Going in Circles (20 page)

“You're evil.”

“No, ma'am. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you.”

A
wad of paper smacks my monitor. Seconds later, another one strikes me in the back of the head.

“Quit it, Jonathan.” I close Matthew's Facebook page. Today he wrote that he's “In a long meeting.” Does he really think people want to know that? Then again, here I am still checking his profile, so I might as well shut up.

Another paper assault. It lands next to my wrist. I pick it up, intending to hurl it back.

“I know you're not working through lunch,” he says. “What are you still doing here?”

I turn around just in time to catch another missile to the face. “Francesca was supposed to meet me, but she's ten minutes late,” I explain.

“Why don't you go find out why? You can go to her office, too. This isn't the center of the universe.”

I throw a paper wad at him, but he catches it. “Thanks for the advice,” I say.

Jonathan's cell phone rings. As he's adjusting his Bluetooth earpiece, I take my opportunity to toss a handful of paper wads at his head.

“Hey, honey,” he says to the caller as he's dodging. “What did the baby doctor say?”

It stops me right as I'm about to walk out the door. I whisper, “She's pregnant?” but Jonathan just waves me away.

As I walk the hall to Francesca's office, I do that thing only single people can do, which is letting someone else's life crisis completely throw you into one of your own. Jonathan's having a kid. I never thought of him being a dad. Not that he won't be a great one, that's not what's weird to me. It's that I don't see him outside this office, and I forget about this whole other life he has going on.

Francesca's office door is closed. I knock while I'm opening it.

She keeps her office dark, sometimes only candlelit, which is against office policy, and this time she's got one candle next to her monitor. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I hear a man's voice.

“Hey! Hey, are you Charlotte?”

It's coming from a video chat box on the monitor. There's a man in the box, staring at me. He's too far away for me to make out much more than a head of dark curls and sideburns that don't fit his baby face. This must be Jacob.

“Um,” I say, starting to turn around. “I was just . . . Sorry.”

“No, wait!” he says. “Don't go. Francesca's there, isn't she? I know she is.”

My eyes have adjusted, and now I can see Francesca standing just off to the side of her computer, her back to the desk like she's hiding around the corner. She stares at me, shaking her head like a warning.

Dear Lord, I've walked into the middle of a Skype Fight. Honestly, this entire office would run more smoothly if we
banned all technology, including the technology we manufacture and sell.

I stammer, “Um . . . she's . . .” I flip the light switch on, just to have something to do.

“I know she's there,” Jacob says. “I would have seen her leave the room. Will you tell her to sit down again?”

Francesca grabs a notepad from her desk and scribbles something. She holds it up:
TELL HIM I'M MAD AT HIM
.

“I think he knows that, Frannie,” I say, causing her to smack her notebook against her thighs.

“What'd she say? What did she say?” He keeps leaning closer to his computer's camera, like he can somehow push himself through the lens.

“She said she's mad.”

“Francesca,” says Jacob. “Please. Just sit down and talk to me. I'm sorry. I mean it, I'm sorry. Charlotte, what's she doing now?”

“She's shaking her head. What did you do?”

“I missed our last date.”

“Last
two
dates!” Francesca shouts.

“Okay, okay, last two dates. But one of them you were late so I thought—”

Francesca hurls her notebook against the camera on the computer monitor. Jacob jumps back.

“I'm going to go,” I say, turning to leave.

“No!” they both shout.

“Charlotte, tell her I'm sorry. She'll listen to you. You're her best friend.”

She sneers at me, tongue between her teeth. She scribbles:
NOT ANYMORE
.

“Jesus, this is stupid.” I take a seat in Francesca's chair. “Okay, Jacob. What happened?”

“The first time, I got busy at work, and I didn't have my phone with me. So I couldn't text her that I was going to miss our date.”

“What happened when you texted her later?”

“I don't know. She was pissed.”

Francesca gasps, and I place my hand on her leg to quiet her. “Okay, well, what happened the second time?”

Jacob looks off-camera, says, “Just a minute, Jim.” He looks back at me. “Sorry, I'm at work. What did you ask?”

“I asked where you were the second time you were supposed to chat.”

“I fell asleep. I guess she was late coming home from practice, so it's not completely my fault . . .” He looks away, grabs something. “I
DID
text you back!” he shouts at me. I look up to see Francesca typing furiously on her cell phone.

I stand up, grab her by the shoulders, and shove her into her chair. “Work it out, you two,” I say.

Jacob's face crumples in desperation. “I didn't mean to fall asleep.”

“I wasn't late because of practice,” Francesca says. “It was because I got dressed up for our Skype date. We were going to pretend we were in Paris, but I couldn't find anything to wear and I tore my closet apart. That's the pathetic excuse we had for a date, and you stood me up.”

“I know, I'm sorry.” He reaches out for the monitor, like he's trying to touch her face. “I was stuck in a meeting.”

“They don't let you go to the bathroom? What kind of prison do you work in?”

“I didn't think of that. I should have done that. I'm sorry.”

“I'm so stupid. I got dressed up. In a
dress
.”

He smiles. “The green one?”

Francesca runs her finger down the keyboard, and I watch
as she softens. “Maybe,” she says. “I can't believe you remember my green dress.”

Why can't I forgive this easily?

“I bet you looked really pretty, Francesca.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I know you did.”

I'm probably not supposed to be watching this. I lean back on the desk, in Francesca's hiding place, and hope to disappear.

“You'll never know, you jerk,” Francesca says.

“I am a jerk. Can we talk later tonight?”

“You know what else we could do tonight?” Francesca flirts.

“Pause!” I shout, sheltering my eyes as I leave the room. “Pause! Pause!”

•   •   •

I'm pacing the parking lot, waiting for Francesca, when I see Jonathan sitting in his car. I knock on his window.

“You okay?”

He pushes a button and the doors unlock. I go to the other side and climb in.

“I know you love your sports car, Jonathan, but this is kind of crazy. I didn't know you went to visit it on breaks.”

He bought this thing a few months ago, after having pictures of it taped to his wall for the previous six months. I remember telling him he was way too young to be having a midlife crisis, and he told me I was just jealous that I didn't have enough money to get one for myself.

Jonathan has his hands on the steering wheel as he stares straight ahead at his name on the sign above his spot. His hair is shoved everywhere and I can tell he's been crying.

“Jesus. You look like shit. What's wrong?”

“I don't want to be a dad,” he says.

“Oh. Of course you do. Everybody does.” It comes out like a reflex, and I realize I sound just like those people who used to tell me that everything would work out with my marriage. I'm now the one saying stupid things to someone who's scared.

“No. This wasn't planned. We didn't want kids; we said that when we got married. And Cassandra's freaking out even more than I am, so I've got to act like everything's okay, or everything will not be okay. I know we're both not talking about how miserable we both are, and I can't believe we're going to bring a kid into a world where two people don't really want him.”

“Him? It's a boy?”

He rolls his eyes as he turns to look at me. “I don't know. It's five weeks old. It still has gills.”

He slams his head into the steering wheel. “Oh, God. We're going to have a baby. This is the worst thing ever!”

“Maybe not. Maybe you'll have a really cute kid who will hate everything almost as much as you do.” I reach out and take his hand. “And you can teach it all the things that suck in life, like laughing and rainbows. You can make sure he hates unicorns. Or if it's a girl, you can tell her how she's genetically crazy and will never make a man happy, and she's destined to live a life alone except for her cats. You always know what to say to people, Jonathan.”

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” he says, his words muffled from underneath his sleeve, his head buried in one arm. His wedding ring glints in the sunlight coming through the windshield. It makes me fiddle with my own rings, twirling the diamond so it's in the palm of my hand. I hold it, feeling the
sharpness against my skin, thinking of Petra shoving it in my face earlier, thinking about what day it is and the baby I'm not having with Matthew. Then I push those thoughts aside, because Jonathan looks like he's in complete agony.

“It's going to be okay, Jonathan,” I say. “Lots of people have kids. Even incompetent people like you.”

He turns toward me, both arms outstretched. I move in and hug him.

“Okay,” I say, patting him on the back. “There you go. Everything's fine. You're going to be a great dad. And you've got like, eight months to figure it all out.”

“That's not enough time. You've had like eighteen months, and look at you. You're a mess.”

“Is this really what you want to say to the woman trying to make you feel better? I mean, we're hugging and everything.”

He holds me tighter as he laughs. His neck brushes against my face as he moves, and I can feel my skin warming. It's too much contact, and as I try to untangle myself from my friend, he slides his cheek across mine. He kisses me, right on the corner of my mouth. Not on my lips, but close.

I yank back, pushing him with both hands. “Don't!”

“I didn't!”

“You did.”

“I didn't.”

But his eyes are wide and I see him trembling just as much as I am. “You did,” I say again.

“I didn't mean to.”

“Don't you ever do that again.”

“I wasn't trying to do anything. I'm just messed up, and—”

“I don't care.”

He smacks his leg. “Oh, come on, Charlotte. I didn't mean anything. I wasn't going to really kiss you. I don't want you
that way. It was just a friendly kiss on the cheek, but you moved and my aim was weird. You moved!”

“Yeah, this is my fault.” I put my hand on the door.

“Okay, you are blowing this way out of proportion.” He reaches out, but before he can touch any of me I open the car door.

“Don't try to pin this on me,” I say as I climb out.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” He's staring forward again, looking like I've slapped him. “We've been friends for a long time. I've kissed you on the cheek before. It was just a mistake. Don't be so upset.”

I slam the door and head back to the office. My face is hot, not from desire but from anger. My hands are still clenched into fists as I jam them into my pockets. I know he wasn't trying anything. I know him too well to think that he would ever cheat on Cassandra. It was just a mistake, he's right. It wasn't because he touched me that I freaked out. The truth was he could have been anybody at that moment. I freaked out because
someone
touched me. And I don't know what that means.

I try to calm down but my chest is only getting tighter and my head is pounding and I suddenly can't hear so well and I'm going into the first panic attack I've had in for-ever and I just want this to stop and I'm crying and I lower myself to the ground because my legs won't hold me anymore and Jesus, God, what is broken inside of me, and why can't I just get over it?

Charlotte Goodman does not feel well.

She's pissed off at herself, furious for this giant leap backward, unable to answer her own question: “When will I feel normal again?”

She's standing now in her bathroom, a showdown at her medicine cabinet. She knows what nobody else does. Hidden behind a box of tampons, jammed underneath the hot rollers she never uses, is a white paper bag from Sav-On. Inside the bag is an unopened prescription bottle of Lexapro. Her name is printed on the label. It is suggested she take one daily.

One day at a time.

Charlotte pulls the bottle of pills from the bag with the hope of a kid reaching into a cookie jar. Perhaps this is her answer.

The plastic container rattles in her hand, reminding Charlotte of visiting relatives in hospitals; of being in bed in the early-morning hours, her mother's lips pressed against her forehead to determine if her fever is worth staying home from school; of her recent dependence on ibuprofen for the hours after practice.

Charlotte carries the container of pills with her down the hallway, her hand clutched tightly, her mind racing with wonder—will this change everything for her?

She stops in place and stands still in the dark of her hallway, listening to the sounds of the night as it surrounds her apartment. She can hear dogs barking, the constant drone of her downstairs neighbor's television. Somewhere distant a car alarm is announcing itself—insistent and ignored.