Twitterpated (20 page)

He gaped at me, dumbfounded by this bit of wisdom from Jessie, goddess of overtime.

Sandy moved out of the doorway to speed his exit. “Bye, Craig,” she prompted him.

“Bye,” he said grudgingly as I gathered up my purse and black peacoat.

As the elevator doors closed, I could see him loitering near my office, staring after us, probably wondering what had put such a bounce in my step. When we started down the eight floors to the building lobby, Sandy burst out laughing. “He doesn’t know you beat him?”

“Nope.”

“You’re a strong woman to resist rubbing his face in it,” she said.

“It’s not strength. It’s exhaustion. It’s too hard to keep up with his garbage,” I responded.

She studied me thoughtfully. “So you’re done with him?”

I shrugged. “Dealing with him is not part of my job description. He can be Dennis Court’s headache. So, yeah. I’m done.”

“Hallelujah!” she said. “Lunch is on me!”

I smothered a smile. “Control yourself, woman. They have a security camera in here somewhere.”

“Oh yeah? Look me in the eye and tell me it doesn’t feel amazing to deliver a better presentation
and
break out of that vicious cycle you two have had going on, all in the same morning.”

“It does feel amazing.”

“Show it, girl!” she urged me.

“Yay?” I said.

She snorted. “You’ve risen above the Craigness. Give me something worthy of that!”

Grinning, I dropped my coat and purse, threw my hands in the air and did an endzone dance, which is how the head of purchasing found me when the elevator doors dinged open on the third floor. I dropped my arms and tugged on my blazer to adjust it then folded my hands neatly in front of me. Shooting me a bewildered look, Mr. Li scooted inside the elevator, but as far from me as possible. I hedged closer to Sandy to give him more room, elbowing her in the ribs to stop her from shaking with laughter. We rode the remaining three floors down in silence, broken only by suspicious squeaks from Sandy, who was still trying not to laugh.

When the doors opened into the lobby, Mr. Li scurried out, not returning my sweet, “Have a good afternoon!”

I glared at Sandy. “Are you done?”

“Are you kidding me?” she asked. She grabbed my stuff, piled it into my arms, and dragged me toward the exit. “We’re barely getting started!”

Chapter 32

“
Y
OU’RE EVIL,”
I
COMPLAINED, PUSHING
my plate back with a groan.

“And completely unrepentant,” Sandy agreed.

The crumbs of four slices of cheesecake littered our table. When we polished off our pasta and couldn’t settle on a dessert, Sandy had declared that part of our celebration entailed getting any kind of cheesecake we wanted. Insisting we taste all four flavors I had dithered over, she’d ordered the classic New York cheesecake, the Oreo madness slice, and a piece each of the sensuous strawberry and key lime versions. The waiter’s eyebrows had shot up. He was obviously torn between earning a tip on a larger bill and saving us from ourselves, but he warned us, “Ladies, these are large slices. Perhaps you would like to share one?”

Glancing at his name tag, Sandy had purred, “Tony, don’t I look like a woman who should get exactly what I want?”

He had snapped his order pad closed with a smile. “Of course. Four pieces of cheesecake coming right up for the lovely women at table six.”

Sandy had smiled back sweetly and shooed him toward the kitchen and the cheesecake.

And now I slumped in my chair, devoid of the desire or will to move.

“Too much,” I moaned.

“No such thing,” Sandy mumbled, dazed.

“Not even four slices of cheesecake?”

A big sigh. Then, “Yes. Maybe four is two too many.”

“Too many twos.”

“Too many cheesecakes,” she muttered back.

“You ordered them,” I said in accusation.

“Because you couldn’t decide. How come you can’t be as narrow-minded about cheesecake flavors as you are about other things?”

I struggled to sit up straighter. “What am I narrow-minded about?”

“Working versus socializing, for one,” she said.

“What else?” I demanded.

“Tofu.”

“You can’t win an argument where tofu is your defense,” I said.

“Fine. Then I default back to working and socializing.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “I’ve socialized more since New Year’s than I have in months.”

“I’ll give you credit for the first three weeks. But the last two? Not so much. No Ben. No sharing Ben’s e-mails or texts or phone calls. I’m mad at you.”

“Me! Why?”

“Who am I supposed to live vicariously through if you’re blowing off Ben for work again?”

“I see. This is about you,” I said.

“Yes,” she said lazily. “Me, me, me. But I’m buying lunch today, so be nice.”

“I’m only going to be nice because I’m too full to do anything else,” I said.

We both subsided, reserving our energy for digestion.

After a while, I roused myself to speak. “I’m seeing Ben tomorrow, you know.”

She cracked an eye open and stared at me. “No, I didn’t know. I wondered if you had dumped him for Craig.”

“Ha.”

“Well, you’ve spent a lot more time focused on him than Ben lately,” she said, no apology in her tone.

“That’s true.”

Her other eye opened, and she narrowed them both at me, confused. “You’re not going to argue about that either?”

“No. You’re right. But in my defense, it’s Ben’s fault.”

“Wait. It’s Ben’s fault you’ve been spending so much time at work?”

“It’s his fault we haven’t been talking. He didn’t want me to call him until I finished this project. And the only thing I’ve heard from him is a text message wishing me good luck today.”

“That was thoughtful,” Sandy said. “So are you going to call him now?”

“I can’t.”

“Because you hate happiness? Sure you can. I’ll show you how to work your phone.”

“Very funny.” I filled her in on the Ben ultimatum. I’d intentionally neglected to tell her any of it before because I knew she’d nag me to no end, wanting to know what I would do. Sure enough, she laid into me as soon as I explained the arrangement to show up for dinner on Saturday night.

“Ben’s leaving in a month?” she asked.

“Yeah. He told me last week. His contract’s almost up, and he’s going back to Arizona.”

“He said that?”

“Pretty much. It’s not like he’s going to stay here for me.” I knew I sounded defeated.

“For a take-charge girl, Jessie, you sure are letting him call all the shots. You should shake it up,” she said.

“Like how? Not show up tomorrow?”

“No. I mean, why not go over there tonight instead? Put this back on your timetable while still meeting his terms. You’re done with your project, and you’re ready to talk. Why wait for tomorrow?”

“Because I’m
not
ready yet, for one,” I objected.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s been two weeks since you saw him. How long is it going to take you to be ready?”

“Calm down. I meant, I’m not ready to talk to him tonight. I need to think about what I want to say. I’ll be ready by dinner tomorrow.”

“But what’s to think about, Jess?” she pressed. “Are you going over there to profess your undying love or something?”

“No!”

“Then how hard do you have to think? You show up and say ‘I figured out Craig was a total time-suck, and I’m ready to date you now. I’m cutting back to forty hours. Kiss me, Ben!’” She pressed her wrist to her forehead, Scarlett O’Hara style.

“Stop it!” I begged when I caught Tony staring at her antics. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yes, it is that easy,” she insisted. “You’re making it hard.”

“This whole leaving in a month thing is tripping me out now. It changes everything.”

“How? Does it suddenly make your feelings speed up or slow down? That’s not possible. You feel what you feel. Emotions aren’t subject to time constraints.”

“That was almost profound.”

She shrugged. “I’m channeling Oprah again. Seriously, Jess. What do you feel right
now
? Because that’s what you should focus on.”

“I feel overwhelmed and insecure and confused. What’s the point of hanging out for a month if he’s going to leave?” I blew out an exasperated breath.

“Why do you need to have this planned out?” Sandy asked. “Just go over there and see where it takes you.”

“Good idea. I’ll show up at his house, knock on the door, and stand there and say nothing. I’ll stare at him, all mysterious, until he’s creeped out and slams the door.”

“Or you could let him do the talking. Hear what he has to say and trust your gut to know how to respond.”

“My gut hasn’t been so helpful in the past.”

“What past? You never depend on instinct. It’s always think, think, think with you.”

“I trusted my gut with Jason, and that was a disaster.”

“No, you didn’t trust your gut with him. Remember telling me how things seemed off when he got home from his mission, but you ignored it, thinking it would go away?”

I nodded reluctantly.

“That was your gut, and you didn’t listen. That was the mistake. Maybe you should hear Ben out and trust yourself more.”

“That’s crazy talk,” I protested, but Sandy grinned, knowing she had scored a point.

Tony wandered over, check in hand. He laid it facedown on the table and backed away. Sandy flipped it over, and I reached for my purse, but she waved me away.

“I told you, my treat.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know I’d order four slices of cheesecake.”

“You didn’t order them. I did,” she said, fishing her own wallet out of a bright orange Coach purse.

“Only because I wanted them,” I argued. “Let me pay. I can afford it.”

This elicited another grin. “I hate to burst your bubble, Jess, but I get a bigger paycheck. I’m paying.”

“What? You do not. How do you know that?” I demanded.

“I know everyone’s salary because I have to make offers to new employees, and we want to stay competitive.”

“I’m raising your rent,” I said.

“Okay, but I won’t share my closet with you.”

“Fine, I won’t raise your rent.”

“Good
. Mi armario es su armario
.”

“I thought you took French in high school. When did you learn Spanish?” I asked.

“Spanish language CDs in the car on the way to work. Life makeover and all. Oh, hey, since you’re not working crazy late hours anymore, we can carpool, and you can learn Spanish too.”

“Uh, I know Spanish.”

“Huh.” She thought for a minute. “I’d be willing to switch to Japanese.”

I squinched my nose.

“German?” she tried.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll stick to my iPod and news radio.”

“
Que lastima
.” She slapped some cash into the payment jacket and declared, “Let’s roll.”

“More like roll ourselves out of here.”

“Right. That’s what I said.”

We headed back to work and parted ways. The rest of the afternoon at work stayed blissfully uneventful. I assigned my staff to complete our project documentation and finish any leftover filing or shredding. I spent a couple of hours hammering out a support strategy with Apoor Gami, figuring out what my team needed to do to help. It would be a light rotation; Apoor was easy to work with and already had things well in hand.

By three o’clock, I had a clean desk and no crises to occupy my time, so naturally, my thoughts turned to Ben.

Sandy was right. Ben wasn’t at the root of my confusion and insecurity. I was. How many times did I have to figure this out? I had hunkered down in a bunker constructed out of work excuses and then bludgeoned him over the head with overtime to keep him away. Could I complain because I was a tactical genius at self-sabotage? And as for him leaving in a month . . .

Well. I liked him.

I mean really,
really
liked him.

I liked him more than chocolate and at least as much as ice cream. And I wanted to spend all my free time soaking up the month with him.

I was in serious trouble.

Chapter 33

W
ALKING THROUGH THE DOOR BEFORE
four o’clock on a Friday afternoon was a novel experience. On the one hand, traffic was worse when I left work early. On the other hand, I made it home hours earlier than usual, and I had nothing but time on my hands. No overstuffed work bag, no jellied Chinese takeout.

I plopped down on the sofa in satisfaction, surveying my domain, thinking for a moment. My current plan was to reveal my new worldview to Ben at dinner tomorrow, but I didn’t want to wait a whole day to finally see him again. I had the overwhelming urge to live my own movie and show up on his doorstep tonight with dinner in hand and an announcement: I was ready to redirect my extra work energy toward our relationship, to give us the time to find out if we truly had something together. I hopped up, grabbed my keys, and headed for the grocery store, determined to act spontaneously for once. By the time Sandy walked through the door at six, the rich smell of a roasting chicken wafted out to meet her.

“Whoever you are, come out from the kitchen slowly with your hands up. I’ve got pepper spray,” she called.

I poked my head around the wall. “Why would an intruder break in and make dinner?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said with exaggerated surprise. “You actually left work on time.”

“I left two hours early. I told you I wouldn’t work late.”

“And I’ve heard that before. This is the first time you’ve backed it up.”

“So you’re saying it’s going to take you awhile to accept my conversion to the forty-hour workweek?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” she agreed. “Do I remember this correctly? You’ve recognized that you did wrong. You’re going to confess and make amends to Ben. So that leaves the forsaking your long hours part. Is that what you’re doing?”

I retreated back to the kitchen. “Fine, don’t believe me,” I called. “But I’m not sharing my big dinner secret with you until you accept that I’ve changed.”

“In a day? Ha,” she scoffed. She wandered in and sniffed the air. “Besides, I gave up red meat last week, so you can have dinner all to yourself.”

“It’s roast chicken. And you’re not getting any of it anyway. It’s for Ben.”

She turned to stare at me. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. As soon as this is done, I’m packing it up and heading to Ben’s to have that talk.”

“That’s amazing!” she squealed. “I demand details as soon as you get back!”

I smiled and waved her off then headed to my room to change. What do you wear to say, “Sorry for being an idiot, but I’ve seen the light”?

It was hard to believe I hadn’t had any contact with Ben for a week. It hadn’t taken long from our first e-mail for him to stake a claim on part of each day, whether in a phone call or face to face, and I missed that. I couldn’t wait to see him. I definitely had questions and maybe even some answers for him, but mostly I looked forward to him scooping me up in one of his hugs.

After that, we could talk. He would say, “I’m totally into you and want to be with you,” and I wouldn’t fidget or blush this time.

I would say, “I want to be with you too,” and turn only a little bit red.

He would say, “I changed my mind about your work commitment. I like you so much that I don’t care when you can see me; we’ll find a way to work around your crazy hours.”

And I would say, “Thanks for being willing to support me. But I figured out that Craig was a waste of energy, and I’m ready to date you now. I’m cutting back to forty hours. Kiss me, Ben,” and Sandy would be stoked that I’d used her line, and I would ignore her gloating in favor of smooching Ben.

We might talk about what him leaving in a month meant and what might happen during and after that month, and we’d work it out. Because this was Ben, not Jason. Ben, who had been up-front with me from the beginning, who carried himself with a confidence Jason didn’t have, who knew what he wanted and asked for it. This was not a newly minted returned missionary trying to figure out what he wanted to be when he grew up, too inexperienced to know how to communicate in sticky emotional situations. And despite the number of third dates I’d turned down in the last several years, this was probably not the first guy who could handle himself like an adult in relationships; however, this was the first guy I had given that chance.

I took a leap right there in front of my closet with that decision. A leap of faith. Faith that Ben was the guy he said he was, that asking me to balance my work hours more implied a commitment to growing what had budded between us. I was about to dump a box of Miracle-Gro on that bud and watch it shoot up, blossoming in direct correlation to the excitement burbling inside me.

I discarded four outfits before throwing on a black cashmere turtleneck, some old Lucky jeans I had snagged from DownEast Outfitters in my Provo days, and my trusty Converse. I wanted to look sophisticated and trendy without looking like I had tried too hard. Even though I totally had. Ten minutes in front of the mirror took care of makeup. I could hear Sandy stirring in her room. She’d be in to inspect me and send me off on my mission but not until I glossed to her satisfaction. Swiping some fruity peach gunk over my lips did the trick. Examining my handiwork with a critical eye, I smiled and hoped Ben would like what he saw.

No one could resist peach lip gloss and my mom’s rosemary roast chicken recipe. Ben Bratton was as good as mine . . . I hoped.

The oven buzzer chimed, and I rushed to turn it off, my nerves skittering. Sandy popped back in as I tried to figure out how to transport the minifeast. Besides the chicken, I had whipped up some garlic mashed potatoes and some carrots in a honey sauce. I wanted to be at Ben’s house by six, early enough that I figured he wouldn’t have eaten dinner yet. She watched me without comment while I waffled between plastic wrap and aluminum. In a calmer state of mind, I would have remembered that you should always use foil when dealing with heat. It helped keep it in and all.

Ultimately, Sandy’s impatient, “Foil!” interjection reminded me. Like I hadn’t heard the same thing from my mom before every potluck we ever went to. But my jangling nerves interfered with normal brain function, so I just reached for the foil, thankful someone in the house was keeping her cool.

When I had dinner neatly packed and stacked, I turned to Sandy. “Am I presentable?” I asked.

“I can only speak for the top half of you. The bottom half you’re hiding behind the counter could be a polyester trouser disaster, but from what I can see—you’ve got it at least half right.”

I stepped all the way into the living room for her approval. She gestured for me to do a spin. “I probably can’t talk you into boots, can I?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Well, Converse are their own kind of classic. And with your turtleneck, the whole effect is kind of funky.”

My eyebrows snapped together.

“The good kind of funky,” she clarified.

“Oh. So I look okay?”

She nodded. “You look kinda hot. You’re like a hipster chick, but the kind that washes her hair and smells good.”

“Thanks?”

“Yeah, no problem. Nice gloss. Too bad it’ll only stay on for about two seconds once he sees you.”

I dug out the tube from my back pocket. “I’m totally prepared.”

She smiled. “I wish I were going to be there to see his face. I want a dramatic reenactment later, okay?”

“Okay, but it’ll be the G-rated version.”

“That’s the one where they cut out all the kissing,” she objected.

“If you do a load of towels, I’ll give you the PG details,” I bribed.

“If you don’t spill the PG details, I’ll revoke your lip gloss privileges,” she retorted.

“How do you always win these arguments?”

“Because I have all the cool girl stuff,” she said.

“You’re right. That’s why. I’m going to have to hit the Nordstrom cosmetics counter soon to stock up, or I’ll never have leverage over you.”

“Good luck with that. Unless you can get the mythical Smashbox George and Wheezy eye shadow duo, it’ll never happen.”

I shook my head but knew I didn’t have time to spar. This meal and talk with Ben, my favorite computer nerd, would mark a reboot for our fledgling relationship, complete with programming updates and debugging solutions to help speed things up.

Sandy helped me load my meal on wheels into my Accord and then scurried back inside to escape the chilly evening air. Wishing I had brought a jacket, I resisted the impulse to go searching for one, knowing I’d better point the car toward Ben’s house before I could change my mind.