top of the page. And then a row of question marks. I sense an answer hovering, but the words refuse to form.
The muffled ding of the elevator bell pulls me from my thoughts. Please, let this be Caryn, I pray, but when I look up, I see a woman, wearing a black baseball hat letting herself into the office. I can’t make out her face, but I can tell from the height and the shape that it’s not Caryn. I glance again at my watch. Eight twenty-two. Surely, it won’t be much longer.
I try to refocus on my notes, but seconds later, another noise from the front teases away my attention. I raise my head and spot a shock of blond hair, the sight of which jolts me.
God, that hair. Thick, a little shaggy on the sides, and honey-gold in color. So wildly improbable here in gritty, grungy, hipster-bearded, black-is-the-new-black New York City. Once, riding the train with him to a meeting uptown, I watched as two women jerked their heads in his direction, their eyes widening, as if they’d suddenly found themselves in a subway car with a merman.
Damien Howe is on his phone, talking, nodding in agreement. Striking a deal, maybe. He seems oblivious to everything else, but it’s probably not the case. As long as I’ve known him, he’s always been intensely aware of his environment.
He halts at the wide counter to the right of the entrance, opposite the Pullman-style kitchen, and grabs a coffee capsule. Probably dark roast. He likes his coffee strong and never takes milk or sugar. It’s surprising he doesn’t keep an espresso machine in his office, because that’s what he really prefers, especially the moment he rolls out of bed.
I watch as he waits the few seconds for the coffee to brew, seemingly lost in thought now that the call’s finished. I’ve been so good since we split about not looking at him, stopping myself from searching, sonarlike, for his presence, refusing to think of the body beneath those clothes, the sea-salt smell of his skin that used to make me wonder if he was a merman.
Five months. That’s all it lasted. We were ridiculously careful, betraying not even a hint of flirtation at work. But our coworkers had started to put two and two together. I sensed it before Damien did, conscious of their eyes swinging in slo-mo between us in meetings. Someone, somehow, detected a tell in Damien’s interactions with me that gave us away, like Jason Bourne catching the reflection of an asset in the blade of a butter knife.
Aware that the truth was seeping out, we agreed to cool things between us for the time being, and I put on as good a face as I could. It never restarted. And for weeks, months really, it hurt like hell.
His coffee’s done brewing. He secures a lid on the cup, adjusts the messenger bag that’s strapped over his torso, and turns, clearly bound for his office. I lower my gaze, back to the notepad, but I sense his attention land on me. And soon, out of the corner of my eye, I see him striding in my direction. Oh, lovely. He’s about to be treated to my best impression of a sewer rat.
There’s a whoosh as the door opens, and instinctively I stuff both feet back into my shoes and sit up a bit straighter.
“Ally?” he says.
I glance up, feigning nonchalance. “Morning, Damien.”
He looks serious, possibly even annoyed with me. Has a project of mine blown up while I was gone?
“What are you doing here?” he demands.
“I’m sorry. Do you need the room?” That possibility had just occurred to me.
“No, I’m asking why you’re here. At Greenbacks.”
“Today, you mean?” The pulsing in my head intensifies. “It’s my first day back.”
“What are you talking about?” He steps closer, his eyes burrowing into me. “You haven’t worked here in years.”
2
My head’s practically pounding now.
“Damien,” I say. “I-I-I work here. I—”
But even as the words sputter from my lips, I realize they’re not true. I don’t work here. I don’t come to this place anymore. I press a hand to my head, urging alternate images to form in my mind, but I can’t seem to remember where I do work.
My eyes fill with tears. Don’t cry, I think. But a drop plops on the sleek black table.