Chapter 22 #2
“Avery’s almost nine months.” She pauses to tap away at her phone and angles the screen in my direction.
“They’re at the children’s museum today,” she explains, showing off an adorable video of little Avery slapping her chubby hands at a puddle of water in a plastic plaything meant for innocent water play.
She lets out a happy squeal, and we both smile.
“Ah, so she’s at that really cute age where she can’t walk yet so she stays out of trouble and doesn’t talk back to you.”
“Yeah,” she answers with a laugh. “How do you know so much about the cute baby stage?”
“I have two nieces, remember?”
She nods. “I remember.” She smiles a smile that’s all covert yet wholesome.
“What?”
“What,” she responds.
“What’s that smile?”
She shakes her head. “Just that…you and Sophia. You two looked really cute playing in the pool at Teeny’s house.”
I try to stir up something playful, even a little risqué.
But then I choose not to. I’m enjoying this warm, mellow tone we’ve set.
It feels like a set of open arms, and I want to wrap the both of us inside a tight hold where we don’t have to think of all the things working against us.
Like the fact that Grace coming here to my place of work pushes the boundaries of this friendship we’ve forged.
Or that I want to hold on to her a little longer.
Take up more of her time and keep asking her questions and demanding more deep, relevant answers.
I’m about to ask her another question. A vaster inquiry that requires thought and debate, when we’re interrupted by Olive.
“Hey,” she huffs, perching herself over the wall of my cubicle. “Did you—oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company.” Her gaze shifts to Grace, the cheerful affection on her face dropping as soon as she sees the scattered mess of our lunch in front of us.
“Olive, this is Grace,” I tell her, gesturing a hand in Grace’s direction. “Grace, this is Olive. Another Sentry Investments inmate being held hostage on a Saturday. Except she’s here voluntarily so I’m not here all by my lonesome.”
Olive chuckles a laugh that sounds overdone with a sloppy slap to my shoulder. “I’m glad you’re enjoying my company.”
My brow furrows wondering where in that small introduction it sounded like I’ve been particularly enjoying her company before peering over at Grace.
The air between us suddenly feels taut and tension filled.
She looks uneasy and embarrassed. Like she’s been caught doing something she isn’t supposed to, and it’s making her look a little nervous.
“Are those my waters?” Olive asks, an accusing finger directed at the half-empty water bottles.
“Yeah,” I answer uncomfortably, reminding myself she’s told me many times the stash is there for whenever I need it. “We got a little thirsty. But I’ll pay you for the bottles I took.”
“Oh,” she responds. “That’s fine.” Her answer doesn’t sound fine at all.
Olive brusquely moves around the wall separating us, forcing Grace to scoot her chair back a few inches.
It’s like a harsh metal cleave cut into this moment that felt precarious and vulnerable to begin with.
Olive reaches over my lap to sift through a stack of binders, looking for a specific one.
The way she moves about, it looks as if she’s done this a hundred times.
Like this is just as much her workspace as it is mine.
And I guess it kind of is considering the number of times she stops by my cubicle to vent or offer me a mid-workday treat, but right now, the last thing I want is for her to emanate a “my cubicle is your cubicle” vibe when I just want it to be me and Grace.
“Uh, is there something you’re looking for?”
“Yeah,” she says, her shoulder invasively nudging into mine. “I thought I left the reports from last September in here. It’s the binder with the orange and red tabs.”
“It’s right here,” I announce, reaching under my desk for the binder she’s looking for.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she informs me, her fingers playfully rustling up my hair.
A gesture that’s completely foreign between us.
I almost ask her why she did that when Grace places the lid back on her plastic to-go bowl that’s barely halfway done.
I settle for an awkwardly flustered laugh in the hopes that I can find a way to get Olive to leave and give us our fragile privacy back.
“I think I’m going to get going,” Grace announces. She stands from her seat, swiping away at my desk to erase all evidence of her visit. Paper wrappers are tossed in my waste bin, spilled soup is wiped away, and her little tote bag she brought with her is already hooked over her shoulder.
“You didn’t even finish your ramen.”
A tight smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes causes her jaw to set, and I can’t help but notice how unbearable this goodbye feels. Like it’s ambiguous and I don’t know when I’ll see her again, if ever.
“It’s fine,” she tells me, her voice subdued and void of all the playfulness it carried a minute ago. “I wasn’t that hungry anyway.”
Before I can convince her to stay a few more minutes, she turns and walks away.
“Is she your friend?”
I look at Olive. The innocence in her face could get her out of a traffic violation. “Yeah,” I tell her. “Something like that.”