hip men clacking away at computers along them. Many were standing and the rest were rolling around on Aeron chairs. Ringing the whole space were beds of snake plants and zanzibars, thick and green and leaning gently toward the windows.
“Can I help you?”
The only person free from the long tables was a tall guy at a standing desk near the door. I realized with a little jolt that he was almost intimidatingly hot: thick black hair, big brown eyes, a sharp suit in contrast to everyone else’s hoodies. I smiled and clacked over. “You look like you run the place.”
He grinned. “I’m just an assistant,” he said.
“So not yet. Got it.” I leaned on the desk. Thank god I’d thought to apply lipstick on the subway. “And yet you’re the only one with your own desk. Seems like there’s nowhere to go but down.”
He shrugged, looking pleased. “No one cares what I think about open offices. But yeah, I don’t mind being on my own over here.”
I giggled like he’d said something wickedly clever. “So I’m looking for someone I think works here,” I said. “Greg Bentley?”
“He does!” he said. “But he’s not in right now.”
I felt the same complicated release I get whenever someone doesn’t pick up the phone: relief and annoyance. “Oh, is he traveling?”
“He’s on paternity leave. Another…four or five weeks at least.”
“Well, that’s exciting! Boy or girl?”
“A boy.” Lucky kid. Life like a game set to one level easier.
“That’s great. Wow.”
“He’s picking up his messages once a week,” he said, doing something on his computer. “I can pass something along?”
“Oh, that’s okay.” There was a sudden joyous shout from a corner. I turned and saw that one of the frosted glass doors along the back wall was marked PLAY.
“Game room,” the man explained. “They’re probably playing cornhole.”
I nodded. “Anyway, thanks for your help. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
“Old friend?”
I smiled mysteriously. “Sort of.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Interesting guess!” I laughed. “But wrong again. He used to date my best friend.”
“Oh. That had to be a while ago; he and his wife have been together for…I don’t know, this is their fourth kid.”
“It was a long time ago. Anyway, thanks for your help.”
“Do you have kids?” He leaned to his side. The ease of an attractive white man who, obviously, gets to decide when the conversation’s over.
“I don’t. Do you?”
He chuckled. “Nope, no kids. Are you married?”
“You’re sure full of questions.”
He laughed, gave that winning smile. “I’m trying to figure out if I can ask you out.”
My cheeks burned. “Oh, I thought you—oh. Well, sure. Let me give you my number.” I looked around for a pen, then realized his fingers were aloft over his keyboard because he was not, like me, old and analog. I recited it, then added, “…and I’m Lindsay.”
“Josh,” he replied, reaching out to shake my hand.
A classic Hot Man Born in the Nineties name. I forced myself to maintain eye contact. “Well, I better get back to work,” I said finally. “And no need to mention me to Greg, I’ll catch him some other time when he’s…back in action.” Then I spit out a goodbye and shot back into the building’s labyrinthine hallways.
* * *
No one at work had noticed my absence, of course. I returned to the architecture firm’s website, telling myself it was to learn more about Greg but knowing it was to research Josh. The babe wasn’t anywhere on the site, so I forced myself to at least reread Greg’s bio. He was an accomplished man, one who’d worked on several impressive-sounding buildings around Manhattan before cofounding this technology-driven firm, one of the first to employ 3-D printing.
Next I combed through my old emails, looking for signs of Greg. I found remarkably little, although I did figure out how they’d met: a motherfucking missed connection on Craigslist, which, Jesus Christ. It was the kind of ridiculous thing that would happen only to Edie, whose life played out like a single-shot mumblecore: hip parties. Fashion school. New boyfriend, probably dovetailing with the ones before and after, obtained in a cool, unique way that also underscored how desirable she was. Then I felt a rush of nausea, aware that I was once again envying a dead girl.
Why had we called each other best friends? We were young, after the period when you could declare someone your bestie but still young enough to crave it, the way a twelve-year-old lusts after a place at the