Chapter 7 Andrew
CHAPTER SEVEN
Andrew
I’ve been staring at the somewhat ambiguous notification on my phone since this morning.
I saw it first thing when I woke up. I thought I dreamed it at first, the groggy haze of sleep still muddling up my brain, but Grace’s name appeared like a large road sign once I blinked away the remnants of my dream.
A dream that contained traces of her, but barely enough so that I couldn’t remember the details.
Just the outlines. The alert with her small picture icon attached to it waved back at me as if the idea of her had been living in there this whole time.
But I didn’t dream it. It was really there.
The Cash App transfer for a hundred dollars from Grace with the single word “drinks.”
It almost feels like a slap in the face.
An insult that wasn’t meant to be an insult but rather a simple transaction.
Probably a form of closure she sought out.
One I’m not sure if I’m ready to give. I know the gentlemanly thing to do is accept it and move on.
Let her take the high road. I don’t need to rub it in her face that I had already agreed to pay for drinks on Friday night.
And I definitely don’t need to remind her that she still has my T-shirt.
Before this little window of opportunity, I’ve been brewing over ways to reach out to her.
Maybe through a handwritten letter sent by a messenger pigeon with all the reasons I’d like for us to hang out again, adding something especially daring to the mix like miniature golf or bowling.
Or send her a fruit basket as a thank you for a wonderful night or ask her how she keeps her sheets so damn white and soft considering mine are always dull and coarse, no matter how many cycles they’ve been through the wash.
Even just a simple passing question spoken in a low whisper, demanding to know if she blamed tequila for our night, or if she’s had this hidden attraction for me all these years she never let slip because I happen to be her best friend’s brother.
Until three nights ago. There are so many things I want to say to her, but I can’t.
Except maybe I can? Maybe I can respond with something equally vexing and goading.
Something to poke at the realization that maybe what happened the other night can happen again.
It feels like the smallest of openings. One I can manage to wedge through with a little extra elbow grease to pry open the barrier between us.
No matter that it’ll probably go against some unspoken rule she established as she reminded me that our night was a one-time thing then slowly closed the door behind me.
I attempt to come up with a response. Something cheeky and as equally insulting as the money she sent back. The money that’ll be going right back into her account. Just as I reopen the notification, I’m interrupted by the shrill ring of my phone inside my small office cubicle.
“This is Andrew.”
A rough cough on the other end gives me a split second to prepare for what’s coming.
“I dropped off my car for an oil change.” My boss’s irate and impatient voice rings through the line. If I ever heard the term “being talked at” be explained, it would be this. The stony, impassive way he talks to all of his employees. “It’ll be ready in an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to Olive.” The line dies before I’m able to offer even a hum or a grunt.
The receiver balances in my hand, deciding between chucking it in the direction of his office or placing it back into the cradle.
I see a new alert pop open on my monitor, hiding the company logo spelling out Sentry Investments—adroitly designed using a font like Helvetica or Avenir—behind my open tabs and emails.
I click through the cumbersome tabs, minimizing some of them before reading his message.
A curtailed version of our conversation with the adage of an address and the name Darren.
The mechanic, I’m assuming. Or at least, I hope.
Unless this turns out to be a drug deal—or some other illegal activity—and I’m just his pawn.
There aren’t ever any formalities with my boss.
Sometimes it’s a Post-it Note left on my desk with some chicken scratches that I need his assistant’s help translating.
Sometimes it’s an email, his demand in the subject line with a completely empty body.
But every time he provides me a puddle of information, I feel like I’m dealing with The Riddler.
Not only because a lot of his requests have nothing to do with my job, but also because they’re so out of left field.
There are so many blanks, and I have nothing to fill them with.
This is the grunt work I’ve been subjected to.
The insignificant details that weren’t outlined in my job description when I got hired.
The reason my night with Grace transitioned from scotch to tequila, hoping I could drown my woes right alongside hers.
I quickly return to my phone, looking over Grace’s transfer.
I sift through all the responses I thought of to send back to Grace and settle for something simple.
Something with enough implication and undertone that it can be misconstrued by her for my benefit.
Maybe even elicit a response. Hopefully.
I tap out the exact amount she sent me and add, “no thank you” to my own transfer.
Keep it cool and mysterious. If she thinks she can send me money and write off the night as nothing more than a little release of steam, then two can definitely play this game.
I’m about to shove my phone into my pocket when it vibrates.
It’s another Cash App notification with Grace’s name in bold and the money I sent back.
This time, no ominous one-word explanation attached to it. Just the money.
This distracting little game of hot potato gains all of my attention. My thumbs hover over my screen as I send the money back once again along with an added deterrent of an extra twenty dollars.
Every time you send it back, I’m adding another twenty.
I hit send with a wide grin on my face, and I stare at my phone. Sure enough, another alert buzzes through. The money with an even higher sum lights up my screen with Grace’s name and the Cash App logo.
Fine. I’ll do the same.
My brow shoots up to my hairline. I make good on my threat and tack on another twenty.
I think you’re underestimating just how stubborn I can be.
The money comes right back.
And I think you’re underestimating how determined I can be.
I chuckle. I don’t know whether to be annoyed, entertained, or just flat out turned on. Maybe all three. I tap out my final coup de grace as I send it right back.
If you send this back, I’m bringing the cash to you in person.
I wait for a response. It never comes. I go back to my last transfer, hoping there’s something there.
An inscrutable emoji or punctuation mark I can dissect and overanalyze.
But there’s nothing. Just the same transactions and icy notes she sent over.
I guess my final blow worked, but now I’m regretting it.
My phone turns into a pot of lukewarm water on a stove as I sit and watch.
And watch and watch. All while the thought of her burns a fiery hole in my head.
Her thick wavy hair that she expressed an especially keen interest in having tugged, or rather pulled.
Her smooth skin and the small oval mole over her ribs below her left breast. Even the sight of her toes, curling and flexing when I touched her exactly how she liked.
Jesus Christ, I can’t stop thinking about her.
I’m growing obsessive. This compulsion I’m reminded of every time I see a silver Volvo or a whiff of something that resembles tequila—usually a dollop of hand sanitizer—or an overzealous dog begging for my attention.
It feels almost Pavlovian. Except instead of a bell or some other indicative noise, it’s literally anything that reminds me of Grace.
Maybe I shouldn’t have threatened her with an uninvited visit.
Held on to this back and forth for a little longer, no matter how badly it drained my bank account.
“Hey!”
My thoughts on Grace’s lips, how they seem to loosen and pucker when something feels good and how they look when her teeth are pressed against her lower pout, are interrupted by the sudden jump scare of Olive, Mr. Sheridan’s assistant, leaning over the top of my cubicle wall.
“Hey, Olive.”
“You’re picking up Mr. Sheridan’s car?”
“Looks like it.”
Mr. Sheridan. Or sir. Either one to remind us of our place and his.
Not his first name, Matthias. Or even his full name Matthias Francis Sheridan III.
The ten syllables of his name sound superior and patronizing.
Like nails on a stern chalkboard, slapping my work ethic into gear out of fear rather than ambition.
Oddly enough, while I expect some level of vanity in maintaining his personal life as personal, it seems even someone with his level of arrogance lets small nuggets of gossip slip from time to time.
The latest scandal is that his new girlfriend, a twenty-six-year-old beauty advisor at the MAC makeup counter at Bloomingdale’s, convinced him to buy her a brand new 3 Series in exchange for a certain “job” in his office.
At least the ever-churning rumor mill keeps work interesting.
“I called you an Uber,” Olive tells me. “It’ll be downstairs in about seven minutes.”
I exhale a deep, frustrated sigh, craning my neck back as if it’ll somehow snap the tension at its breaking point. This is what Cinderella must’ve felt like.
“You want me to go get it? I am his assistant after all.” Olive adds a look of apology perched on the back of her offer.
It’s tempting, but the potential consequences aren’t worth it.
I could probably bet a hefty amount of money, like the frivolous funds sent back and forth between me and Grace, that this task has little to do with convenience for my boss but is more of an expression of his power trip.
A power trip that if I somehow sidestep, I’d never hear the end of.
I shake my head. “You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out I somehow managed to avoid being his little gopher for the day.”
“Sorry.” She does that thing when I’ve become the subject of Mr. Sheridan’s browbeating ruses. A small, placating frown turns her lips upside down, and she says, “You want to go out for drinks after work? My treat?”
“Nah,” I tell her, waving off her offer. “If you bought me a drink every time he treated me like shit, I’d be a drunk, and you’d be broke.”
She giggles, though anything more than a smile or a nod seems out of place. “Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
“Will do.”
She looks down at her phone in her hand. “Four minutes,” she reminds me, waggling the screen in my direction. “And it’s an Uber Lux.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, lightly pounding my fist on my desk to signal my exit.
I take one last look at my phone, my figurative still simmering pot, and see there’s still no response from Grace.
I wish it was tipping over, boiling and bubbling and hot to touch with Grace’s name filling the screen.
But it remains in my palm like an annoying cold brick offering me nothing but a heavy weight and a distraction.
Maybe my threat, as empty as it was, worked.
But now I’m rethinking my steps that led to this self-inflicted silent treatment.
I should’ve played it in her favor for a few more transfers.
Kept the ball volleying back and forth to hold on to her attention.
Or just showed up at her front door, a wad of cash in my offering hand, without a single warning.
I walk past Olive’s desk as I leave the office.
She waves, the smile on her face wavering between a simple farewell and pity.
I consider her offer. Much like my offer to Grace and what led me to this conundrum.
And while Olive’s offer does sound tempting, if not to loosen the tightening knot coiling behind my temples, then at least to remind myself that I can spend a night without obsessing over Grace and her lack of response because I have plans.