Chapter 9
Danni
What code? Is it the hotness code? The man code? The one-night-stand code? Morse code? The DaVinci code? What kind of guy chooses his potential mate based on some weird, predefined code? Code is for software applications, not for life, and definitely not for dating.
I need an auto-destruct code to blow up these thoughts because they’re too close to being interested in Chance’s personal life. Interested like a scientist is interested in multiplying spores in her petri dish, and even that is too much.
Speaking of. Spore arrives at his desk, clunks down a can of Coke along with his bum and rolls himself up to his computer. His feet barrel into mine even though mine are tucked carefully under my desk. Rather than kick him back, I give him another inch, my intermittent social anxiety ratcheting up because I can feel the cologne aura rolling off his Vans and it’s making me feel stuffy and crowded.
I finish my food slowly, savoring every second of my lunch break. Chance isn’t officially “onboarded” yet. I need to walk him through our code architecture, and with the way he likes to offer his opinions, that could take hours. The rest of the afternoon and into tomorrow. I can’t let that happen.
Social anxiety marches up my arms–a colony of ants looking for a spot of brain matter to call home. It’s not just Chance. I feel this way when I have to train anyone. It’s too people-y. I prefer to work alone. The flow state is my preferred state, and I can’t get there when I’m talking to a relative stranger.
There’s so much about Chance that I don’t know. Like, why is he so confident and persistent and opinionated? Has he always been like this or did he suffer a head injury as a child?
You know what? I don’t want to know. I wad up my napkin and toss it into my trash can, head to the bathroom for a potty break and return prepared to play trainer for the next four hours.
“You ready?” I ask as I lower myself into my office chair. I raise my seat so I can see him better. We make eye contact over the divider, two turtles inching out of our shells.
“Ready for what?” he asks.
“I swear we already had this conversation.”
“I thought we were done.”
“I need to talk you through our apps.”
His eyebrows form a “V,” the pointy bottom nearly parallel with the lime green divider.
“And I need to show you where to find the requirements and design docs.”
His eyebrows flatten and his head bobbles. I’m guessing he shrugged. I take that as an invitation and roll over to his desk, once again shoulder to shoulder with Chance, ladies man, code maverick, and professional gum chewer. His pile of wrappers has gotten bigger since I saw it last.
I talk Chance through downloading our suite of applications which includes several web services, five web applications that are loosely related, and a handful of micro-apps for various departments, one of them my current project to create a custom document retrieval module to support auditing across JetAero’s R&D projects. I start with the biggest app, intending to work down in size, but I’m quickly interrupted by Chance’s fresh Wordle game.
“Again?”
“It helps me listen.”
“I’m talking you through our code, you should probably use your eyes.”
“I am,” he says, his eyes fixed on his phone.
“I mean, point them this way.” I point to his computer screen. Because he’s looking down, he misses my gesture, so I jab him with my elbow. He jumps back like I jolted him with a cattle prod, his chest collapsed and arms raised in self-defense. We scoot away from each other, Chance to gather his wits and me to nonchalantly sniff my armpit to see if I forgot my deodorant this morning. I distinctly remember taking a shower, so I shouldn’t smell.
“Are you better?” I ask after Chance visibly recovers.
“You surprised me.”
“Obviously. But you seem more alert now, so that’s good.”
He sets his phone on his desk. “Warn me next time.”
I stick out my finger and poke holes in his cologne aura. He recoils and waves my hand away.
Seriously, what is the code? Whatever it is, I fell out of the loop and tumbled into the exception handler. Why doesn’t he want me to touch him? Platonically. Let’s clarify that.
I don’t have time to debug Chance’s strange behavior so I focus on his screen and list the technology stack we use for our web apps. Chance’s eyelids drop a millimeter a minute until they finally close and he’s rubbing his face.
“Am I boring you?”
“This is the same stack I used at Circular Solutions. I already know it.”
Irritation needles the base of my skull. “Great, but there are still different ways to architect—“
“I’ve worked a lot of contracting gigs.”
“So have I.”
“Painting? In Indianapolis?”
The needle stops needling and goes for a full-out jab. “I’ve written thousands of lines of code at JetAero alone, so I know there’s no way you know how things work around here. I’ll just highlight the basics and then let you study the requirements and go from there. Okay?”
Chance grabs his phone and leans back. “I’m just trying to save you some oxygen.” He sticks his nose in his screen, kicking off a new game of Wordle.
“Christopher told me to get you up to speed. I’m getting you up to speed.”
“I am speed. Forty-two losers. I eat losers for breakfast.”
“Did you just quote Lightning McQueen?”
“I’m faster than fast, quicker than quick. I am Jyotiraditya Balasubramania.”
He’s not taking this seriously. Not one bit.
“Yes!” Chance balls his fist and pumps it in the air. “First try. The word was spear . Not speed but close.”
That’s it. I plant my hands on Chance’s desk and shove off so hard I glide into the walkway.
“We done?” he asks.
“So done.”
Horrifyingly, Chance does the snake. One way and then the other. Probably learned it while country line dancing. Should never, never , do it at work. But I don’t tell him so. Instead I beeline to Christopher’s office.
The office is big enough for Christopher’s desk, two chairs, and a neatly stacked tower of boxes that my former boss left. They’re full of cords and docking stations and wireless keyboards and headphones—a supply hoard because JetAero is so stingy with its equipment funds. Christopher dutifully wound up each cable, secured it with a zip tie, gave it a serial number that corresponds to his Access database. He plans to sort and inventory everything in the closet behind my desk but he hasn’t gotten to it yet, and so he keeps his office as tidy as he can, including his desk, with its carefully coiled wires, Bluetooth accessories that he bought himself so he wouldn’t have to deal with even more wires, and a tumbler with the words Tears of my Staff (still warm) emboldened on it. The only other items on his desk are his meaty forearms as he looks up at me.
I close his glass office door gently behind myself, under no illusions that his glass-fronted office with one-inch thick walls provides any privacy. So, I keep my voice low.
“I want to sit somewhere else,” I whisper.
Christopher motions to the chairs across from him, an invitation to sit. I lower myself to the edge of the chair and lean toward him. “Anywhere else.”
“You can slide over to the chair beside you,” he whispers back, his head ducked.
“No, I mean my office desk. I want to move.”
“Why are we whispering?” Christopher asks.
“Because some dummy thought it was a good idea to construct private offices out of glass and Styrofoam.”
Christopher takes a drink from his tumbler and then shoves it over to me. “Do you need this?”
“For my tears?”
“Yes.”
“No, I need to not sit by Chance.” In my frustration, my volume rises. Too loud. Chance might hear me. I clear my throat and slouch.
Christopher drags his folded arms off his desk and tucks them underneath his bulging pectorals while leaning back to regard me with a humored smile. “Problems with the new hire?”
“Yes,” I hiss.
“What’s going on?” He’s still whispering, being the thoughtful, conscientious manager that he is. His predecessor barked out every sentence, including private conversations with his soon-to-be ex-wife that were embarrassingly sensitive.
Christopher’s life is comparatively calm and boring. As far as I know, he lives alone, isn’t dating anyone, wants to move up in the company, pumps a lot of iron at the gym. Hence why I noticed his pecs. I wasn’t ogling. You can’t not notice them.
“He’s worse than Drew.”
Christopher’s eyes bulge until he realizes he’s supposed to be impartial. He resets his expression and says, “I don’t know how to respond to that.”
“Okay, maybe not as bad as Drew, but he doesn’t listen, he refuses to use BrainyJ, and he thinks we should have more forks in our repository.”
“To eat with?”
“To reflect his many layered, multi-dimensional intellect.”
“Did he say that?”
I look at Christopher dully.
“He said that,” Christopher confirms. He presses his palms together and sucks in a deep breath like he’s preparing to say something profound. Instead, he scoots forward and rounds his chest over his desk, still whispering, “You know I can’t do that. There are no empty cubes left. You sit in the overflow quad for a reason.”
“Me and Drew could swap. Chance likes Drew. They talk about weird stuff during lunch.”
“Drew will never agree to that. He likes to spread out.”
“I could move to the focus room. We could say the overhead lights are making me dizzy and I need to work in the dark.”
“We need the focus rooms for the upcoming branch manager meeting.”
“And I need to be able to focus without feeling like I am enabling his chewing gum habit.”
Christopher looks up thoughtfully and rubs his chin. “He does chew a lot of gum.” His eyes linger on the ceiling.
I glance up to see what I’m missing. Just a light and some ductwork.
“So...” Christopher’s eyes reconnect with mine. He reaches out and presses his palms against the desktop, broadening his stance. I don’t like his expression. It’s hesitant, apologetic. “I was actually going to pull you into my office for a different reason.”
I scoot back in my chair, sensing I’m going to need more support for this.
“I’m taking you off the R&D project and moving you to a new one,” he says in normal volume.
I have a bad habit of infusing my heart and soul into my projects. When they’re finished, they bear a piece of me, like children going into the world. Hence my shocked, disappointed, and emphatic, “What!?”
“Yeah. It’s exciting really. I came from HR, right? So, I have connections there, and I’m determined to keep you all gainfully employed, therefore I’m always looking for new work, and they need a team to build an enterprise-wide benefits portal, so I said...”
This doesn’t sound bad. Why is Christopher drawing invisible circles on his desktop and speaking in a run-on sentence like he’s afraid to reach the end?
“And?” I prod, trying to get him to the point.
“And you’ll be the lead developer, and you’ll get to architect the app from the ground up using whatever technologies you choose as long as it’s the same tech stack we’re currently using, and…”
“And?” I try again.
“You’re one of our best coders, and since this project is high-visibility, I can use it as a bargaining chip during annual reviews to promote you to senior developer, which comes with a hefty pay raise.”
“No,” I say, realizing where this conversation is going.
“You don’t want a pay raise?”
“Of course I want a pay raise, but I am not working with Chance. No way.”
“And Heng. It’s why we hired them. For this project specifically. And you’re the one. You’re my gal, Danni. You got this.”
“Can it be anyone else? You don’t understand. He smells like alpine mist.”
“That’s a bad thing?”
“It is when it never goes away.”
“I’m confused.”
“I’ve worked with coders like Chance before.” Including my ex, but I don’t divulge that hairy detail. “They can’t be reined in. They go off on tangents and over complicate everything on purpose to make the code hard to understand because they think it makes them look smart.”
“Chance comes well recommended. I’m sure he’ll be fine, and you’ll be a fine project lead and everybody lives!” Doctor Who reference. Christopher knows I watch the show. So does he. But this isn’t a plague spreading throughout London. This is real life, my real life, and the next however many months of it, trying to get a stubborn mule to play by my rules. Is a pay raise really worth that?
“So, what do you say? You in?”
“Fine,” I say through gritted teeth after a heavy, resigned sigh. I’m not stupid. It’s more money. I’ll just have to figure out how to crack the code that is Chance. I’m sure it’s possible. And I guess I’m going to try.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in shorty-pants mode stewing over my upcoming work assignment. I’ve been in charge of projects before, so I know I can handle it, but they tend to go more smoothly when everyone is willing to cooperate and use the same development environment at minimum. I whittle away some of my time on Teams with Morgan, mostly her pep-talking me and assuring me that my baby (the R&D project) will be safe in Drew’s hands.
Yeah, Drew’s taking over. Christopher dropped that bomb on me as I was walking out of his office. He also said Chance and I will overcome our differences and work together to knock the socks off corporate with our benefits portal. He almost had me snowed until Chance walked by running his hands through his hair like he was in a men’s shampoo commercial, and I developed a distinct sense that I’m in deep doo doo.
At the end of the day, I putter around on my computer, brain-dumping my ideas for the benefits portal into a Word document. When I think Chance has had enough of a head start, I head home. A traffic jam slows me down, increasing Chance’s head start and exponentially decreasing the chance of meeting him in the Wild Oaks parking lot.
Ah, but Chance likes to throw curveballs. I park in my customary spot without realizing I’m beside Chance’s car, without realizing he’s in his car. I kick open my door as he kicks open his. He rounds to his back door and grabs handfuls of groceries while I gather my purse and lunch bag, exit the car, and smooth my skirt and my attitude. Chance and I are going to be working together. I should be nice.
“Best keep that root cellar stocked,” I say. “Winter’s coming.” When I’m feeling cringe, I go all in.
Chance looks at me weird and says, “Sure.”
“Do you need any help?”
“I got it.”
His forearm muscles sure do. They’re taut and ropey from the strain.
We head to our apartments side by side, in lockstep, left feet on the bottom step, and up we go.
“Christopher said we’ll be working on a new project together,” I say. Christopher didn’t tell me not to tell Chance, so I think I’m safe.
He looks over at me but doesn’t say anything. We hit the top of the stairs. He still doesn’t say anything.
“Should be fun,” I say. And if he believes that, I have a pet snipe to sell him.
As I’m turning my key in the lock, Chance says, “Danni?”
I pause and look over my shoulder.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
“Sure.” I look at him cluelessly.
“Your zipper is down.”
I get a full-body brain freeze, panic making me go hot and cold all at once. I look down and gape at my open fly. Only to realize my skirt has no fly.
Chance’s smirk could light a forest fire. It melts me, which makes me angrier than a South Carolina sunburn. Rather than puddle on the concrete, I escape to my apartment and ooze into a pile on my floor.
This could be bad. This could be very bad.