The Plan (15 page)

So you’re gonna flash trail and throw in a reference joke, then still expect me to function? Hardest job ever.

We walk around the Plaza shops and admire this city’s many fountains. Most are ornate and traditional.

There are several cow statues. Who knows why anyone thought that was a good idea?

The bronze boar statue reduces us both to fits when we spot it near to the hotel.

This is easy. Conversation. Interaction.

He’s never been so attractive. That’s saying something. I’m doing a terrible job of staying mad.

“Want some?” Canon points toward a little mom-and-pop donut shop. Rough around the edges. Needs a bit of paint. I bet they’re amazing. The kind of place that outlasts corporate sprawl. Grandfathered-in equipment. My mouth waters. Canon motions again. “Want some?”

So tempting. Oh, we’re only talking about donuts. “I better not.”

“Do you have something against donuts?”

“Oh, no. I have something against walking them back off.”

He shakes his head and mutters something as he heads to the doors. I guess I’m supposed to follow.

Painful. The display is truly fucking painful. Strawberry. Crunchy peanut butter cinnamon rolls. Apple spice cake.

“Ready?” He holds the door open, purchase dangling from his hand.

9:14 p.m.

*
Room Service Trays
: In the hall.

*
My Thoughts on Purchase Orders
: #%*&* $#@!

*
Donuts
: Gone. I caved almost immediately. He had bought enough for two.

T
IRED
. I
’M
T
IRED
. And I do stupid shit when I’m tired.

“Would you like for me to put on some coffee?”

Canon is sitting on his bed. Legs crossed and barefoot. Stifling a yawn, he shakes his head.

Oh, please let that be a sign this day is nearly over. I mean, looking at him in faded jeans is a definite perk, but I am so over cataloging purchase patterns.

“Long day, huh?” His eyes change somehow. I nod. “Maybe you could find some Cokes?”

Oh. We’re not done yet.

“Okay,” I say, unintentionally laying a bit too long on the last syllable.

“I know this is taking forever. This is our only chance. It is the best way to make sure they are not fudging their numbers. Go change into something more comfortable.”

More comfortable than jeans?

“I have pajamas,” I say.

He sits up straight and rubs his hands over his face. “All right.”

Twelve minutes later, I’m back with Cokes and wearing my “That is what I’m Tolkien About” PJs.

To say Canon looks relieved would be an understatement. He may have been expecting the kimono again.

In that case, I wonder why he would torture himself.

I’m thinking this is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. Canon’s wearing pajama pants and a white tee. All my theories are blown.

It is almost a foregone conclusion that I will embarrass myself by ogling him at some point. I can imagine what point: his point. The hold I have on my wandering eyes is tenuous.

He takes a swig of pop. Plunking myself on his bed and being careful not to scatter papers everywhere, I pat the mattress. “Let’s do it.”

Spit-take. Coke everywhere.

“You okay?” I ask.

Canon nods. And coughs. A lot.

Sometime…

“H
EY
…H
EY
, E
MMA
. W
AKE
U
P
.”

I feel hands in my hair. They shake my shoulder. I’m cold. I turn toward the warmth beside me.

“Emma. Emma?”

Just ignore them; they’ll stop.

They do.

Then the warmth goes away.

Lincoln chases me. Through Walmart. I don’t know which part is scarier.

Day of Employment:
379

8:30 a.m.

M
Y
P
HONE
I
S
R
INGING
. Somewhere. It’s not on my nightstand.

Screen light shines through papers on the bed. Nothing seems right.

“H-Hello?”

“It is after eight. The day needs to start.”

“Huh?”

“I need to get ready.”

In a flood of revelation, it becomes clear this is not my room.

I fell asleep in his bed, and he…must have gone to mine.

Glad I never put up that dartboard with his picture…

“I’ll be right out¸” I say and bolt from his bed. His really, really amazing-smelling bed.

Oh, shit. The video from the plant is still paused on my laptop…

Back in my room, nonchalance is a casualty. Legs still half asleep, I’m Bambi, stumble-bumbling for the computer.

The editing program appears to be paused in the same spot. He doesn’t mention it.

11:08 a.m.

*
Canon
: AWOL.

W
HICH
I
S
D
IFFERENT
, since he’s usually driving me up a wall.

He hasn’t bothered to check in. Which bothers me. But I don’t have the luxury of time to deal with it. I shrug it off and keep working from my hotel room.

On shrug number eleven, Canon materializes.

“You are on your own for lunch.”

This floors me. Time to myself? “When shall I meet back with you?”

“I’ll call you.” Canon seems hesitant. For a moment, I’m drawn in to the tiny crinkles near his eyes. “Our trip has been extended for a few days. Through the holiday. Take the afternoon to make arrangements.”

What? I can’t be gone more. More 24/7 with this man? I don’t have clothes or time or money or patience or ready access to happy pills to grind up into his coffee.

Or anything better to do.

He shuffles through some papers. “We will also be attending more functions with their higher-ups, so you will need additional evening wear. I can’t imagine even you foresaw that, so use the time to purchase whatever you need.”

Blinking rapidly, I try to compose myself. I’m failing miserably. Homework, recorded lectures, coffee beans, starched white shirts. Images flood my mind.

“Is there a problem?” He finally looks up at me.

Well, hell yeah, there is a freaking problem!
“I, um, I…” I say and clear my throat forcefully. “I don’t have the resources.”

“I said make arrangements, did I not?” He looks at me like maybe I’m dense.

My cheeks heat. Coming up short doesn’t sit well with me. “I mean…that is to say…There is a cash flow issue. This is, um, beyond my means.”

After a moment of monumental awkwardness, he reaches into his wallet and places a department store card near my hand. “Give them your measurements. Purchase at least one more cocktail dress.”

“You don’t have to do that. I mean, I can recycle.”

“No,” he says, waving me off. “People would notice.”

I nod, still processing all this.

“Branch out. Anything but black.”

“Very well, sir.”

From my hotel room’s desk, I watch him leave. On the other side of the door, Ms. Fralin stands, bundled up in a heavy coat.

“Alaric, darling,” she coos and ushers him out. “Finally I have you all to myself. Whatever will we do to pass the time?” The door shuts, her laughter muffled.

7:00 p.m.

*
Location
: My room.

E
VERYTHING
H
ANGS
I
N
T
HE
C
LOSET
N
OW
. The tags and receipt mock me from the desk.

I took that card earlier today in a moment of shock. Extended trip. More clothes. What appears to be his personal department store card.

The company dime can roll right in and purchase whatever I need as far as I’m concerned. It sure wasn’t my idea to go on this trip.

I really need to know if he’s being reimbursed. Otherwise the tags go back on and the clothes go back.

Ideally, anyway.

I still need to wear them, regardless.

I just don’t want to be indebted to him, to take any gifts from him.

Everything in me demands clarification of whose money I just spent. Hours of contemplating this situation has made me sure of only one thing: Ms. Baker cannot question Mr. Canon.

I’ve distracted myself satisfactorily with several school lectures, but now nothing is working.

Clara’s chirpy voice mail gets my message about the delayed return. Never have I so desperately wanted to hear her voice, even if only to interrogate me.

It wasn’t just lunch without Canon; I was on my own all day. Still am. I haven’t heard from Canon; he’s not come back. I’ve said, “Yes, sir,” to everyone and everything I’ve seen. Even the shower.

It’s like I’ve had something removed, and yet I keep feeling it. A phantom limb. A phantom pain in my ass that replaces the pain in my ass. Whatever. It’s just not the same.

Why does this bug me so? Should I check on him? He could be hurt…

I’m not fooling myself. I want to check because he may still be with her.

It’s not my business. He’s not my business. I don’t care.

Keep saying it. It might make it true.

I had a plan. This was not the plan.

Fully intent on flipping more channels, I dial him without thought.

“Canon.” His voice is a surprise in my ear. Why did I call him? What’s wrong with me?

“Yes, um,” I say and look around the room for some non-existent guidance. Nothing. “Is there anything you’d like for me to be working on?”

“Are the purchases categorized?”

All the places he could be, the things…and people…he could be doing crowd my thoughts.

“Yes, all in order. Every pencil and enough Tyvek to furnish a clean room environment all accounted for.” Word vomit. “We can only have these rooms until Tuesday.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You did make other reservations, though?”

“Yes. Three places. When you have a moment, I can go over th—”

A crash, maybe something small breaking, on his end of the line interrupts me.

“Whatever you choose will be fine…Good night, Ms. Baker.”

“Good night, Mr. Canon.”

One bath, two room service desserts, and a nightie that makes me feel beautiful don’t chase away the glumness.

I feel lonely.

I fall asleep reading a textbook.

9:22 p.m.

L
INCOLN
I
S
H
ERE
. In my room. I throw the bedspread at him.

Lincoln is unfazed by bacteria. He uses my ChapStick. He paints my toes. He licks them. He sucks them in.

I twist and claw at my mattress and beg him to stop, but he—

“Emma! You have got to wake up.”

Canon is holding me, but I feel jostled. He’s been shaking me. I gulp down air.

“Shh.” His hand smooths my hair out of my face and down my back. Pulling back, he looks at me. “I thought…oh, God, I thought you were being…and I heard you, and I could see the lights, and then and then and th—oh, my God, what the motherfuck are you wearing?”

He propels himself backward from the bed.

This is all so weird. I look down and remember the pity party that ended in donning a peach negligee with black lace inlays and fabric that makes Clara’s sheer robe look like plaid flannel.

“This? This is actually lingerie.”

I told him he would know it if I wore it. I don’t do things halfway.

“W-Why?”

Deer in headlights. Yeah, that description works here.

And just to keep things straight, I’m sporting the headlights.

Maybe we could call them blips.

I may have just set off the radar…