4
I’m not a morning person.
My alarm sounds at 7:30 on Monday morning, then 7:39, then 7:48.
Eventually I force my eyes open with a groan, and that’s when I remember I’m not in my apartment.
I don’t have an apartment anymore. Instead I’m in Andy’s spare room, with its cream-colored walls and three sensible office plants.
I don’t know what kinds of plants they are, but they look fairly robust.
I hope I don’t kill them while I’m here.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I approach the mirror above the dresser—and can we talk about how Andy is so meticulously prepared for any scenario that he has a spare dresser with a spare mirror in his spare bedroom?
Who does that? I mean I’m sure he got it all for free off the street on Allston Christmas, but still.
(We don’t have time to get into Allston Christmas right now, but if you’re not from Boston just picture a day where the entire city dumps their old furniture out on the sidewalk for grabs.)
The mirror is Dorian Gray’s portrait. With the weekend’s one-two punch of a dramatic breakup and consecutive late nights, I have certainly looked better. My hair is sleep-mussed, and yesterday’s mascara is a filthy fog over the top inch of my cheeks
But it’s not just that. It’s a mental game, my self-image.
Some days I can convince myself I look pretty, and some days I can’t.
Today is the latter, but it’s not my first rodeo.
I pull on an outfit that requires no ironing, accessories, or confidence: plain black pants and a gray turtleneck.
I run a comb through my hair, grab a Q-Tip to turn yesterday’s mascara into today’s eyeliner, and we’re ready to roll.
Yesterday passed in a daze. I kicked it off by sleeping until noon (who could blame me?)
then proceeded to unpack the rest of the stuff Lia and Nolan brought over.
When dinner rolled around, it felt like the least I could do to treat Andy to some takeout, especially because he refuses to let me pay rent.
Yes, you heard that right. I am living rent-free right now.
So yeah, I got us an absolute feast of takeout last night because he deserves it.
I told Andy it was because he’s “my savior” and he seemed to hate that, so I will be referring to him as my savior as often as possible from now on.
Then the two of us proceeded to stay up way too late, despite having done the same thing the night before with Nolan and Lia, leaving me in my current sorry state of fatigue.
All that goes to say, I’m feeling somewhat low this morning, and planning to basically brush my teeth and head straight to the train.
However, the moment I open my bedroom door I’m seduced by the smell of bacon.
I have several kryptonites, and bacon is one.
(Andy’s two-dimple smile is another, as you know, but that one’s a secret.)
I walk into the kitchen and find Andy riffling through the cabinets with his back to me.
He must have his earbuds in, because he doesn’t react to the creak of the bedroom door.
And even though he works from home and almost never has phone calls let alone video calls, he’s wearing a light blue collared shirt, black pants, and a black leather belt—the embodiment of elective professionalism.
Here’s the other thing about Andy: he’s made up of pieces that shouldn’t fit together.
He’s pretty tall—maybe 6’1”—but kind of all limbs.
He has a nose that’s a little crooked and a little too big, dark hair that can’t quite decide if it’s straight or wavy, and eyes that are so dark brown they’re almost black.
But altogether, it kind of works. And let me tell you, his interesting looks paired with an elusive attitude? Irresistible to the ladies.
The man gets around, that’s all I’m saying.
Only when Andy turns towards the fridge does he finally notice me. He takes out an earbud and runs his fingers through his hair—which he usually only does when he’s nervous, but I guess is just sometimes a reflex?—and says, “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” I inch closer. “Whatchya got cooking there?”
“It’s uh—” He takes out the other earbud and sets both on the counter. “It’s nothing fancy, just bacon and eggs. Want some?”
I glance down at my phone, which says 8:04 AM, and decide I have time for the most important meal of the day. “Best friend, savior, and personal chef. You’re a man of many talents, Andy Walsh.”
“You have to stop,” he says, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. “I’m going to impose a tax every time I hear you say ‘savior’ in this house.”
“What kind of tax?” I ask, taking a seat at the long wooden table.
“Well…” He takes out two plates and begins to serve us both at the stovetop. “When my brother and I got in trouble for fighting as kids, our mom used to make us chop firewood until we made up.”
“You’re joking!”
“I’m really not. She said the physical exertion would give us mental clarity or something. I think she just needed chopped firewood.”
And I can’t help it—I’m laughing out loud. “Oh my god, that explains so much about you.”
“It does?”
“Yes! Like why you’re always going on long runs because it ‘helps you think’ like a Grade A masochist.”
“I thought I was your savior? Now I’m a masochist?” Andy puts a full plate, knife, and fork in front of each of us, then sits down opposite me. I immediately grab a piece of bacon with my fingers and take a bite.
“People can be two things, Andrew. Besides, I thought calling you my savior was a taxable offense.”
“It is. I hope you’re ready for manual labor.” He gestures vaguely about the apartment with his fork.
“Don’t worry, I’m very good with my hands.” I give him an intentionally teasing wink as I lick bacon grease off my fingers. He flicks a piece of egg at me which makes me shriek. And by the time I leave for the train, I have a feeling today is going to be alright.
It’s 8:58 AM when my butt makes contact with the office chair. I may not be Andy-level organized, but at least I’m punctual.
Have you ever been in the staff area for a museum? If not, let me describe it for you.
There’s usually not a special staff entrance or anything, you just come in through the front door and make your way through the exhibits until you get to a staircase that’s stanchioned off to the public.
At the bottom of the stairs you scan your ID badge to enter a set of double doors, and then it’s a pretty standard office setup: a bullpen of cubicles in the middle, with executive offices and meeting rooms around the sides.
I’m not nearly fancy enough to have my own office, but I like my cubicle.
It has a corkboard in it with pictures of NASA and my childhood cats and a few sticky notes for ongoing projects, plus a calendar of “Badass Women in STEM” that Lia bought me as a gag gift but I actually secretly like. February is Mae Jemison.
I log into my email to ease myself into the workday, but the top message already has me leaning towards my computer screen with a furrowed brow.
My boss—who I generally like, by the way—wants me to make a presentation for our board of trustees this week.
Surprise! She described it as “no big deal, just a few slides about what they can expect in the new exhibit and the run-of-show for the launch gala.”
And that’s one of the scariest things I could imagine doing, but I’m completely spineless so I write back, “Of course, no problem! Will have that ready by Friday.”
“Knock knock,” a voice chimes, and I spin to see my work best friend, Mari. (That’s an unofficial designation—I have no idea if she considers me her work best friend or not, but she’s definitely mine.)
Mariane Gomes, Operations Manager, leans into my cubicle in a navy blue pencil skirt and collared white shirt, “no makeup” makeup on her light brown skin, and thick shoulder-length curls.
Her cubicle is right next to mine, and beneath her nametag is a purple sticky note (provided by me) that says “Mariane rhymes with Johnny” with a little smiley face.
(That’s the Cape Verdean pronunciation, in case you didn’t know.)
“I got you something,” she says, smiling as she holds a cardboard coffee cup in my direction.
“Oh my god, really? Thank you.” I take it from her hand with both of mine. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” she waves dismissively. “Dunkin was doing two-for-one for the Pats win.”
“Oh right, weren’t you and Paolo going to the game? Did you have fun?”
“It was freezing, but it was worth it to watch the Giants get their asses handed to them.”
“I’m happy you’re happy,” I offer, having no idea what city the Giants are even from. (These teams play football, right?)
“Anyway, one month until launch day! How are you holding up?”
“I think good,” I reply. “I mean, Shawna just asked me to give a presentation about the exhibit to the board on Friday, so that’s horrifying, but I’m sure it’ll be okay.”
“Oof. Good luck. Our board is a mixed bag.”
“You’ve met them?”
“Only a few. They’re mostly nice, just…” She leans in theatrically to whisper, “don’t be shocked if there are a few huge assholes in the room.”
It’s obviously a joke, so I force a chuckle along with a feeble, “Got it, thanks.”
She straightens up and tilts her head. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem stressed.”
“No, no, yeah, I’m fine. Really. I’ve got my to-do list sorted… mostly.” I shuffle a few sticky notes around on my desk, then meet her eyes again. “It’s all good.”
“Really nothing’s going on? Did you sleep okay this weekend?”
“Well, I mean… Elliot and I broke up on Saturday.”
I realize immediately that I’m oversharing. This is work! I need to keep some things to myself! But there’s no undoing it—Mari’s eyes are already full-moon wide. I quickly add, “I’m totally fine though. Really. Just trying to shake off the brain fog still, I guess.”
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Here—wait.” She holds one finger up before darting out of my cubicle, then returns with her rolling chair dragging behind her. She places it directly next to me and sits down, taking both of my hands in hers as she asks, “What happened?”
And I know she’s just being a nice person. But the force of her worried attention has my chest tightening, and suddenly I can barely control my expression. I just hate when people worry about me. I’m an adult—I should be able to handle my own stuff without making it into other people’s problem.
So I pull my hands back (Sorry, Mariane! I know I’m a jerk!) and say, “Oh, nothing I didn’t see coming. And it really doesn’t matter. I’m doing fine.”
“Okay well, I hope so, because I never liked that guy.”
“Hah, tell me how you really feel.”
“Sorry,” she laughs. “Was that too soon? Do you think you’ll get back together?”
“No, it’s not that.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Just a bit blunt. But we’re not getting back together. I am moving on.”
She quirks one perfectly shaped brow. “Moving on with someone in particular?”
“No, of course not.” I roll my eyes, and I hope it comes off as playful. “It’s been two days.”
“I have ideas if you want to brainstorm.” She scoots in closer and lowers her voice. “Do you know Mitchell in accounting? He’s single and kind of cute—”
I cut her off. “I’m not going to start dating someone else right now. Even if I wanted to, I just moved into my friend’s apartment. I don’t want to be bringing dates around all the time when it’s not even my place.”
“You really think she would mind?”
“It’s a he, and I don’t know.”
“Ohhhhh,” she says, dragging out the syllable like she’s realized something.
“Oh, what?”
She places an index finger over her mouth, then points it my way. “This friend. You’re into him.”
“I’m not!” I immediately yell, then remember where we are and bring my voice down a hundred notches. “I’m not.”
“He’s into you, then?”
“He’s not.”
“He could be,” she insists. “A pretty girl just moved into his apartment. Maybe he’s super into you and just waiting to make his move.”
I shake my head, because it could not be more obvious that Mari doesn’t know Andy at all. “It’s definitely not that.”
“How do you know it’s ‘definitely not that’?”
“Because we’ve talked about it!”
The moment it comes out of my mouth, I know I’ve said too much again—definitely too much for a work environment and definitely too much for my friendship with Mari.
“Wait, really?” she asks. “You asked him if he’s into you?”
“I mean, well, it wasn’t recent or anything. But yeah, in the past I’ve asked him if he wanted to… whatever… and he turned me down. But it was a long time ago and we’re just friends now.”
She gives me a scorching side-eye. “If he’s not into you like that, then why would he be uncomfortable with you dating?”
At this point, my head falls into my hands and I let out an extremely unladylike, “Ughhhhhh, I don’t know! I’m not awake enough yet for this conversation. Can we get back to actual work things please?”
Mari laughs it off—and that really is what I love about her. Then she stands and grabs her chair by the back as she says, “Actually yeah, I have to get ready for my 9:30. But you know you can come to me if you ever need anything, right?”
“Of course. Thanks.” I force myself to smile—and again, I don’t know why I’m so emotionally stunted that I can’t accept friends’ sympathy like a normal person. “Go to your meeting, I’ll talk to you soon.”
As soon as she’s out of sight, I pull out my phone.
Me: Any chance you want to kill me before Friday?
Andy replies immediately.
Andy: Zero chance.
Me: Mmmm…I’m pretty sure you still owe me a favor for coming to Owen’s bday thing with you
Andy: And here I thought letting you live in my apartment rent-free was a favor. Guess not.
Me: *pouty emoji*
Andy: Murder is not an eligible favor.
Me: *double crying emojis*
Andy: Alright, why do you want me to kill you?
Me: I just found out I have to do a presentation for the trustees on Friday and I’m stresseddd
Andy: Do you want to come work on it at the apartment? I can set a timer and remind you to stop worrying every five minutes.
Me: Yes I want that
Me: But no I have to stay here
Me: See you tonight <3