Borrow-A-Bridesmaid (14 page)

Once our laughter dies down, a silence settles in. “So, speaking of the past,” he says finally, “I owe you an explanation. There's actually something I've been meaning to tell you.”

“Sure, anything.”

He clears his throat and pauses.

“You still there?” I ask hopefully. On his end of the line, a blur of indistinct voices comes through over the sound of the radio.

“Yeah, but—I got some caffeine-starved teenagers looming.”

“Okay. Yeah, I think I might get myself kicked out into the rain if I'm not careful.” Two angsty baristas glare at me from behind the bar. My singing has drowned out the emo music playing over the shop speakers. One of them, a girl wearing so much eyeliner it looks like she has two black eyes, turns with a huff back to the espresso machine.

“Listen, let's talk more soon, yeah?” Charlie is saying.

“Definitely.”

“Good luck with the car situation. I'll be thinking about you, and wishing we could sing more disco together, as I wonder why the flipping feck the register is short five bucks.”

“I hate that.”

I can hear him smile again. “Bye.”

As I watch the rain ripple across the parking lot, I lean against the window and sigh. My gut is full of coffee and mixed feelings. Charlie was warm, then distant, then warm again. The brain elf turns on a warning light, but I ignore it. I imagine myself bursting through the doors of Charlie's Starbucks, leaping over the counter, and tackling him to the floor in a caffeinated affection bomb. But before I can get too deep into my daydreaming, my phone buzzes again. It's Alex.

You start tomorrow. 8
a.
m.
sharp.

Sixteen

Y
ou could slice an apple on this guy's jawline. He's wearing a dark suit and standing in front of a gray cube that looks like all the other gray cubes stretching in either direction.

“So,” he says. “All you have to do is scan these.” He sets a banker box on the floor and steps back. “Save each file individually in the archive folder on the network drive. And figure out some kind of naming convention that makes sense. Got it?” He checks his watch, probably running late for some super-important accountant meeting.

“Sure.” My eyes dart reflexively to his left hand, where a gold ring glares back at me. I swallow. He's already walking away, eyes on his watch again.

I bend over and open the box, which is crammed with files. I sigh, reaching for the first set of papers. As I pull them out, more papers collapse in. I mark my spot with a hot pink Post-it note, one of the few accessories adorning my naked gray cube.

Just like at the airport, the thought returns:
Twelve years of schooling, four years of college, and a bachelor's degree later, this is what I'm doing.
I jot that on a Post-it and stuff it in my pocket to add to the
City Paper
article. I close my eyes and try to think positively. Let's see: No one is running by screaming and knocking books to the floor while scouring the shelves for a lost passport that might have gotten wedged somewhere in “Romance A–N.” There's no drone of “twenty thousand free miles and a bonus gift.” The office is in Fairfax, a ten-minute drive that doesn't even require getting on the Beltway.

It's a respectable establishment, really. Inspirational posters line the walls: People climbing mountains. People kayaking. People rappelling down jagged cliffs. These are messages that
you will achieve your goals.
I feel so grown-up!

And best of all, the bright, shining jewel amid the grayness of the cubicle: There's no Sal. There's no one here I want to dump spaghetti on, only hot accountants I wouldn't mind making out with.

Seriously, the men here are boiling-lava hot: trimmed hair, light stubble, shoulders that look square under designer suits. It smells good around here, which I couldn't have said for the airport. People in offices also pretend to be nice, unlike airport passengers. They sign their e-mails with shit like “Have a blessed day” and “Best.”

I'm pulling the staple out of the first set of papers when Alex strolls by, looking killer in a pencil skirt and ruffly blouse. She leans against the edge of my desk. “Hey, girl.”

“Alex!” I try to keep my voice low. It's very quiet and productive around here. I take in her outfit, her glossy nails and lips, curled hair. “You look fantastic. Feeling better?”

“Getting there.” She crosses one ankle over the other. “You were spot on about Greg. He was never willing to pull his weight. I'm just glad we didn't go through with it.” She lowers her voice. “Anyway, he wasn't the greatest in the sack.”

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh, and Alex grins at me.

“Thank you so much, by the way.” I gesture to the files looming before me. “It's good to be employed. Yesterday my car chose to die a Shakespearean death on the Beltway, stumbling dagger-in-chest style across Route 7 to finally pronounce ‘I am slain' in a random strip mall parking lot. It's in the shop right now, and I'm waiting for the bad news.”

“Poor thing. I'm glad to help. Hey, I have to run to a meeting, but let's have lunch sometime this week. My treat.”

Her hips sway lightly as she walks down the hallway, and I catch at least one male coworker glancing after her.

I pick up my unstapled papers and head toward the behemoth scanner, which is unfortunately located right in the middle of a stretch of hallway. I have to scan a batch, walk back to my cube, rename and save the files in the archive folder, collate the last batch, pick up the next batch, move my hot pink Post-it, and go back to the scanner. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Time scratches its nails down the blackboard of my morning. I play a little game of trying not to look at the clock more than once an hour, a game I keep losing. By 10:37, I want to scream. I've sold my soul for only $1.27 more per hour than I made at the airport. This job is only good for one thing: compost material for my
City Paper
article.

I try thinking about Kalil, whom I have a dinner date with tonight, but that doesn't help. What will we talk about? I hope we have more in common than booze and quarter-life angst. Even the excitement from talking to Charlie has subsided. What am I thinking will happen, that our sing-alongs will inspire him to move back east for me? I need to be realistic. That's what this job is all about, right? Stark realism. Must. Pay. Bills. In order to create meaning in this universe, I need to eat and get my car repaired.

My mind arcs back to one of my philosophical conversations with Kalil. Maybe I'll be a Stoic. “Freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of men's desires, but by the removal of desire.” I do not desire Charlie, who is on the other side of the country. I do not desire a better job, because who knows if good jobs even exist. In this moment, my physical body is imprisoned, but my spirit is free. “Outward things cannot touch the soul
.”
You thought you had me, degrading jobs, but you didn't know I had Marcus Aurelius in my back pocket. I'm a Stoic badass!

I step away from the scanner and back right into nice-looking dark-suit guy. My papers fly up into the air, and he grabs angrily at one, catching it midair and shoving it at me. Okay, maybe I have some work to do on the whole Stoic badass thing. It's a work in progress.

“Watch it!” he says, hurrying away down the hall.

I want to roll my eyes at him.
Sorry, Mr. Hotshot
. Looking at his watch like the freaking Mad Hatter. I sigh and walk back to my cube, tipping my head onto the desk. The thought of doing this job forty hours a week for the next month makes my stomach churn.

When five o'clock finally comes, my relief is palpable. Walking through the front doors of the firm, I feel as if I've entered a different dimension. I'd forgotten that sunshine, fresh air existed.

Since Wulfie's still in the shop, Alex gives me a ride home; I texted Lin to free him up in case he wanted to head to Steve's restaurant after work. I close the apartment door behind me, leaning my back against it and frowning as I hear loud music blaring. Loud music in our apartment typically means one of two things. Either 1) Lin is getting some; Or 2) Lin just had a horrible breakup.

I look from the kitchen to the den, but there's no evidence of Steve. Lin would have cleaned up if Steve were coming over, but our breakfast dishes are still in the sink, coffee grounds scattered on the counter from our morning brew. I continue down the hallway and toss my purse on my bed, looking tentatively across the hall to Lin's room. His door is open—not good.

Lin is facedown
on the bed. Tissues line his bedside, white polka dots of tear-infused paper obfuscating the design of the soft blue rug. All the lights are off, including the paper lanterns strung across the perimeter of the room. He picks up his head, sees me, and sets it back down.

I sit next to him, run a hand through his dark hair, and scratch his back lightly. “What's going on?”

“Ryan called.” His eyes are still closed.

I keep scratching his back while I wait for him to tell me the rest of the story. Before he can continue, my phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket. Kalil has sent me a text:
Can't wait to see u tonight! We still on for 7?

I take a sidelong look at Lin, the red eyes and nose, the trembling, downturned mouth.

I'm so sorry,
I text back quickly.
Something came up. Call you later.
I flip the phone shut. I feel bad, but Lin comes first. Always.

I wait for him to continue, not wanting to push for details. After a few minutes, he begins to talk. Ryan, aka Evil Ryan, is to Lin what Scott is to me: a heartbreaking jerk-faced bastard. What makes it worse is that Lin is the kind of person who falls hard, who puts his entire self into a relationship, planning elaborate dates and trips. Ryan completely took him for granted, and to boot, he refused to introduce Lin to his parents after six months together. He wouldn't even tell anyone they were dating.

Ryan hadn't come out to his family or close friends. Lin had been out for years, had worked through counseling with his family, and didn't like being forced back into secrecy. It would have been one thing if Ryan were working at all toward coming out. But he seemed content to keep his relationship with Lin a secret.

One night Lin cooked an entire dinner, roast chicken and rosemary potatoes, tomato bisque, the works, set up candles and string lights, only for Ryan to call at the last minute, saying he couldn't make it. Turned out, he wasn't sick or having a crisis or anything, he just decided he felt like going clubbing with some friends, among them an ex-girlfriend. Lin was devastated and broke things off soon after. But sometimes Ryan still calls casually, throwing Lin into an emotional tailspin for a day or so. I can sympathize. I think if Scott called me, I'd be prostrate, too. Ugh—Scott. I shoo the thoughts of him away and turn my attention back to Lin, who is sniffling.

“The worst part is, Steve planned a really nice night for us, dinner and an art show, and I was hoping he could stay over and meet you. But I called and canceled on him. I can't let him see me like this. Things have been going so well. I didn't want to start unpacking the baggage.”

I don't know what to say, but I know what to do. “I'm going to make you dinner,” I whisper, heading into the kitchen. Before I get out any ingredients, I grab a bottle of cleaner and attack the mess. I even bust out the vacuum. Then I stand on the black-and-white-checked floor, puttering around and peeking in cupboards, finally settling on spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread for dinner. Carbs solve everything.

We end up drinking an entire bottle of wine and watching
The Devil Wears Prada.
By the end of the night, we're both feeling a bit better. I've practically forgotten the degradation of standing in the middle of an office hallway like a fool while smart, hot math people dash around me to meetings. I've set my sights again on Stoicism, though when I mention it to Lin, he tries not so successfully to stifle a giggle. Instead, he says, “Mmm, that sounds nice,” and takes a sip of wine.

By the time we're getting ready for bed, Lin seems mostly back to himself, and I encourage him to call Steve. I can hear him laughing from down the hall. I sigh, relieved, and then realize—I never called Kalil! I
try his number
, but he doesn't answer. I guess it's on the late side. Maybe he's mad at me for breaking the date and then not calling. Oh well. It was a night of broken dates. I'll worry about Kalil tomorrow, when I have hours and hours of scanning to overanalyze. Except I won't do that, because I'm a Stoic now. Right.