Twitterpated (9 page)

He paused with his other hand on the doorknob and faced me. I struggled to keep any anxiety out of my expression. I don’t know what he saw in my face, but he slowly pulled me in for a long hug and then leaned back enough to plant a soft kiss on my forehead. After murmuring a thank you, he slipped out the door, and I found myself for the second time leaning against it and smiling.

Chapter 14

M
ONDAY MORNING DAWNED FAR TOO
early. I glared at my clock through a slitted eye, watching it glare 6:33 back at me. I hated setting my alarm for even numbers, like 6:30. My microwave cook times too. It was about the most rebellious thing I ever did. The blinking number changed to 6:34. That meant I’d had about five hours of sleep. I needed more than that to deal with a whole week of Craig and payroll drama. I smacked the snooze button and flopped onto my back, drifting into a daydream about last night.

The grating noise of my alarm’s buzzer broke into my reverie as the snooze time expired. I gave the reset button a last, irritated smack and took a moment to stretch in the warm afterglow of my Sunday night memory. I almost had myself talked into emerging from my cozy down comforter when Sandy tapped on the door and poked her head in.

“So, do I get ice cream?” she wanted to know.

I thought about it for a minute and said, “Maybe frozen yogurt.”

“You didn’t get a real deal kiss? But I wanted ice cream!”

“Sorry for not taking your needs into consideration. Maybe I could call Ben to come over and set it right.”

“Great idea. But you can call him later. I don’t need ice cream until tonight.” And she shut the door behind her before I could muster a comeback. Instead, I shook my head and hauled myself out of bed.

It looked like the only thing that would salvage this Monday was dwelling on Sunday, so I did. My good date buzz lasted until I walked into my office to find Craig already waiting by my door.

He looked like he’d stepped straight out of
GQ
in his perfectly creased pants and hot pink tie. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, which annoyed me in the way bleached-toothed, spray-tanned people sometimes do. Why couldn’t pasty white be the standard? High-maintenance people like Craig make me feel lazy. And pale.

He smiled as I walked up.

I squelched a flare of irritation and smiled back. I couldn’t make him less of a jerk, but I could be less of one.

“Getting an early start?” I asked, proud of myself for sounding like I cared.

“Something like that. I’m glad you’re finally here. I have some numbers to go over with you,” he said.

He made it sound like I had rolled in late when, in fact, I’d made it five minutes early.

“Great,” I said. “It’s good your team has decided to be productive.” I wasn’t picking this fight, but I wasn’t running either.

His smile widened. “We’re going to do whatever we can.”

Lucky us. He laid out spreadsheets on my desktop, papering the whole thing in payroll numbers before I could even put my handbag away. He sat in the extra office chair, drumming his fingers on its arms, his posture reeking of annoyance. Good, then. Time to ratchet it up. Instead of taking my own chair, I walked around to stand alongside him and gain a height advantage with all five feet, eight inches I could muster. He couldn’t get back to his feet without conceding that he had made a tactical error by sitting in the first place. Score one for me already.

He plastered another smile on his face and nodded to the paperwork. “I crunched some more numbers,” he began. He dove into a technical discourse designed to intimidate me. Ha. I kept up and threw in a few questions where he skimmed too lightly, but uneasiness had settled over me like a sticky blanket by the time I escorted him out of the office with a word of thanks for his work. It might have been a major tactical error to work only Friday night instead of through the whole weekend like usual. Craig had obviously spent hours of his weekend running projections.

Even though it was technically my project, I understood his motivation. Every team got called in to support another one now and then when the scope of a project grew too big for one group to handle. Getting called in to play backup too many times posed a problem. It implied that management lacked faith in that team’s ability to take the lead. Craig wanted to make sure he wasn’t called in as support again for a long time by attempting to outproduce the lead team. I was sure in Craig’s dreams, Dennis Court would call us both in and flip the team assignments.

But that was only in his dreams.

In reality, my own team had been so effective in our support role under my old boss that I had earned my promotion, and I didn’t want to rest on it. I’d learned that lesson at my grandfather’s knee, puttering in his garden with him during one of my dad’s summer school breaks. Grandpa Ray had been carefully tamping the rich Georgia soil of his garden down around a tomato seedling as he explained the steps to ensuring a healthy harvest. He had finished his lesson with a final pat to the soil and the summary, “It has to grow or die, Jessie. Those are a garden’s only two choices.”

Grow or die
. The distillation of the principle of work, something our family embraced. That was Grandpa’s real lesson. Grow or die. We were put here to do our own unique job, and if we didn’t, we would shrivel, even if only inside. So no one in our family shirked—ever. Especially not me, Jessie “All-Or-Nothing” Taylor.

Time to refocus. If I worked for a couple extra hours every evening this week, I could be four days ahead of the projected deadline. Balance would come from logging all the overtime before Friday so I had no demands on my weekend time and I could see Ben without my work suffering. Two birds, one stone, and good aim could make it happen.

Moderation. Sandy would be proud. I pushed Ben and the associated stomach flip-flops out of my mind and turned back to my work. Time to hunker down.

* * *

I worked like a madwoman for the rest of the day, even skipping lunch. I avoided checking my personal e-mail on the off chance Ben had sent me a message, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist reading and responding if he had. My cell phone stayed off too.

By seven o’clock, I had made the smallest dent in my work, but it was a dent. Taking the first deep breath of the day, I rubbed the knots in my neck and surveyed my computer screen one last time. Every box on my task list showed a neat check in it. Time for a reward. I savored the moment of anticipation before I opened my e-mail, curious about what Ben would have to say after our Sunday evening.

I clicked on the inbox and found out.

Nothing.

He must have had nothing to say because I didn’t have anything from him waiting for me. I heard from my Internet provider, a vitamin company, an online bookseller, IKEA, and two of my sisters. But not Ben.

Before I allowed myself to spiral into self-pity, I checked my cell phone, powering it on and trying to mind meld with it so I didn’t have to wait through the interminable boot up. A text message chirp greeted me when it connected to the network. Ben!

Hi, Jess
. Using my nickname? Good sign.
I had a great time last night.

The text had come in three hours ago, so I didn’t waste time, typing back,
I had a good time too
.

His response came right away.
You’re
easy to talk to. I had fun
.

Ditto
. Okay, that’s maybe a cop out, but I didn’t want to get all slobbery on him.

Air hockey tonight at FHE. You in?

To be fair, I actually debated with myself before saying no. But in the end, pragmatism won. By a narrow margin, but it won. Instead of the
Yes!!!!
I wanted to send, I texted,
Can’t. Am drowning in work. Rain check?

Definitely
, he sent back.

I tucked my phone away with a sigh. Had being responsible always been so boring?

Chapter 15

“
Y
OU’VE LOST FOCUS,”
S
ANDY CHASTISED
me an hour later. “I feel like this is the umpteenth time I’ve had this conversation with you. Why are you so determined to become a lonely workaholic?”

“Is umpteen before a gajillion or closer to a bazillion?” I asked.

“Stop avoiding the question. I can’t believe you turned Ben down. He’s going to think you didn’t have fun last night or that you don’t like him or something.”

“I doubt guys invest much thought in it,” I answered. “And I told him I had fun last night. He knows.”

“Couldn’t you have at least called to turn him down?”

“No way. I get all distracted and off-task when I talk to him.”

“That’s fantastic. You should do more of that,” she said.

“No! I don’t want to get behind at work again. Craig had a field day in our meeting this morning because he almost caught up. If he gets ahead and Dennis hands him the project, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“If we had this conversation when I first moved in with you, I would have believed you were supercompetitive or ambitious or something. But now I know better. This isn’t about your career or even one-upmanship. This is about you being a mess.” She shook her head to illustrate how hopeless she found me.

“I’m not a mess. I know exactly what I want and how to get it,” I said.

“Really? And what’s that?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but no response came out.

Sandy watched me for a minute and then hammered home her point. “I know this is none of my business, but I’m the only eyewitness to how hard you’re pushing yourself, and I guess that makes me the only one who can say anything.” She sat down on the sofa next to me and turned to look me in the eye. “You are a cool chick, Jessie. You’re doing awesome at work because you’ve got a lot of natural talent and an insane work ethic, but I don’t think you’re happy. You’re comfortable, and that’s different. Maybe it’s even bad because you’re missing out on stuff.”

I dropped my gaze. I hated being transparent.

“I know you’ve done some dating on and off since you moved here, but you haven’t tried to find a relationship. You go out on dates because you think you’re supposed to, and you start looking for reasons not to go out again as soon as you get home. That’s backwards, don’t you think?”

I looked up and sighed. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“You’re a great friend. You’ve done some thoughtful things for me. You come back from visits with your nieces and nephews relaxed and happy. And with Ben, you’ve shown pretty much the first ounces of spontaneity I’ve seen from you. Work never does any of that for you, so it makes me wonder why you try to make it everything.”

“I don’t know. It’s easier.”

“Can we have an Oprah moment?” she asked.

“Are we going to have one anyway if I say no?”

“Yes. So what about this for a theory? You are addicted to forward motion, and you like to be able to measure it.”

I nodded in agreement. True.

“Work is an easy place to do that,” she continued, “because they give you a pay raise or a new office or whatever when you’ve shown enough progress.”

I nodded again. It was that whole grow-or-die approach to living.

“And you don’t even care much about Craig except when he gets in the way of your forward motion, right?”

“He tries to,” I muttered.

“You invest more time in worrying about him and your job than you do about the relationship you have growing right under your nose, one you are desperately trying to sabotage.”

“I am not!” I protested. “I’m keeping the pace slow and steady. You can’t call three dates a relationship.”

“You can when your previous record is two dates.”

Fair point.

“Why stall here when you charge full steam ahead with everything else? Remember when they called you to be a Primary teacher?”

I had put together flannel board kits and graphic organizers for the next six months of lessons before I taught my first class. I flushed.

Sandy studied me for a moment, trying to marshal her arguments, I’d bet. She fired her final accusation at me.

“The Jason thing messes with your head because you did everything you were supposed to do, and it didn’t work. I think you’ve avoided ever trying again because you don’t know what to change to make it work the next time. But I have an answer for you,” she said.

“Really? Is this the Oprah moment?”

She ignored that and said, “The only thing that needed to change with Jason was Jason. Not you. Just because that relationship failed doesn’t mean you did. I’ve seen you when stuff goes wrong at work. If something knocks you back, you’re up and at it again, finding a different solution. But in your personal life . . . you’re treading water, Jessie. You’re not getting anywhere. Isn’t that the worst thing possible in your type-A mindset?”

“You’re acting like I haven’t put any effort into my social life at all. You saw all the dates I went on before it got down to scary middle-aged men and other walking social disasters.”

“Yeah, but I also saw you shut down a couple of potential candidates for stupid reasons. Like that Dave guy. How come you never went out with him again?”

“Because he was on a break from his girlfriend and still totally hung up on her. That’s not my fault.”

She shook her head. “Excuses, Jessie. You’ll have one for any example I give you.”

Her analysis made me cranky. I knew she wanted to help, but it wasn’t fun to sit and listen while someone dismantled my entire coping mechanism, as if suddenly doing things differently were a no-brainer. Time to dish back her own medicine.

“Fine. I’m stagnant.” I held up a finger to stop her when she opened her mouth. “My turn. I’m stagnant and an overachieving workaholic. I’ve got problems. But I’m working on them.” When she narrowed her eyes, I shrugged. “It’s true. Going out with Ben at all was a change of pace for me. Going out with him more than twice is a record. And I plan to go out with him again. But I’m not going to drop everything to build my whole future around him because I have to live in the right now. Right now is where I’ve got a territory war going on at work and not a lot of time to date.”

“How is working all the time a change of pace?” she demanded.

“I’m not going to work all the time. I’ll scale it back to fit Ben in where I can. That’s more than I’ve ever done in the past,” I challenged her.

“It is, but ask yourself if it’s enough. If you were into someone who kept turning down your invitations but who acted like he liked you every fifth time you talked or hung out, how long would it take for you to lose interest? You’re going to confuse him.”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s confusing. You are,” I said. Here came her medicine. “Let’s talk about your love life. You say you believe in the values you learned as a teenager, but you don’t go to church. You don’t date anyone from church. In fact, the only ones you kiss are the ones you meet at parties or in clubs, the ones who don’t share the same values as you. You tell me to get it together for Ben, but you haven’t been in a relationship the whole time I’ve known you. And friends with benefits don’t count!” I preempted her.

“Are you done?” she asked without any inflection.

“Yeah, sure,” I answered.

“Not everyone who quits going to church does it because they want to become hedonists, Jessie. I can be a good person without stepping foot in a chapel or a bishop’s office. And I can have good values without having a testimony. It’s narrow-minded not to see that. You’re lucky you didn’t grow up with a crackpot mother and her religion-of-the-month or a parade of stepfathers. But I did, and it colors things for me. There are a whole lot of shades of gray in this gospel, and I’m not comfortable with that. I can’t be there every Sunday pretending I am. I do my best to be a good person without tying up three hours of my weekend beating my brains out over questions that don’t have answers. Maybe I do run around kissing cute guys who aren’t LDS, but they aren’t bad people either. A lot of them are more respectful of my standards than some of the Mormon boys I’ve put up with. So don’t judge what you don’t understand.”

“I’m just saying I’m not the only one around here who could use some fixing.”

Her expression tightened. “Whatever, Jessie. You’re right. You’ve got everything working fine. I’m going to bed.”

I watched her storm to her bedroom and slam the door behind her.

And I let her go, smarting over her analysis.

* * *

An hour later, I still sat on the sofa, studying the patch of carpet immediately in front of me. What a royal screwup. I’d hurt Sandy when she only wanted to help, and I didn’t know how to make it right. For all our bickering, we’d never been truly upset with each other before. It stunk.

I decided to grovel for forgiveness. Pushing myself up despite the heaviness in my stomach that tried to drag me back down, I squared my shoulders and headed down the hall.

I tapped on her door, not sure she would talk to me, then poked my head into her darkened room. “I’m sorry, Sandy,” I said softly. “I never meant to imply that I think you’re a bad person. I just think you’d have better luck at church finding someone who understands how you’re trying to live.” She sat up on her bed and switched her lamp on. I could see a flicker of hurt lurking in her eyes. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” I continued. “It’s not fun to look at myself and realize no matter how hard I work, I’ve got places in my life where I’m standing still, so I lashed out. I swear I’m not judging you. I know you have good values, and it makes me sad that you meet guys who don’t know how to appreciate them.”

“Even Latter-day Saint guys can forget the
Saint
part of their name,” she said.

“I know. I just have a hard time believing you don’t have a testimony when you work so hard to keep your standards high. Is it such a leap to go to church?”

“In three years, this is the first time we’ve ever talked about why I don’t go to church,” she pointed out. “Why now?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe I’m paying you back for pointing out some of my unresolved baggage by pointing out a little of your own. I guess that isn’t nice.”

“It’s okay. But your baggage is a carry-on case compared to mine. My baggage is more like a freight car full of screwed-up-edness.”

“That’s not a real word.”

“But I’m fabulous, and fabulous people invent their own vocabulary all the time.”

I grinned, knowing she’d forgiven me. “Fine, I’ll let screwed-up-edness slide.”

She climbed off her bed and turned to look at me. “I know I have to get off the fence at some point about church. But my life works pretty well for me, and I’m good with that right now. I poke my nose into your business because I don’t think you have what you want, and I’m not sure you know it. I meant to help, but I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t. I know you’re trying to help. But I can’t drop everything to date Ben. I have to figure out how to fit all the pieces in.”

“I’m not suggesting you drop everything. But I know most of your work team, and I think they’re more ready to help than you give them credit for. Try delegating something every once in a while, and five o’clock might seem like a reasonable time to finish work.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Well, it’s true. I read it in a book once. Apparently, the people we hire to work for you are there to help you do your job and not to count the office supplies.”

I winced. “Uh . . .” I scrambled to explain this use of human resources to the assistant HR director who was now grinning at me. Oops.

Sandy laughed. “Forget it,” she said. “That was genius. Did you know Craig called Susannah Anders to report you for misappropriation of personnel after that stunt?”

I groaned. Susannah was the big boss over HR.

She shook her head. “Don’t worry. Susannah had received a half dozen complaints about his supply embargo, so it delighted her to hear that you set him straight.”

I leaned over and gave her a hug. “You’re the best, Sandy. Now quit bugging me about Ben.”

She looked surprised for a moment, given we are not of the hugging-roommate variety, but said only, “I am, and I won’t. Now go call him.” She clambered off the bed and headed toward the kitchen, probably in search of postconflict chocolate.

I followed her out, plugged in my laptop, dug my cell phone out of my purse, and laid it next to the computer. I eyed them both for a moment. Decision time. Call Ben or work?