Chapter 25
Chapter
At first, at least, I’m so glad I came.
At the bar, there’s a funny collection of people from other departments gathered around the tables our group has shoved together. A bunch of the accountants, some people from Sales. Carol from Legal, who led a training the first week I was here.
The mood is light, and the trivia answers are flowing. Shouts and laughter rise up from the table, depending on the questions and how we do, and I cheer along as the beer in my stomach dulls my sharp edges. At first I think: Why didn’t I start coming to these a long time ago?
I’m sitting between Morgan and Greg, conferring about the answer to a question. Across the table, Sarah checks her phone and her brow furrows. She comes around to our side and whispers something in Greg’s ear, and he glances sideways at me.
“Sorry,” he says, getting up. “Hang around. I’ll be back.”
And then they just…leave? They walk through the bar to the front, and unfortunately my seat has an unobstructed view as he opens the door for her and they slip outside.
A melancholy, faraway feeling overtakes me, like I’ll always be on the outside of life looking in. I take a big swig of my drink, and the gnawing festers, becomes inflamed.
I can’t believe I came here because Greg said to, and he just leaves to hang out with his new girlfriend! Like whatever, they’re dating, but it’s the principle of the thing! Bad friend behavior!
It reminds me too much of how he ditched me in high school. The disrespect of discarding me like that! Is he going to do it again?
But I did come to bond with everyone else. I should try to make the most of it.
The minutes tick by. Greg and Sarah are gone for over an hour. Our team keeps lobbing out answers, but I’m quieter, sinking into myself.
The host announces that the next category is “paranormal activity throughout history,” and everyone groans.
“How do they come up with these niche categories?” Morgan gripes.
I have to laugh, because I actually know a lot about this from all my stress reading. After a streak of right answers, Al comes around the table to thump me on the back, and Adam from Accounting gives me a high five. Morgan’s mouth hangs open in disbelief. “So this is your hidden talent!”
Morgan proceeds to crush the celebrity gossip category, and Al reaches over to fist-bump her. Our team wins, and while everyone cheers, I take a photo and send it to Mom.
sampaguita72:
Don’t you have work tomorrow?
My heart sinks at how unimpressed she sounds, but she’s still typing.
sampaguita72:
Aw, Al. I miss him.
Tell him I said hi
I glance over at Al and imagine saying that—
I used to be so good at not crying, but this whole situation is testing my abilities.
Then at the far end of the room, the door opens, and Mark Winterson walks in, looking broody under those prominent brows.
“Hey,” Morgan says, nudging Carol from Legal beside her and pointing.
It’s like all the sound stops—but, of course, it doesn’t really. The room is still loud with other people’s conversations and blaring music, but around our table, at least, everyone goes quiet as Mark Winterson orders a drink.
Morgan’s watching him like she’s keeping tabs on a poisonous spider. Did something change since we talked in the closet? She’s not the type to hold back.
He walks over, beer in hand, and points at the spot Greg left open. “Mind if I join you?” And as he sits, he says low enough for the others not to hear: “Didn’t realize you were going to be here. Hope you don’t think I came to pressure you.”
I laugh nervously and look up in time to see Greg and Sarah at the bar—they came back, apparently. And Greg locks eyes with me as Mark Winterson keeps on talking into my ear.
“Erickson encouraged me to come to these things.” His warm breath tickles the side of my face. “Get to know everyone.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course.” I smile like I’m having a great time and touch Mark Winterson’s arm. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
Sarah nudges Greg to tell him something, and he leans closer.
I could really use a breather.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say, pushing my chair back.
I hop up and weave my way through the crowded room to the exit, going the long way so I avoid the bar.
It’s a relief when I get outside and the door shuts, muffling the too-loud music and overlapping conversations behind me. The neon sign overhead glows pink, and the sky is fading deep navy to black.
The noise of the bar picks up again—the door’s open, and Greg’s coming outside.
“Hey.” He stops right in front of me, but it seems like he’s struggling with himself again, trying and rejecting things to say.
“Spit it out, Greg!” I snap.
That makes him laugh, though it sounds a bit painful. “Does it have to be that guy?” He says it like a joke, but it gets my hackles up. As if I owe Greg an answer!
“He’s not that bad,” I shoot back.
Greg’s staring at me, unfortunately puppy-eyed again.
And, fumbling for a joke, I add: “At least he doesn’t live with his mom.”
Greg scoffs. “So do you, basically!”
“I wouldn’t call it living, exactly!” I shout.
We glare at each other, a moment of very intense, sustained eye contact passing between us. Some cars whoosh past on the road beyond the parking lot. Finally Greg looks away first.
“Sorry, Ruby.” He’s quiet for a while, arms folded across his chest. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Remember Owen?” he adds abruptly.
Unbelievable! “Reminding me of my shitty exes, what a power move.”
“It’s just—” His voice breaks, like we really are back in high school. “I can tell he’s an Owen type. Looks good on paper, but…he’s all wrong for you. He won’t make you happy.”
“You don’t even know him!” The heat builds in my chest, and all the angry words I’ve rehearsed before I fall asleep at night are flying wind-whipped around my head. “What the fuck, Greg!”
I’m so agitated, I shove him, and Greg staggers back, eyes wide, like he didn’t think I had it in me.
“Are you judging me right now?” I take a step forward and jab him in the chest. “What makes you an expert on what’s right for me?”
And even though I’m furious at him, I have the insane urge to mash my mouth against his to shut him up—but I quash it, like I always do.
“How would you know what makes me happy?” I shout.
“When you just dropped me at the end of high school! And I thought we were friends, but then suddenly we weren’t anymore, and—”
“When did we stop being friends?” He actually sounds confused, and it trips me up for a second.
I take a step back, arms crossed. “Great question, Greg!”
“I didn’t…think we stopped being friends. I thought I…made some more friends, in addition?”
He’s making me sound so petty and small. It’s impossible to talk to him. “Forget it,” I say, brushing past him to go back inside.
“Hey.” He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him.
“Ruby, you were always—” Greg makes a throaty sound, struggling for the words.
His eyes meet mine in a way that makes the butterflies stir, and I’m gritting my teeth, telling them, Not now, I swear to God!
“I need you to know that I’ll always be your friend. ”
He’s being very clear: I’m living in the shadow of something that ended a long time ago—or never started to begin with. We’ll always just be friends.
I jerk away so his hands drop to his sides, and we stand there for a while in that tense, raw silence.
Behind Greg, Mark Winterson chooses that moment to peek his head through the door of the bar.
“Oh, sorry, were you in the middle of—?”
“He was just leaving!” I exclaim.
Greg shakes his head, but he takes his cue to head for the door. He turns and mouths Owen one more time before he heads inside.
“Can I get you another drink?” Mark Winterson says, coming up alongside me.
I force a smile, even though I’m still shaking from yelling at Greg. “Thanks, but I’m going to head home. Work tomorrow.”
“Let me call you a car.” He takes his phone out of his pocket. “Least I can do, since I did ruin your shoes. And the replacement was probably a bit much. Sorry about that, again.”
Mark Winterson taps around with his thumbs, the glow of the screen lighting his face from below. “Driver’s on his way.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, staring out into the distance.
“So, this paperwork…” I say. “What’s in it?”
He rocks back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. “Statement of consent, establishment of boundaries.” He says it so casually, he almost sounds bored. “Waiver of liability. Light NDA. All perfectly reasonable. More couples should do it, honestly.”
The word couples kicks up a confusing mix of feelings in my gut.
“Can I, um, review it? See if I find the terms, uh—agreeable?”
Mark Winterson laughs. Maybe he can tell I’m reaching for language I heard fictional lawyers use on TV.
He bites down a smile and taps around on his phone. “It’s in your inbox.”
The car pulls up, and Mark Winterson hurries to get the door, closes it behind me, raises a hand as we pull away.
“Wait, was that—?” the driver says, doing a double take in his rearview mirror.
“No,” I say. “Common mistake.”