encircle my ankles. I swallow.
To hide my awkwardness, I mime taking a gun out of my pocket and toss it aside. He reaches into an imaginary shoulder holster and takes out a gun, putting it on his planner. I unsheathe an invisible knife from my thigh.
“All of them.” I indicate under the desk. He reaches down to his ankle and pretends to take a handgun out of an ankle holster.
“That’s better.” I sink into my chair and close my eyes.
“You’re deeply weird, Shortcake.” His voice is not unkind. I force my eyes open and the Staring Game almost kills me. His eyes are the blue of a peacock’s chest. Everything is changing.
“Are you going to report me to HR?”
Something in my chest folds painfully. So that’s why he looks like shit. He’s had a hellish day yesterday, anticipating being marched out of the building by security upon my return. My empty desk would have been terrifying. He sat there, visualizing the moment he is locked in jail for being a molester of tiny women. I understand now. Stupid me.
“No. But can we please never mention . . . it . . . again?” It comes out of me a little hoarse. I’m letting him off the hook, instead of taunting him with the prospect. Another step toward being the person I’d like to be. Regardless, he frowns like he’s been deeply insulted.
“That’s what you want?”
I nod, but I’m such a little liar. All I want to do is kiss you until I fall asleep. I want to slide in between your sheets, and find out what goes on inside your head, and underneath your clothes. I want to make a fool of myself over you.
Mr. Bexley’s door is ajar so I speak as quietly as I can. “It’s freaking me out.”
He can see that it’s the truth. I’ve got desperate, crazy eyes. He nods and just like that: Control, A; Delete. The kiss never happened.
I pray for a diversion. A fire drill. Julie calling me to say she would never meet a deadline ever again.
I’m not the only one praying for the floor to cave in.
“How was your . . . date?” His voice is faint, his knuckles white. Being nice to me is a lot of effort.
“Fine. We’ve got a lot in common.” I try in vain to wake my computer.
“You’re both extremely small.” He’s frowning at his own computer as if this is the worst conversation he’s ever been party to. Being friends with me does not come naturally.
“He didn’t even tease me about the strawberries. Danny is . . . nice. He’s my type.” It’s all I can think of to say.
“Nice is what you want, then.”
“It’s all anybody wants. My parents have been begging me for ages to find myself a nice guy.” I keep my voice light, but inside, a little bubble of hope is rising. We’re talking like friends.
“And did Mr. Nice Guy drive you home?”
I know what he’s asking me. “No. I got a cab. By myself.”
He breathes out heavily. He rubs his face in exhaustion, then looks at me through his fingers. “What shall we play now?”
“What about Normal Colleagues? Or the Friendship Game? I’ve been dying to try either of those.” I look up and hold my breath.
He sits up straight and glowers at me. “Both would be a waste of time, don’t you think?”
“Well, ouch.” If I say it sarcastically, he won’t know I’m serious. He opens his planner, pencil in hand, and begins making so many annotations that I blink and turn to my computer. I can’t care about his stupid planner anymore. His pencil, my spying experiment. It all ends right now. It’s all been a waste of time.
I tell myself to be glad.
TODAY