Chapter 42. Brynn
brYNN
For once, I’m early on a Monday. The subway car jolts forward. I regrasp one of the middle poles. My ragged nails make me look like I spent the weekend rock climbing, not romping around in bed with an attractive, sexually talented guy.
I peruse my arms for other evidence of my weekend with Micah. This morning, I practiced my poker face in the communal bathroom mirror. You got this, I tell myself, leaning my shoulder into the pole and running my thumb along the uneven edges of my nails.
Rikki stands at the far end of the car. They must live somewhere in the Village or SoHo. Looks like we both left Brooklyn.
I wave and they turn the other way. Maybe they didn’t see me. They’re talking to a blonde in a black ball cap with her back to me.
The lights flicker. We speed through the tunnel in darkness.
I hold my breath and my purse a little tighter.
The car slows, the lights resume full brightness.
Rikki and the girl are gone.
The subway doors open.
I think of Micah and my heart takes off in a sprint. I imagine the scene when we see each other. Will he even look at me? Will we pull off acting normal in front of everybody? What if they already know?
I don’t see him when I arrive. More importantly, I detect no secret smiles or loaded looks between my coworkers. I even get a wave out of Donovan.
I release a long exhale and tap my keyboard awake. Feeling like a grownup, I bring my Starbucks coffee to my lips and peruse my emails.
MICAH KERSHAW OUT OF OFFICE – SAN DIEGO OFFICE.
I gasp.
He didn’t mention he’d be traveling this week. Maybe he scheduled it to help things settle a bit. So then he agrees with ending this thing between us. Good.
My eyes fill. I pull a tissue off Priya’s desk.
He respected my wishes. I got what I asked for.
My lips start twitching.
“You okay?” Priya stands on the other side of her chair, laptop in hand like she’s just come from a meeting.
“Yeah, sure.” I flash her a quick smile and sit up straighter.
I bury myself in copy revisions.
I’ve been working heads-down for a couple of hours when my computer pings. An email, subject, 90 DAY PRE-FORECLOSURE.
Oh shit.
I meant to call my parents’ accountant to have her ask the bank for an extension. I’m sure Rhonda would help me. I’ll need every cent of next week’s paycheck to make last month’s mortgage. I eye this morning’s Starbucks splurge.
This intern needs a serious raise. Better yet, I need Donovan’s salary.
I trudge over to the plant wall to pillage today’s bagel selection—only to discover the breakfast bar’s been wiped clean. My shoulders deflate.
I take the floating stairs for the first time and walk the perimeter of the second floor, admiring the bird’s-eye view of the agency. It’s quiet up here.
I walk toward a sitting area with red leather couches and stacks of industry magazines displayed on an oversize glass coffee table. I hear a hushed whisper behind one of the office doors. Scott’s voice, swearing at somebody.
I follow a faint floral scent leading to an open office door.
My jaw drops at what looks like a Broadway set with dark Victorian oak furniture and dusty Tiffany lamps.
Behind the grand desk, on prominent display, is a picture of Micah with his aunt and an older gentleman in a suit with thick gray hair and a piercing gaze.
Micah looks nothing like his aunt; with her sharp, long nose and twitchy hazel eyes, she reminds me of a scarecrow.
Her clothes hang off of her like those anorexic models from the ’90s.
“What are you doing in here?”
I jump.
Scott narrows his eyes at me from the doorway.
“Um, guess I got a little lost.” Think. Think. “I was looking for Mic—I-I mean his aunt. She around?”
His wiry black brows draw down over his eyes. “You shouldn’t be snooping.”
“I-I wanted to talk to her about open copywriter positions.” Remember me, how you liked my ideas? I stand straighter, smiling wide. “I think I’ve shown I can be more creative—”
“What, than Donovan?” He crosses his arms over his turquoise dress shirt and striped tie, his gold watch catching the light. “Tell me. Have you worked on large-scale brand initiatives, collaborated with cross-functional teams, earned the number of awards he has?”
My stomach drops. “No, but . . .”
He swings his arm like a theater usher with a mini flashlight. Exit this way.
The door closes behind me. I lower my head, biting my lip, and bolt downstairs, where I beeline it to the bathroom.
Blowing my nose on the toilet, I hear coworkers come and go. I just want to curl up in a ball on my mattress. But I can’t stay here all day.
I exit the bathroom and drag myself back to my desk.
Donovan and Meredith enter one of the conference rooms with takeout bags.
Time to pivot.
I hesitate in the doorway, my plastic lunch container from home in hand. “You guys mind if I join you?”
Seated, Meredith eyes me standing there, then turns back to her food. “Sure.”
I know. First time ever. I need to make amends with Meredith. She’s been a bit frosty since my Quotagian presentation.
Donovan locks eyes with her.
She gives him a faint nod.
He shovels a forkful of chimichanga into his mouth. “Just discussing the Quotagian account.”
“What about it?”
He chews. “We’re wondering who’ll take it over.”
My mouth goes dry. “Why, where’s it going?” Did Scott or the client request that I be taken off the account? Could explain him ripping me a new one.
“Well, with Micah gone . . .” He throws up a hand.
“His out-of-office message said he’s working at the San Diego office this week.”
Donovan and Meredith share a look.
I hold my breath like I’m a balloon about to burst. “What am I missing?”
He steeples his fingers, looks over them at me like I’m a child. “If Micah’s not here, it means he’s back there.”
“So? He goes to college in San Diego, I thought.” I act like I heard it in passing.
“He doesn’t go to college.” His head snaps toward Meredith. “Does he?”
She bugs out her eyes at him.
“But . . .” I stop myself. How can I tell them they have it all wrong without tipping them off to the fact that we’ve been hanging out?
“Micah’s spent the last two years in a nut house.” Donovan twirls a finger next to his head for emphasis.
I jerk back. “What?”
“He comes to New York every summer, spends time with his ailing grandfather, and works at the agency while keeping him apprised of things. Sort of like a spy. Guess his family thinks he’ll get his act together and run things one day.”
I turn to Meredith. “Wait, I don’t understand. He’s so smart and good with the clients. After the Bradley Products pitch, you called him a wunderkind.”
“Doesn’t mean he’s not twisted in the head.” Donovan grins, leaning back in his chair.
“Um, what he’s trying to say”—Meredith pulls in her lips—“is that Micah battles some sort of mental illness. An incident occurred here one summer when he was in high school.”
Donovan pitches forward, back into my line of sight. “Yeah, he went off—screaming, beating on another employee for no reason. Only Eunice could settle him down. The EMTs carted him away, then they sent him back to some treatment center in San Diego.”
Blood rushes from my face and flashes of light spot my vision. I swallow the warm acid in the back of my throat. “Micah’s . . . mental?”
“Hey, good one! Mind if I use it?” Donovan laughs, clapping.
“Please don’t. I shouldn’t have said that.” I cover my mouth.
Meredith’s brow furrows. “Hey, you okay?”
“I told you, the guy’s weird.” Donovan smirks, oblivious to my freak out. “He’s only here because of his legacy. Promoted to associate creative director at twenty? Please. He should be in a nut house full time.”
I shudder. “What a cruel and ignorant thing to say.”
“What, now you like the guy?”
“Yeah, he’s a good guy.” I tune out their voices as scenes piece together: Micah not engaging with the team outside of team meetings . . . how he never invites people to his place . . . the piles of garbage on his bedroom floor . . . oh my God, all those pill bottles.
“He knows a lot about shrink stuff,” Meredith volunteers, interrupting my thoughts. “Once, a guy I was dating kept throwing me all these mixed signals and Micah helped me understand some of the underlying causes of his behavior. Felt like I was talking to a therapist.”
“No way he’s relapsed.” I shake my head.
Their eyebrows shoot up. Both stifle a smile.
Micah was acting normal last night . . . until I opened my big mouth. What did I do? Wait, I’m overthinking this. He left to cool things off between us. Nothing’s wrong with his brain. We slept together, more than once. I’d know if he wasn’t right.
They start talking about the weekend. Their mouths move without sound.
I bite off one of my ragged nails, then another, retrieving the half-moons from the tip of my tongue and flicking them onto the wood floor. I move on to my cuticles.
I’d know.
Wouldn’t I?