Chapter 5
The front door to the office opened with its cheery little chime and Rob’s teenage daughter, Danielle, walked in. Yes, Rob had a sixteen-year-old daughter. He was forty-two. Another reason the stars weren’t aligned for us.
Dani had a backpack slung over one shoulder and she was staring at her phone as she approached my desk.
“Hi,” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
She squinted at me like she didn’t remember who I was.
I’d literally met her at least a dozen times.
Not to mention all the stories I’d heard about her on car trips to Palm Springs or San Diego or the handful of other weekend getaways Rob and I had taken over the last two years.
Stories about her soccer matches and her school dances and her purple hair dye.
All told while he ran a slow finger along the underside of my arm or placed my hand on his thigh.
Weekend trips were some of the few times I felt like we were actually a couple and not some shameful secret.
“I like your shirt,” I said to her now. “I’m a huge Arctic Monkeys fan.” Huge might not have been the right descriptor, moderate would’ve been a better one, but I felt myself trying to impress the girl standing in front of me, who was clearly unimpressed.
She looked down at her shirt. “I don’t know them. I thrifted this.”
“You should know them!” Why did I sound so overly enthused about this suggestion? “I’ll make a list of their top five songs for you. An introduction to the band, if you will.”
“Right…”
“Margot,” I said.
“No, I’m Dani.”
“Oh, I know. My name is Margot.”
She gave me a once-over. “Okay,” she said, her eyes saying I didn’t ask . “Where is Gloria?”
Gloria was the old receptionist. “She got a new job… six months ago.”
“Oh. Is my dad here?”
“He stepped out a little while ago. You can wait here. He should be right back.” I pointed to the chairs.
Behind those chairs were bookcases filled with books.
Mostly clients’ advance reader’s editions and hardcovers and foreign versions, but there were other books as well.
It was my favorite part about the lobby.
Sometimes, when things were slow, I’d sit in one of the wingback chairs and read.
“I’ll call and let him know you’re here. ”
She held up her phone. “I’ll just text him and wait in his office.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
She walked down the hall and I buried my face in my hands. Why did that feel like a failed interview? Why did I care what Rob’s daughter thought of me?
“You know why,” I muttered.
Angry at myself for constantly blurring the lines between boss and potential boyfriend, I pulled out my phone to check for messages from actual potential boyfriends.
How’s your day going? A message from a guy named Peter.
Not good. I messaged back.
Several minutes passed before he replied: Would sitting on my face make it better?
Wrong answer, buddy. I hit the unmatch button.
I checked all the other apps, but that was the only message.
My finger clicked on Oliver’s profile, and without thinking about it, I sent him a message: “Would sitting on my face make it better” is the wrong response to “My day is not going well.” Your PSA for the day to help you with the ladies.
Five minutes later he responded. Huh. Seems like a perfectly normal response to me. Romantic, even. Second date talk?
I smiled. Talk for if, and only if, I have in fact already performed said act.
Noted. This is invaluable information. I’m sure to succeed on the apps now.
I gave a curt nod as if he were in front of me to see it, then typed: You’re welcome.
Is this hypothetical or did this actually happen?
I answered: Actually happened.
Tell me you unmatched him.
Immediately.
My favorite message of the week: If I promise you a carrot can I go for a ride?
Did she mean a literal carrot or is that code for something?
I’m not sure.
Was this her first message to you?
Yes.
Well, I don’t blame her, you do look rideable.
I hit send before I thought twice about it.
What had gotten into me? I wasn’t exactly the talk-dirty-over-texts type.
But with Oliver, it was different. We weren’t trying to date each other, and that gave me a freedom I didn’t usually feel when chatting with guys.
Rein it in, Margot , Oliver texted back.
I responded: You couldn’t pass up the pun. I hope you used that on her.
I didn’t think of it until now. For her, I said nothing.
But the carrot, Oliver! The carrot!
If only I knew what it was code for…
I laughed . I might be more motivated by a literal carrot. I’m hungry.
So… why are you having a bad day?
You know how other people’s dogs love me… other people’s children? Not so much.
I assume you have some evidence to back up this claim.
I glanced down the hall Dani had walked minutes before. It was empty. The look my boss’s teenage daughter just leveled me with after my attempt at trying to relate.
I don’t accept this evidence. Children and teenagers are not the same thing.
Are you speaking from experience? You’ve also made a teenager hate you?
I WAS a teenager, he responded. And I was cold to most adults.
But I’m twenty-seven! She’s not supposed to think I’m old yet. I’m practically her peer.
Bless your wannabe young heart.
Twenty. Seven!
The same as forty-seven to a teen.
What would that make you, Mr. Thirty-year-old? Fifty?
At least.
I looked up at the sound of shuffling feet that preceded Dani heading for the door. “Leaving?” I asked.
“My dad said he’s going to be forty-five more minutes.” She rolled her eyes.
“Sorry about that,” I said, as if I were solely responsible for her dad’s schedule.
She shrugged and pushed open the door.
“Hey, Dani! How old do you think I am?” I called, because I lacked self-control.
The confusion that overtook her face was understandable, but that didn’t stop her from saying, “I don’t know… thirtysomething?”
I shouldn’t have asked and I definitely shouldn’t have gasped at her response. I cleared my throat and tried to save it with a “Good guess.”
“Bye,” she said, not even caring enough to ask if she was right.
I grumbled and turned my attention back to my phone. You’re right. Who needs teenagers to like us anyway? I’ll always have books.
I snapped a pic of the bookcase in the lobby and sent it off to him.
Your collection?
My collection is much bigger. This is the office. What about you? Big bookcase?
Is bookcase code for something else?
I smothered another laugh as Cole, the assistant to Rebecca and Dusty, the other agents in the office, passed through the lobby on his way to the cubicles, where I also used to sit, at the end of the hall. He gave me a short wave. When he was out of sight, I texted: No, not this time.
If I told you my book collection was all digital, would you hold it against me?
Yes.
Understandably.
Do you still only read nonfiction or have you gained some culture in the last three years?
That was the first strike against me, wasn’t it? he asked.
It was the first five , I assured him.
Rob walked into the office fifteen, not forty-five, minutes later. And as if to prove how much a guy holding a book really did bring to the table, he was turning a page with one hand while opening the door with the other. An act that took considerable skill.
“You just missed your daughter,” I said.
“She didn’t wait?” he asked, lowering the book and pausing at my desk. He smelled good, familiar, like pine and mint. He was wearing fitted slacks and a blue button-down shirt that matched his eyes.
I realized that my eyes were traveling up his body, so I quickly shuffled some papers on my desk, averting my gaze. “She thought you were going to take longer.”
“I thought I might. Better to underpromise than overpromise in these types of situations.”
I stopped mid-paper-shuffle, hoping he meant what he said. If he was underpromising me so I wouldn’t get my hopes up, maybe our talk about my future here would go even better than I anticipated. “Is now a good time to discuss things?” I said. His afternoon schedule seemed pretty open.
He rested his hand on my desk, leaned down, then said in a low voice, “You look beautiful today, by the way. And yesterday…” His eyes went to my blouse as if he was reminding me that yesterday I had undone one too many buttons.
I shifted in my seat as a shiver went down my spine and settled between my legs. No. We were keeping this professional. I was focusing on my goals. “Thank you, but that’s not what I meant.”
“I’ll be in my office,” he said, and left.
I knew why he said that. It’s what he always used to say when he wanted me to follow him.
Marjorie, you will stay in your chair until you have yourself under control.
Margot was not short for Marjorie, but every time I was contemplating something stupid, I used that name on myself.
My dad sometimes called me Marjorie. As if my name didn’t have enough syllables, didn’t hold enough weight.
Maybe that was the problem. I was one syllable short of being taken seriously in life.
Thinking of my dad was supposed to snap me out of my terrible thoughts.
I took a deep breath. It did.
I was good. The flutter in my stomach was all but gone. I could do this. Other people didn’t decide my fate, my sister used to tell me often. I did.
I stood and faced the hall. I would talk to him about my future, not our future.
The office phone rang, stopping me short.
Maybe other people did control my fate.