Emma vs. The Tech Guy (5 page)

“All right, look alive, you old farts. Who had the roast beef?”

“Right here,” Lou answered with a whistle instead of words. That was half of his vocabulary.

“D’you get my corn chips, Emma Jean?” Fred asked from the other side of the table.

“Hold your dentures, old man, they’re here somewhere.” Pop and his friends were the only ones I allowed to use my middle name. I rummaged through the bag until I found Fred’s addiction. “Got it.” I tossed the bag over to him a little too hard. He reached up and caught it with one hand. Lou gave a long slow whistle indicating it was a nice catch.

Once a month I did my duty picking up sandwiches for Pop and his Hugh Hefner–wannabe buddies for their poker night. I loved to complain about it, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Pop raised me after mom died, and Lou was like an uncle. A smart-ass, swearing uncle who slipped me dollar bills when he needed me to behave, but an uncle none the less. There were times in my life where I considered these guys my closest friends. They were my life line, my back-up plan for weekend nights. And I cashed in more than I should have for a young, semi attractive adult.

“So you gonna stick around this time?” Pop asked when I finished doling out the grub.

“You might be able to twist my arm,” I lied. Believe it or not, these fools were great conversationalists, and I really didn’t feel like being alone tonight, either. Howard was out with a friend, and I was in no mood to listen to Jayne’s man problems. She’d be bent, but she’d get over it. If anything, Jayne was forgiving.

I grabbed myself a beer and flopped down on the sofa. Pop’s furniture was ancient, but I had to admit it was more comfy than ours. Howard insisted on this wacky leather set that makes you slip all over the place.

“Why don’t you come sit over here next to Francisco?” Pop said, patting him on the shoulder. “He’s a quiet one tonight.”

The boys, as I refer to them out of their presence, laughed and made cat-call noises.

“That’s okay, I don’t want Carla to get jealous,” I said, not making a move.

“You losers just hang on to your wallets,” Francisco shot back.

Lou let out his
you just got told
whistle and we all cracked up. I’d pretty much mastered the various Lou whistles and what they meant. When I was really young, three short whistles meant, “Hey! Pipe down, the kid’s listening.” One medium length monotone whistle usually meant, “shoot” or “oh, brother.” Sometimes he would let out three quick, barely audible tweets that told me whatever was going down had to be kept secret, like letting me watch TV when I wasn’t supposed to or slipping me a dollar to get lost.

I mused and marveled at the group as they ate, laughed, and chatted about everything from sports to the good old days. I often wished my life was that carefree. But I figured it came with age and wisdom, and I wasn’t ready for either of those yet. Or maybe it was simply from not giving a shit about much, something that seemed impossible at that point in my life.

Whenever the conversation got heated or turned to more serious topics, one of them would always say, “Yep, the world sure has changed.” I was grateful Pop had his little group, but I still felt sad for him sometimes. I wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never tell.

My cell vibrated in my pocket, and I fished it out to find a text from Jayne. “Where are you?”

Ignoring it wasn’t an option. Jayne had powers that reached beyond cellular radar. She always knew when I was avoiding her texts. I excused myself to step into the back room to call her.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“What?” Jayne yelled into my ear. “Emma, where are you?” Music and laughter blared through the line. “You’re missing happy hour.” Jayne could have fun at a carwash, so her level of excitement needed to be taken with a grain of salt.

“Sorry, I’m not gonna make it. It’s Pop’s poker night.”

“So you’re telling me you’d rather hang with a bunch of old guys than drink margies and stuff your face with fatty foods?”

Actually, yes. I barely paused and Jayne dug in for more. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. And Guy’s here, too.”

“Guy’s there?” I couldn’t figure out if the sudden lurch of my stomach was from annoyance or jealousy or what.

“Yeah, Adam invited him. He seems like the sweetest guy. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, real sweet.” But was that sweetness part of the lie, too? Was he genuinely that nice of a person or was he simply trying to get people to trust him? To flush out another Lizette waiting to happen? “Any word from Hank?”

“No, but I’m not gonna let him ruin my night.” Her on again/off again relationship with Hank was what had brought Jayne and me closer together over the last year. Before that we were strictly co-workers. We’d socialized at work functions, even one or two Adam bashes. But I wouldn’t have considered us friends, of which I really have only one other—Howard’s sister Emilia.

The first time Jayne and Hank broke up, I found her in the ladies lounge, tears flowing down her cheeks, carrying clumps of mascara along with them. She looked like hell, and I told her so, which made her laugh at my unabashed bitchiness. Then I brought her a tissue and one of my raspberry teas. I listened to the whole story without interrupting or pointing out her obvious mistakes in dealing with men. I knew, at least, that was a huge no-no. But being the wind beneath someone’s wings was so not my thing. And what Jayne didn’t realize at the time—and never seemed to put two and two together—was that I needed her to help me wrap up the issue we were working on.

So I pretended to be someone else, the kind of girl that knows exactly what to say to another girl in times like that. After a mini-pep talk in which I praised her wardrobe and gorgeous skin, she was on the mend and on team Emma. Most things really do seem to happen for a reason, because I think I needed Jayne just as much as she needed me. Because somewhere along the line, I never learned about the importance of having close girlfriends. I’d always gotten along so much better with guys. Even Howard and I hit it off right from the start. Becoming friends with his sister was more out of convenience, I was starting to realize.

“Good for you. Well, have fun, Jaynie.”

“Oh, my God, you should see Guy right now. He’s up there singing Prince. You know that
Kiss
song? Damn, he’s so adorable.”

“How embarrassing.” I pictured him belting out that high-pitched song and making kissing noises to the crowd.

“No, everyone’s loving him. He’s so bad, but they love him.”

“Go figure. Well, I gotta go. Pop’s calling me.”

“Bye, sweetie,” she said before hanging up.

“I am?” Pop’s voice came from behind me.

I spun around to find him standing in the doorway, staring at me with a suspicious grin. My precious Pop, who tried to be both a father and a mother to a confused and sometimes distant little girl. Whose shirt sleeve dried hundreds of my tears growing up, whose advice turned out to be surprisingly accurate. After mom died and Pop moved in with us, Dad took that to mean he was taking over instead of helping out. I actually felt sorry for Pop that he had to deal with me. It’s not that I was too much trouble, because I wasn’t. I was just there. He never made me feel like that, but I figured most men wouldn’t want to take on being a parent in their early fifties.

“Hey, Pop. Game started yet?”

“No. But I kind of sensed you were hanging around because you wanted to talk to me. Is everything okay?”

I hesitated, and Pop put his arm around my shoulders. There’s something to be said for the blue-collar worker. Pop never sat behind a desk in his life. Even after retiring, he still found ways to do physical work. At six foot one, he resembled a slightly younger Clint Eastwood. I sank into his solid embrace and rested my head on his shoulder.

“Sometimes I just get tired, Pop.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you’re running a race, Emma Jean.” Pop chuckled. “You’re bound to get outta breath sometime.”

“You’re the one who always told me to go after what I want.”

“You sure did that, didn’t ya?”

“Please, Pop.” I broke from him and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting across from me in a chair. “So, what’s going on with this new guy you were telling me about?”

“Guy.”

“Yeah, the new guy.” He nodded impatiently.

“No, Pop. That’s his name. Guy.”

“Oh, well, shoot. So what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. He’ll have access to a lot of information ....”

“You worried he’s gonna go snooping into your business?”

“At first I was really worried about it. But now, I’m pretty sure he’ll be so busy fixing Marty’s mess and getting our system upgraded, he probably won’t have time for much else. I just wish….”

“You could turn back the clock?”

I nodded and looked down at my hands.
Mental note: change this hideous nail color.

Pop reached over and nudged my chin up. “Listen to me, Missy. There’s not one person on this planet that hasn’t made a mistake in life. You’re a good girl. You work hard, and I’m proud of you. Always have been, always will be.”

A smile crept its way past my resistance, and I patted Pop’s hand. “Thanks, Pop.”

“So there you go. Plus, I thought you said this would be good for the magazine.”

“It is, but … there’s just something about Guy. He really gets under my skin, Pop.”

“Is that bad?” His playful laugh comforted me as it always did.

“It could be.”

He eyed me like he knew exactly what I was feeling even though I didn’t.

Then the house phone rang, and I stood to answer it. Pop said one of the boys would probably get it.

“Seriously, Guy seems so nice, yet he really irks me sometimes.”

“Makes you feel uncomfortable?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm.” He gave me another knowing look, and I shook my head.

“And now I find out he’s going to the trade show with me this year.”

“The one in Vegas? Those darn things always make you so crazy, maybe it’s good to have someone else there to help you.”

“That’s what Adam’s for.”

This trade show was targeted to the publishing industry and was designed to help us reach new platforms in the media revolution, or so they say. Adam and I were to attend some rigorous workshops. I was a little stressed about bringing all that info back to the company.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re right. You better get back to the boys.”

A loud whistle came from the other room; Lou getting our attention. “Hey, Ed! Your girlfriend’s on the line,” he shouted.

My gaze turned confused, and my eyes asked Pop for confirmation.

“Tell her to hang on!” Pop shouted back. Looking at me he added, “And she isn’t my girlfriend.”

“Who is it?” I asked as we both headed for the door. I couldn’t help but get excited at the thought. My Pop’s been single as long as I can remember. At times I felt my existence was part of the reason.

“Oh, it’s just Sue.”

“Sue?”

“Mrs. Elwood from down the street. I fixed her sprinkler the other day. She probably just wants to say thanks.”

“Really?” My eyebrows involuntarily shot up, and my face lit with excitement I couldn’t hold back.

Pop rolled his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.” As he picked up the receiver I wrapped my arms around his neck and planted a tiny kiss on his cheek.

“Be nice,” I whispered.

***

When I arrived home, Howard was still out, so I took a long, hot bath. That and the shower was where I did most of my thinking. I let the searing water wrap me up like a blanket, lulling me into a dreamlike state. For once I didn’t want to think about the magazine. Picturing Pop’s face on the phone as I left his house, excitement tinged my heart. How wonderful it would be to see him find someone, or even go on a date for that matter. I pictured one of those sentimental cards that showed an elderly couple on a park bench holding hands.

Stay out of it, Emma
. Matchmaking wasn’t one of my many skills, but I was a fast learner when motivated. And I had helped Jayne with Hank. Still, Hank had left once again, and Pop didn’t like to be pushed. I reminded myself I had my own issues to deal with. With the launch only a month away and the trade show in less than a week, my plate was more than full. And that was just the stuff at work.

Not being able to help myself, I scooted up in the tub and reached for my phone. I’d been dying to see the final changes of the new cover, so I sent a text to my designer. Being sick for the last three days, he worked from home to keep me happy and calm. Everything had to stay on schedule to make this a huge splash before any of our competitors got wind of it. I had barely hit the send button and set the phone down when Mason replied with, “Don’t you have it? Sent at three p.m., but don’t have access now to resend.”

“Shit!” I said so loud I almost dropped the phone in the tub. First of all, something this big should have been followed up with a confirmation.
I’ll deal with him later.
Second, I needed to figure out what the hell had happened. Calming myself, I theorized that the email probably got delayed. Given our current technical atmosphere, that was entirely possible. I got out, grabbed my robe, and bolted to my laptop. It had already been on, so I clicked on my email. As I scrolled through the new messages, my heart raced in anticipation. I wiped the beaded water off my face when I came to the end of the list.
Nothing
!

Sure, there could have been any number of reasons why I didn’t get Mason’s email. Most of them didn’t spell tragedy. But the semi-closeted, type A, control freak side of me took over sending me racing to my room. As I dressed, I convinced myself everything was fine. Most normal people would simply worry about it when they got into the office the next day. I sat on the couch, stared into oblivion, and let that sink in to see if it would stick. Unfortunately, I’m not most normal people so I found myself doing something I might regret. I let out a cleansing breath before glancing at the clock: ten after ten. I dialed a number and cancelled it instead of hitting send. “Crap!” I shook my head, dialed the number again, and paused over the send button. Two seconds later, I hit the button.