Twitterpated (16 page)

“No, don’t go have a quarter-life crisis on me,” I teased him. “I know sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world for me to stay glued to my computer for eight hours at a time, so I’ll give you credit for that.”

“Good because I think my last construction effort was my Scout project. But I would have learned for you,” he said bravely.

I rolled my eyes in amusement. “Don’t worry about it, Ben. I don’t require my dates to have hammer skills.”

He laughed. “Lucky me.”

He turned my hand over to gently uncurl my fingers then massaged my palm, his touch light. “You’re hard to read, you know,” he said after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I mean, we hang out and have a great time, but it’s hard to get you to commit to another date or meal without bribery or coercion. And then when I think you’re totally closed off, fun and open and relaxed Jessie shows up. And I so dig her, but which one is you?”

His observation stung, even though he made it with no malice, only curiosity. Picking up words to say and throwing them away again, I wasn’t sure I had an answer. I didn’t know what I wanted to say because I didn’t know what I wanted, period.

I sighed. That wasn’t true. I did know what I wanted. Buried under the brain files of countless spreadsheets and accounting formulas lay my dream of being a wife and mother with a house full of kids and laughter. Between me and that image stretched a deep, scary gulf of doubt and uncertainty. Jason’s desertion had sent me sailing over the edge of the chasm once, and it had taken sheer grit to climb back out on the other side. I didn’t want to go there again.

Ben said nothing, only watched and waited, his face showing no impatience.

I opened my mouth, attempting to explain that I wanted balance, a tidy explanation that didn’t say much at all. Instead, my lips croaked out a barely audible, “I don’t want to fail.”

Ben leaned forward, head cocked to the side, and nodded that he’d heard me, like he was waiting for more.

There wasn’t any more. I didn’t know what else to say.

After a pregnant pause, he gave me some gentle encouragement. “You don’t want to fail at . . . what? Skydiving? Or knitting? Handball? Origami?”

I laughed in spite of myself. “I guess that wasn’t a helpful statement,” I murmured.

“Helpful? No. But fraught with tension and mystery, if that’s what you were going for,” he said.

His lightheartedness eased my confusion.

“Here’s the thing,” I began again. “That high school and college boyfriend? I’m not hung up on him at all, but thinking about that situation makes me wonder if it’s smart to put the energy into a project where I can’t control the outcome.”

“Ah, business lingo. Tell me if I’ve got this right. You don’t want to commit your emotional resources when you’re not sure about the return on your investment?”

“That’s it in a nutshell.”

“Do you know why most businesses fail?” he asked.

“Um, they’re selling something crappy?”

“No. Their growth outpaces their capital.” He sat back, pleased.

True. Most start-up companies fall apart because they don’t plan for growth, and they can’t keep up with the demand for whatever they’re selling. But I didn’t understand the relationship metaphor.

“My job is to make sure a business spends wisely and within limits so they don’t go broke,” I hedged.

“That’s an established business. I’m on the entrepreneur side, and I can tell you that if you start a business without risking some of your assets, you’ll never be able to grow it fast enough to succeed. You’ve got to invest the time and money for it to get off the ground, or it’s doomed to fail from the start.”

The metaphor cleared up. “So you’re saying I should drop everything and spend all my time with you so I can see where this goes? My inner accountant is whimpering in a corner somewhere.”

Ben laughed. “No. I’m suggesting you take a small risk and see if it pays a dividend.”

“What kind of risk?” I asked.

“How about instead of me visiting you for a dinner break on Wednesday, we turn it into a date, one where we spend the whole evening together.”

“A whole Wednesday night? You’re asking me for a pretty sizable investment,” I said.

“I’m convinced there’s a huge payoff,” he said, shrugging.

“You’re going to see me most of the evening tomorrow after church. Aren’t you worried about burnout?”

He mimicked my posture, resting his chin on his hand and leaning forward until his nose nearly touched mine over the table.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.” And he stole a quick kiss. “What do you say, Jessie?” he asked. “Are we in business?”

Chapter 26

M
ONDAY CAME TOO EARLY AGAIN.
I went through the morning ritual of slapping the alarm clock silly before I rolled out of bed on the third snooze. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and cringed when my stomach muscles protested. Evidently, laughing for three hours straight with Ben last night would replace my ab workout today.

I stumbled to the bathroom and groped for a toothbrush, eyeballing it through puffy lids to make sure I held my own trusty Oral-B and not Sandy’s pink-handled glitter monstrosity. She insisted that kids’ toothbrushes offered a much better selection.

The fresh tang of minty toothpaste, followed by a splash of cool water on my face, dispelled any lingering grogginess, and by the time I rubbed in my moisturizer, I felt ready to face the day. I knew it would be a long one, but I intended to make it as productive as possible.

I fished a charcoal gray wool suit out of the closet and then, feeling like I was imitating Ben’s outfit from our Saturday night date, discarded it in favor of a navy one. I pulled on a pink button down to soften the severity, wondering why I cared. It’s not like my suit would be the main event at our morning staff meeting anyway. I recalled the lyrics to an old Smiths song. “I wear black on the outside ’cause black is how I feel on the inside.” My borderline frumpy suit reflected my attitude toward work pretty accurately today.

Sandy popped her head in. “Do you still have my boots?” When she saw my outfit, she stepped farther in. “A
navy
suit, Jess? Really? You must not be seeing Ben today.”

I picked up her boots and handed them to her. “Out.”

She hugged the boots to her chest. “I’m just saying, you’ve been doing so well with your outfits lately. That suit is a regression.”

I sighed. She’d been using lots of therapy-ish, self-improvement terms since starting her life makeover. “This suit means business. That’s why it’s called a business suit.”

“That suit means sad. Seriously, we need to take you shopping. Your closet needs to
suit
you better.” I groaned at the pun, but she shot me a mischievous grin and continued. “You are growing out of the navy suit phase of your life. Think about it,” she called over her shoulder as she headed back to her room.

Sandy always dressed to her mood. The better her day, the brighter her outfit. Lately, she’d been favoring muted olive greens and subdued browns. They were still terminally chic outfits, but they must have come out of the introspective part of her closet. I imagined a closet with the clothes organized by mood, and I smiled. Mine would have three sides of boring work colors, all very proper. But I’d have to keep a space free for a new section, one with vibrant colors and whimsical styles, or else what would I wear when I saw Ben?

Last night I’d worn a caramel colored corduroy skirt with a sage green merino wool turtleneck and Sandy’s BCBG boots, which I had tugged off as soon as Ben and I returned from the fireside I’d dragged him to. Well, I guess I didn’t drag him. He went as my willing guest for the CES broadcast at the stake center. The talk was titled “When Weak Things Become Strong” and focused on Ether 12:27. My dad had quoted that to me all the time during my school days when I overextended myself and collapsed in a stress puddle. I could still hear his patient voice saying, “If they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.” I liked sitting in the darkened chapel, listening, my hand in Ben’s.

Since our ward showed the broadcast live, it ended at six, and I maneuvered us away from the mingling singles and back to my place for dinner. I had stuck a pot roast in the slow-cooker after lunch, the perfect dinner for a cold Sunday evening. It’s so hard to screw up a slow-cooker meal, it almost felt like cheating. Of course, I wouldn’t mention that to Sandy any time soon. She’d managed to scorch a turkey breast earlier in the week when she forgot to add water and left it on high for eight hours. The aroma of Sunday roast had enticed her from her room, and she’d joined us for dinner.

I could blame her for my aching side muscles this morning after her epic story about her first foray into indoor rock climbing. Ben had to beg her to stop so he could breathe. Then he’d set us off again with a tale about a camping trip with his brothers gone horribly wrong, and it got worse from there.

Standing in my unglamorous round-toe beige pumps and smiling at the memory, I concluded that the “Time with Ben” section of my closet should be filled with spangled neon if my outfits reflected my mood every time I was with him. With a sigh, I shut the door and gathered up my work stuff before trudging off toward the Macrosystems battle with Craig.

* * *

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

After the last whack of my forehead against my desk, I rested it there and gave into my exhaustion for a moment.

“If you get a concussion, you can’t file for workman’s comp because I’m a witness it was self-inflicted,” Sandy said from the doorway.

“Wrong. This is one hundred percent Craig-related,” I retorted.

“Ah, good old Craig. The rash that never stops itching.” Her lips twitched in amusement as she wandered into my office.

“It’s dark,” I said. “Why are you here?”

“It’s January. It gets dark at four o’clock.”

“Right. That’s my point. Why are you here? Don’t you have a fake rock wall to climb?”

“Nope. Tonight’s hot yoga. It doesn’t start until seven.”

I almost demanded an explanation of hot yoga then shut my mouth and thought better of it. She dropped a paper bag on my desk with a thunk slightly less noisy than the one my head had made.

I eyed it suspiciously. “What’s this? Because I’m telling you now if it involves sprouts, I’m not touching it.”

“Relax. It’s only marginally healthy. I found a new deli, so I grabbed you a sandwich. Sprout free.”

I poked it. It didn’t move.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a turkey club, but I swapped the regular bacon for the turkey kind and had them use low-fat mayo.”

It sounded retch-worthy, but I decided to choke down a couple bites so I didn’t hurt her feelings. I reached in and grabbed the wax-wrapped sandwich inside, along with a fistful of napkins. Nothing else fell out. I turned it upside down and shook to make sure. “Chips?” I asked, hopefully.

“Of course.” Sandy reached into her own bag and tossed me something.

I picked up the package distressingly free of Frito-Lay colors and examined it. “Veggie crisps?” It emerged as more of a whimper.

“I’m not enabling your fried potato addiction. Just be glad I’m not force feeding you goji berries.”

“You were a lot less scary when you only ate
mostly
healthy. I think a lack of real food is making you cranky,” I said.

“I’m not cranky. I’m centered. And I eat real food.”

Eyeing her dinner, I had my doubts. She had unwrapped a sandwich that appeared to be filled entirely with vegetables. No meat. Bizarre.

“Seriously, why are you still here? You’re always gone by five,” I said, returning to my original question.

“It’s part of the life makeover. I’m rededicating myself to work.”

“Yeah, but you’re in
human
resources, and we’re some of the only humans left in the building. What is there for you to do?”

She shrugged. “I have no idea. You find stuff to do when you stay late, so I thought I’d give it a shot. Is accounting so much harder that it legitimately keeps you busy a billion hours a week?”

“Not a billion. Maybe a hundred million.”

That garnered another eye roll.

I laughed. “It’s not hard to keep up. It’s getting ahead that’s the trick.”

“You mean, get ahead like ‘welcome to the rat race and may I slit your throat’ get ahead?”

“No, I mean, ‘Craig is one of many breathing down my neck, so I like a little distance because hot breath on my neck feels weird’ get ahead.”

She snorted. “Believe it or not, there are plenty of women who would enjoy closer proximity to Craig.”

“If there are women who want men with bigger salon bills than them, I believe it.”

“It’s true. Remember, HR is an acronym for Hilarious Rumors. He is a wanted man.”

“Ew.”

“It takes all kinds,” she mumbled around a mouthful of bread. “What did he do this time?”

“He’s being extra helpful,” I complained.

“The problem is . . .”

“I just don’t buy it,” I said. “Craig does only what gets him a step ahead. Helping me scores him minor points in the team player ratings, but it’s not the kind of glory move he normally makes. If he’s going out of his way to help, it’s because he has something else up his sleeve. It’s bugging me,” I concluded.

“But I thought Dennis specifically assigned Craig’s team to help you.”

“Yeah. I’m telling you, I don’t like it. He sends Brad over at least twice a day with something for my team.”

“How dare he do something thoughtful? You want to file an official complaint? I can draft it for you right now:
Jessie Taylor alleges Craig the Snitch is going out of his way to be helpful and a team player.
We have to nip this kind of behavior in the bud. What if he starts being genuine? No, ma’am. I’ll fast track your complaint in my office tomorrow morning.”

“Should I throw my veggie crisps or my sandwich at you?” I asked.

“Neither. The sandwich will fall apart, and the veggie crisps are too light. But I can duck faster than you can throw, so don’t bother looking for anything else either,” she said.

“Come to think of it though, I do want to file a complaint,” I said. “Against you. For creating a hostile work environment.”

“You’re the one threatening to throw stuff,” she pointed out.

“Oh yeah. Can I accuse you of anything that will stick?” I asked.

“Nope. I know how to hide my trail,” she answered.

“All right. I tried my best, but if you aren’t going to write up Craig or yourself, I don’t have any ideas for what you should work on this evening,” I said. “I’m going to sit here for another five minutes and think about what Craig is up to while I digest my sandwich, and then I’m wading through more time sheets. Want to join me?”

“About as much as I want a poke in the eye from a sharp stick.” She grimaced. She pushed out of her chair and gathered her wrappers from my desk. When she got to the door, she turned and said, “I’m calling it a night. It’s too spooky in here after hours.” She studied me for a second. “Look, I’m going to tell you something off the record. One of our HR admins, Lisa, has been spending time with Craig. She let it slip to him that he’s been ruffling more than your feathers around here with his attitude lately and he might want to think about how he comes across. I guess he took it to heart because he’s been playing nice with everyone since. It might not be sincere, but I think he’s smart enough to kiss up, so maybe you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Take it for what it is and be glad he’s off your back, you know?”

“Sure.” I smiled. “He hasn’t attempted any sabotage in almost a week. It’s a new record, so maybe you’re right.”

“I’m definitely right. You say that like it never happens.”

“I guess there was that
one
time . . .”

She snorted and headed down the hall.

I took a bite of my sandwich, chewing carefully. The turkey bacon had a strange plastic taste. Or maybe that was the low-fat mayo. Wrinkling my nose, I set the turkey club aside and decided to fire up another Lean Cuisine in the microwave later.

I considered Sandy’s tip. It would be a novel feeling to let Craig do his team player routine without having to worry about his ulterior motives. If he only wanted to improve his likeability quotient, there probably wasn’t anything to worry about.

Probably.

When it came right down to it, I’d much rather do my job, minus the Craig distraction. If he was trying to improve his image, I could definitely count on him to become the Happy Little Office Elf to resolve his interoffice PR problem. Choosing to trust Sandy’s information, I gave my full attention to the time sheets looming in my “in” basket, even tapping the part of my brain I reserved for keeping an eye on Craig.

Heaven knew I needed some priority changes myself. I shrugged it off and reached for my keyboard. Might as well tackle the problems I could do something about. I sank into the numbers blinking from my monitor.