The Plan (28 page)

Day of Employment: 372…381…maybe 495…something. They all run together.

2:00 a.m.

*
Champagne
: I’m covered in it.

*
Petals
: Litter my entire room.

*
Balcony Door
: Open.

*
Room
: Effing freezing.

*
Nipples
: Probably hard enough to puncture this silk camisole.

*
My Heart
: Who the hell knows at this point?

T
HE
C
URTAINS
F
LUTTER
O
PEN
. It’s not the breeze. It’s him. He steps into the room, watching his own feet move.

He barely resembles the man who makes grown men cry, who barters lives and livelihoods like wares at a flea market, who I have fantasized about for over a year.

His hair is slick and dark and drips champagne. A single, thick lock escapes, flipping forward as he rakes his fingers through it. His gaze never leaves the floor.

“Just tell me why,” he whispers, barely audible over the street below.

Every instinct in me screams to run to him, to wrap my hands around him, to lose myself in his touch…in him.

But I would do just that. Lose myself.

It’s all been make-believe.

“You don’t know me,” I say as softly as I can, as if for the first time I consider that I need to be soft, that he might actually be breakable.

His head snaps up, and his eyes—oh, God, his eyes!—they swim, an unfocused torment swirling in their depths.

“How can you say that? After all…after everything?”

“This is not me. I’m not what you think I am.”

“You are everything I want.” He moves to me. I move twice as far away.

“Alaric, I’m not who you think I am. I’m a liar. And I can’t be what you want.”

“Liar?”

“Yes.”

“You have lied to me…”

“Yes.”

“Lied…”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” I would like to run my hands through my hair right about now—seems to be the thing to do in these instances—but the ol’ hands are otherwise engaged in a rumba-like series of gestures about my head. Or maybe I’m knitting a caftan. “Yes. Lies. All lies.”

“What is it you think you have lied to me about?”

“Think?” Frustrating! As if I don’t even comprehend when I’m not telling the truth…which may actually be a fair assessment given my conduct of late…but I’m not feeling generous enough to not be mad at him for thinking as much. My hands find their way to my soaked hair this time, threaten to uproot it…until I realize this maneuver has pulled the sodden camisole tight across my breasts. Nothing left to the imagination.

They are practically staring at him. He hasn’t noticed. I may be insulted.

“I don’t
think
I have…never mind.” Like weights, my hands drop. “These are lies.” I point to the bland clothes I’d been packing until I heard him at the door. He had gone straight to the balcony. I suppose he was giving me space.

“This.” I find a broken crescent of a button and hold it between my fingers. “I broke this lying. I don’t get aggressive in bed.”

He doesn’t hide his surprise at these particular words.

“I have pretended to be the sort of person who will hold my tongue. Who will follow, and take orders, and keep her opinions to herself, and play nice—far nicer than the people we’re dealing with deserve. I have made it so I can’t be taken seriously.”

“That is not lying,” he says. “That is deception. An attempt to deceive.”

“They’re practically synonymous.”

“For someone so together and determined, you certainly are being obtuse.” He rests against the wall. “Emma, that is the only thing you didn’t do perfectly. You did not deceive me.”

He moves. Just a step. Then turns only his eyes in my direction. “Considering I have been nothing but forthright about my intentions, my affections…at the very least, you might trouble yourself to explain your decision.”

“Explain…my…decision?” I ask, each word slower than the one before.

His agitation grows exponentially with each syllable. He is closer now. I don’t know when he moved.

He searches my face for something. It is not there.

“You know…you must know how I feel about you.” His words barely carry.

I nod. Yes. Yes, I know. Pretty sure anyway. I know how he feels because it is in every touch, in every look, in each breath and moment together and every ache when apart. I know it. I know it because whatever I feel leaving him, coming from him, it affects me in the same way or more.

“Answer. Me.”

There is a broken thread in the comforter. Just a few pulled stitches, a tiny frayed bit at the end. That is my focus.

This is so much more than I was prepared for. I just wanted him to notice me. I still want it. I want it all. But I have made him fall in love with someone else. Made him want someone else. Someone who doesn’t exist.

“Everything about me is a façade,” I begin, and he starts to say something but, as it seems there is little point in pretending any longer, I talk right over the top of him. “I do not take orders, I give them. I’d never even brewed a proper cup of coffee before this trip. My hair is curly. My clothes are colorful. I have been neglecting the things I need to do for myself—the things I need to do to improve my life—for this trip. Contrary…” I laugh dryly at my word choice; he has rubbed off on me. “Despite what it seems, I do not generally shove men around or rip their clothes or…”

I stop again. Straighten. Deep breath.

“None of that really matters.” I stand firm. “What matters is that today, when I needed to be myself, when you were on the verge of closing a big deal and making an even bigger mistake, I played my role. I sat quietly next to some flowers. Earlier, I didn’t insist you speak with me before we got to the point of closure. I played my role, and now you’re going to get hurt because I was so busy pretending to be this person that I’m not that I couldn’t even step up.”

“You think I have misjudged all that’s been happening.” He finally pushes wet hair out of his eyes.

“You have misjudged their practices. I have mislead you about me.”

“So this is what you think,” he says.

What I think is that I’m crying now. The room is blurry, and my cheeks are wet. “Please know…you are the last person—” I choke out, then sniff in a wholly unappealing way. “You are the last person I would have wanted to hurt.”

He’s quiet for a moment. I’m still fixated on the now very fuzzy thread.

“Why is that?”

He’s going to make me admit it, label it. I knew since he stepped into the room. I knew since he first looked up at me from beneath those wet bangs. I dared to hope differently, but it is going to happen. Canon always closes.

My words are less than whispers: “Because…really…because I really, truly care for you.”

He kisses me. Fierce and free. I rejoice in it. Memorize it.

Possessive and promising. I revel in it. And break it.

He looks unbelievably happy. Like there really is a tree and lights and that train set he always wanted but never got. Like someone knew what he wanted, exactly what he wanted, and gave it to him.

Then they took it away.

“Alaric,” I say. “You don’t really care about
me
.”

He shakes his head, his laugh sounding like relief, and pulls me in. I’m greedy; I take this last hug.

“Don’t attempt to tell me how I feel.” His hands run along my arms, warming me.

“You care about a lie. I am a lie.”

Pulling back, he runs a hand through my wet hair. Then steps away. Business mode.

“Ms. Baker, it’s time for your review.”

“Um, Al—sir, I tendered my resignation.”

“Fine. Exit interview. Suit yourself.” He waves a hand toward the bed, and I sit in spite of myself.

“As I was saying, Ms. Baker, we need to discuss the matter of your employment.”

“Yes, that is what you said.” And welcome to the weirdest break-up ever for a couple that never actually was.

Exaggerating each move slightly, he begins to pace the room with his hands behind his back.

“You did not apply for the PA position, correct?” Alaric asks, and I nod, taken aback by this question, but then I tell myself that he would probably do a check on any new assistant.

“Your primary reason for tendering your resignation?”

“Inability to perform my job effectively.” I fidget. He continues to pace. “Also…impact on my personal life.”

“Impacted—adversely or positively?”

“Um…just impacted. I have too many obligations…I don’t have room fo—”

He cuts me off. “Were you given a poor performance review by your supervisor?”

“Well, no.”

“Wouldn’t your supervisor be the one to determine whether or not your job was performed satisfactorily?”

He stops in front of me, eyes bearing down, hands still behind his back.

I do my best to level my puffy eyes at his from my place on the mattress. “Failing to prevent a problem by sitting idly by is the same as creating the problem. I am guilty by omission.”

“You put a great deal of stock in your ability to influence.” He resumes his movements, slower this time. “Do you think so little of your supervisor? That he is incompetent at evaluating information? Unable to take precautionary measures? That he doesn’t know exactly what his assistant is working on at all times?”

“No!” This is not what I meant at all. Does he mean…? Could he have…? “Did you alter the contract last night?”

He pivots and looks over his shoulder. “I’m not at liberty to discuss these matters with non-employees.”

Oh, fine. Play that way.
My arms fold across my chest.

“Did you receive a raise in the past year?”

“No.”

“No, you say. But you seem to have had an outside source of income,” he says and touches his chin.

I feel my head pull back. I’m not sure where he’s going with this line of questioning.

“During your time with us, would you say that you were a dedicated employee?”

I nod. He must not conduct very many exit interviews.

“Consider your answer carefully, Ms. Baker.”

“Alaric, I don’t want to play this game any more.” I start to stand. He stops short in front of me.

“Fair enough,” he says. “No games.”

I start to stand, but now he’s directly in front of me.

“I know you. Don’t tell me I don’t.” Serious. He looks dead serious. “Your name is Emma Jacklyn Baker. You attended OU for undergrad and had a three-point-nine-eight GPA. You retook chemistry only to improve your grade. You have worked for our company for—” Alaric looks at his watch, pauses for effect “—three hundred and eighty-five days. You took your current position as a favor to your supervisor, Rebecca, who is also the only person whom you have told of your return to school.” He puts his hands in his pockets and leans back on the dresser.

I think I’m still blinking.

“You have a generous scholarship and will graduate with a juris doctorate next spring. You love movie theater popcorn, but hate microwave. You like Pepsi, prefer Coke, and never, ever RC. Your favorite sweater is electric blue; you wear it at least once every two weeks in cool weather. Since the day you started, there has been a woefully under-watered cactus on your desk. You have won approximately one thousand eight hundred and twenty-two dollars in the office’s personal assistant betting pools. It appears you purchased taupe suede pumps with the latest winnings. You wore them for the first time on the day you came to my office, the day you took this job, the day we officially met.”

Somewhere between 3-4:00 a.m.

S
AME
B
AT
-T
IME
. S
AME
B
AT
-CHANNEL.

In that moment, I knew the truth of what I would dared dream about. I couldn’t deny it.

Alaric cared about me. The real me. Deeply.

What is this uncomfortable, foreign feeling unfurling in my chest? Logically, I should be rejoicing…but disbelief and confusion still hold court. He has been fully aware of me and my persona from the get-go. Everything from frizzy follicles to sarcastic retorts, he has known that tame was not the norm.

And he had noticed me. All along, he had noticed
me
.