out the part about the job being temporary.
“And they’re paying you good money?” she said.
“Enough,” I said. Though, of course, I had yet to find out how much “enough” was going to be.
After we said our good-byes, I texted Sarah. “Did you tell Dad about my job yet?”
My phone buzzed hours later, in the middle of the night. “Yep. He’s really excited!”
Maybe one of the reasons my parents hadn’t been a good match was that my dad could be really excited but would probably still wait three weeks to call, whereas my mom had left three voice mail messages the night I phoned with the news.
The next morning I buzzed at the archives warehouse door, and the mysterious someone let me in again. No sign of Ralph or anyone else as I made my way back to my area and unlocked my door to find everything just where I’d left it. The trash had not even been emptied. Fortunately, that meant only that my empty sandwich bag and a few scraps of paper had spent the night, but I made a note to carry anything with rot potential to a more central trash in the future.
All this solitude might have made me lonely, but in fact, I liked it. Unlike all the offices I’d painfully temped in over the last year (the law office, the life insurance office, the accounting office) where I’d been a ghost, the girl no one really notices or acknowledges—you’ll be there a day, maybe a week, who wants to exert effort for that?—here, I was official. I had keys. I belonged. And as the only person in this office, other than Ralph, I was the alpha ruler of my domain. No gingerly stepping, no polite, restrained smiling. In the quiet of my new office, I could roar. Not that I did, but
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