Chapter 22 #2
But those are the only tasks I have for now, so I might as well get busy with them.
I make sure my suitcase is completely invisible under my desk and log out of the computer before making my way over to the break room.
The coffee currently warming on the burner smells rancid, so I pour it out and start brewing a fresh pot while I restock everything.
I pile the creamer and sugar packets high in their baskets, so even if the journalists take some, by my end of my shift it shouldn’t be completely empty.
While that’s done, I run over to see if Ashley needs help with anything, but apparently it’s been a slow news day and there’s nothing that needs delivering. With nothing else to do, I decide it’s time to go get shot down by Carl again.
Obviously, I stop back by the break room on my way to his office and grab him a fresh coffee, fixing it just the way he likes it.
I knock on the half-open door as I enter. “Hi, Carl. I brought you some coffee, and was wondering if there’s anything I can do to help with the next print run.”
He glares up at me from his computer. For someone who is so renowned and good at what he does, he really is a complete grump. You’d think by now I’d stop wishing that he’d just once hint at offering me a smile, but it still disappoints me every time I’m greeted by that sour expression.
He leans over to peer past me. “Brad!” I recoil from the ferocity in his voice.
“Yeah, boss.” Brad leans in the doorway, not even acknowledging that I’m standing right there.
“I have an assignment for you,” says Carl, and my hopes soar before I realize he’s talking to Brad, who has pushed past me to casually seat himself in the chair opposite Carl’s desk. “You still have that contact down at the DOJ, right?”
“They fucking love me down there,” says Brad smugly.
“Good. I need you to look into some allegations. FOIAs obviously, but do it quiet, we don’t want them spooked,” says Carl, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands over his stomach.
Brad leans forward in his own chair, his interest piqued. “What kind of allegations?” They look like two gossiping old ladies. Brad leans forward in his own chair.
Carl stares at me. “What are you still doing in here?” he barks. “Respect confidentiality and go do something useful.”
I can’t argue against confidentiality, especially if the conversation involves allegations and FOIA reports, so I shuffle back to my desk.
Everything Carl would deem me useful for is done, so I might as well do schoolwork.
The guys and I did some earlier today at the house, but I haven’t had a chance yet to work on my next article for class.
My professor has been loving my speedcubing series so far, and I want to put an even more community-focused spin on this next one after spending the weekend surrounded by cubers and their families.
The way the guys found each other through cubing competitions, and their families have also become close, gives me a lot to work with.
Found families are especially important for those who don’t always fit in with mainstream society, and ICF is meeting this need for a specific subset of the population in a way that’s not talked about nearly enough.
Once again, as soon as I walk into our dorm room, Ronnie sits up straighter on her bed and stares expectantly at me. There’s another sandwich and a bag of chips sitting in the center of my desk.
I roll my eyes at her continued blatant attempt to hold me hostage until I give her all the information she wants, but it’s also a little funny. All she’s missing is the interrogation spotlight, and I wouldn’t put it past her to make one out of one of our desk lamps.
Shoving my suitcase into the corner, I make sure the wheels aren’t touching anything else in the room and then plop down at my desk.
“Soooo,” she drawls, ‘‘“how was your romantic weekend away?”
“It wasn’t a romantic weekend away,” I remind her. “It was the national ICF competition.”
“It was a weekend away with your boyfriends, so it’s automatically romantic,” she says, waving off my explanation.
“They’re not my boyfriends.” How many times do I have to say it before she’ll believe me?
I grab the sanitizing wipes I’d bought earlier in the week from my desk drawer and wipe down the entire desk and my hands. Then I open the sandwich wrapper and smooth it out to create a small plate, pouring chips onto one half while the sandwich sits on the other.
I look up to see Ronnie staring at me like I’ve done something weird.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She sits back against the headboard with a smirk. “I’ve just never seen you do that, is all.”
Never seen me do what, eat a sandwich? I try to remember if I’ve ever wiped down the desk before using it to eat off of, or ensured there is a defined line between two different foods so they’re not touching.
I suppose I haven’t, at least not in front of Ronnie, but this is something the guys do—either because none of them like their foods touching or because they know that it bothers Elliot and they want to make his life easier—and I guess I’ve picked it up after two weekends in a row of sharing meals with them.
Shrugging my shoulder, I pop a chip in my mouth and sit down. It’s not worth making a big deal out of it.
“So, how did your definitely-not-romantic getaway go?” Ronnie asks, fidgeting with the pages of the magazine beside her, but keeping all her attention focused on me.
“It was good,” I say between bites. “The guys did well in their events. They didn’t win first in the team relay, which was unfortunate, but they podiumed.”
“They must be ecstatic.”
“Mmmm.” I tilt my head back and forth while I finish chewing to convey my meaning.
“They’re not unhappy, but they’re disappointed to have come in second.
They had some good solves, but some of the scrambles had a lot more layers or algorithms to memorize and they were pushing themselves to shorten their inspection times. ”
“Is it important to this conversation that I understand anything you just said?”
“No.” I chuckle because I wouldn’t have fully understood what I just said a couple of weeks ago.
“Okay, good, because I didn’t,” says Ronnie, checking her nails. “But it’s cool that they did so well.”
“I’m proud of them,” I admit. I’ve told the guys that, but it’s different admitting it out loud to someone else. Saying it to them feels a little like I’m doing it because I’m supposed to, even if it’s the truth. Saying it to Ronnie feels more important, somehow. “They’ve worked hard for this.”
“So, because they did so well, are they like the cool kids of that crowd?”
I’ve never stopped to think about if they’re cool or not in their cubing circles. I would think so, being both talented and also sweet and kind and caring. But I don’t really know.
I also don’t really care. They’re good friends to each other and respectful to everyone, even that asshole Stephen. It doesn’t matter to me if they’re the life of the party or not. I don’t even like parties.
“The guys definitely knew a lot of the other competitors, but I only really saw them talk to two of them,” I say. “Most of their social time with the others probably happened backstage, so I didn’t get to see how they interact with the other competitors.”
I also don’t really care. They’re good friends to each other and respectful to everyone, even that asshole Stephen. It doesn’t matter to me if they’re the life of the party or not. I don’t even like parties.
“And how did they interact with you when there was nobody around to see? Did your cube get solved, by chance?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.
The comment startles a laugh out of me, causing me to nearly spit out my most recent bite. I throw a chip at her in retaliation.
The chip lands right down her shirt between her boobs. Unphased, she reaches right in there, pulls it out, and pops it in her mouth.
“You’re incorrigible.” I shake my head, not surprised that Ronnie would just casually eat a boob chip like that.
“You mispronounced ‘fun.’” Ronnie grins and scoots closer to the edge of the bed and me.
There’s no way I’m going to win with a comeback to that comment, so I simply take another bite of my sandwich. It’s not as good at the ones the guys make, but I’m hungry.
“Oh, come on, that was funny.” Ronnie pouts. “What’s not funny is the way you won’t give me any details.”
“You don’t like the satisfaction being drawn out? Being teased?” I say with mock seriousness as I eat another chip.
A laugh bursts out of her. “Look at you! Making a sexual joke! I rather like this side of you. These guys are really good for you.”
“They’ve certainly been helpful and inspirational for my column series for class,” I agree.
“And your list,” she adds.
If Ronnie knew just how helpful and inspirational they were being in that department, she’d never shut up about it. Just thinking about the things we’ve enjoyed together has me blushing, which does not go unnoticed.
“Speaking of the list. How far down it are you?” she pushes, a teasing note still in her voice, but it’s obvious she wants this girl talk so badly.
“Pretty far.” I know I’m going to have to give her something more than that, but I don’t want to go into all the sexy details. It’s private, and I like it being just between me and my guys.
“Pretty far or all the way?”
I want to hide my face so badly, but I have chip grease on my hands so I just pick at my sandwich crust and don’t say anything. My refusal to answer or meet her eye tells her all she needs to know.
She squeals and leaps off the bed to hug me from behind. “Congratulations!”
“It’s not a big deal.” Or at least, I don’t want to treat it like a big deal.
“If it was a big deal though, how big are we talking?” Ronnie slowly moves her hands apart in front of me.
Laughing, I slap her hands away so I can finish eating the sandwich she got me. She’s so ridiculous, and I love her for immediately making it a joke so I’m not feeling quite so put on the
spot. She always knows how to lighten the mood when I get too serious.
“No, it can’t have been that big,” says Ronnie in a fake shocked voice. “That’s two, maybe three feet.”
“Like I said, incorrigible.” I take a bite, hoping the conversation will drop and Ronnie will find literally anything else to talk about now that I’m home.
“Fun,” she corrects me again. “I’m fun.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.” She checks her phone. “Trevor is downstairs, so I have to go, but you eat up. I’m sure you need to refuel after all the calories you burned this weekend.” At the last minute before she closes the door behind her, she pokes her heads back in and adds, “With your boyfriends.”
I throw another chip at her, but it bounces off the door as she closes it, and I can hear her cackling all the way down the hall.
That girl. I swear, her friendship is the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me.