Chapter 4
Charlie
There are two pieces of chocolate on my desk Wednesday morning, as if my mysterious Willy Wonka knew today was going to be a testament to my strength. I devour one and set the other aside for later when I’m nearing a bitch fit and need the sugar to calm my anxiety.
The last twenty-four hours have been a scramble to complete as many tasks as possible, and I need every minute until three p.m. to finish the last of the list.
I want to be as prepared as possible for my meeting with Cheryl, especially after trivia night. The last thing I want is for her to believe I neglect my work to go out to bars.
Falling into my chair, I filter through Cheryl’s comments on our manuscript. I ignore the ones that require changing graphs—I do not have it in me today to battle with data analysis software—and make grammar and structural edits.
I’m halfway through the introduction, checking citations, when the silence hits me. It’s never silent in the office, mostly because Mateo hums while he works, much to my chagrin. But right now, it’s too quiet.
I peek around my monitor, which I strategically placed to avoid looking at Mateo, to find his chair empty. His laptop is missing and there’s no coffee mug on his drink coaster, meaning he hasn’t arrived yet.
Mateo always arrives before I do, greeting me every morning with a cocky smile and a “Hi, bruja.” It’s become routine, which I thrive on, and now that I’m aware it’s been broken, it’s not settling well.
Ignoring my many tasks, I search for him so we can perform our song and dance, and I can move on with my life and stop thinking about where he could be or why he hasn’t shown up this morning.
He’s not in the lab, though I scare a poor undergrad. I search the common areas on the first floor, but there’s no sign of his perfect, wavy hair. Midway through typing a panicked text message, I pause when his distinct humming filters from the kitchenette down the hall from our office.
I round the corner with the speed of a racecar at the Indy 500, and there he is, leaning against the counter, his strong fingers wrapped around his diatom coffee mug as he lifts it to his lips.
“Hi, bruja,” Mateo says, and relief washes over me like a cool ocean wave, the odd riot in my stomach settling.
He’s exactly how he always is. Loose linen button-down, rolled up to display the strong, sinewy flesh of his forearms. Perfectly pressed chinos, tight on his thighs. Rainforest-green eyes that glitter beneath the fluorescent light, and wavy, deep-brown hair, not a strand out of place.
I stand like an idiot in the small kitchen’s entryway, staring at him. Why am I relieved to see him? That’s not right. The unsettled feeling returns, but for a different reason.
“You’re not at your desk.”
Mateo’s brow arches high on his forehead .
“Astute observation.” He takes a languid sip of coffee. “Why have you been stomping around the building?”
I bite my lip so forcefully the metallic tang of blood hits my tongue. How could he have possibly known I was running around the building? I didn’t see him anywhere, so how the hell did he see me?
“I don’t stomp,” I deflect. Let’s hope this turns into an argument and he forgets about why I was stomping in the first place.
I’m not explaining to Mateo that I was looking for him because a small, irrational voice in my mind was worried that he was hurt or sick, and the thought unsettled me, so I had to search for him.
I’m not unpacking that. Not with him, and especially not with myself.
We’ll consider it a reaction to my own trauma.
“You do.”
That smug grin appears, and annoyance—a more familiar emotion—washes away my concern.
He assesses me as I linger in the doorway with no logical explanation for being in the kitchenette, so I feign nonchalance and stroll over to the fridge.
A thief has been stealing people’s lunches, and if they took my—
“How are you feeling about your meeting with Cheryl?” Mateo asks, his voice holding an edge of excitement.
I slam the door shut. “What do you know?”
His lip quirks upward on the right side, which is his tell that he knows something. Anxiety churns in my gut.
Normally, I would write off Mateo’s bizarre behavior and go about my business, but one thought has haunted me since her email Monday: I’ve disappointed her by not doing enough, or worse, doing everything poorly.
Did I fuck up and everyone knows but me? Did Cheryl mention my inadequacy to Dan, and now Mateo knows, too?
“Nothing.” He says it with neutrality, but his lip twitches again. “Dan mentioned your meeting with her this morning, that’s all. ”
I’m ready to hurl something at his perfectly symmetrical face. I’ve hit my threshold of overstimulation, and this might be the tipping point.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
The response is petulant, and so is my stomping as I exit the kitchenette, but I’m overwhelmed by the wave of self-doubt, the uncertainty of my meeting with Cheryl, and my unwanted concern for Mateo’s well-being.
I’m halfway to my office when thick fingers curl around my bicep, halting my getaway.
“Charlie, are you all right?”
I stare down at his brown leather boots, weathered and wrinkled from continual wear.
What a loaded question.
Am I all right?
No.
I can’t escape the swirling in my gut, the anxiety and trepidation. I want to be great—no, remarkable—and the pressure, the stakes I place on myself, threaten to consume me today.
Some days, I can meet the expectations head-on and tackle them, but on others, they pummel me until I’m ragged and defeated.
Today, I am being pummeled.
Mateo still has a hold on my bicep, and I gently release myself from his grip.
“I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not the same as being fine ,” he retorts, and I don’t know why, but that pulls a smile from my lips. Maybe it’s because he didn’t ask what’s bothering me, or why, but instead pointed out a flaw in my logic.
I escape into the office and fall into my desk chair to hide from him and his suspicious behavior this morning.
Of course, he follows me and settles into his desk .
He hums while he works, flipping through papers and tapping against his laptop keys.
Settled in the normalcy, I find a steady rhythm and power through my tasks, checking them off one by one until I’m on the last of my list: my meeting with Cheryl.
I collect my things—laptop, notebook, water bottle—one by one to delay the inevitable, and Mateo pauses his work, rises from his seat, and bolts to the door.
As he disappears from view, he calls out, “Have fun in your meeting!”
It will be a miracle if I make it out without throwing up.
My foot taps beneath the oak desk in the middle of Cheryl’s office. Towering bookcases span the back wall, overflowing with dusty textbooks and long-forgotten novels. Soft light filters through the window, cranking the heat in the room and worsening my anxiety sweats.
I glance down at my smartwatch. 3:04 p.m.
The last four minutes have been my personal hell. I’ve watched in silence as Cheryl searches for her glasses, then her special pen, followed by her notebook.
If I didn’t know any better, I would say she’s stalling.
“I finished grading the midterms for BIO 201,” I say to fill the quiet.
“That’s great,” she replies, laser-focused on the door.
A claw clip pulls back her salt-and-pepper hair, and though it’s eighty degrees outside, she’s wearing a purple turtleneck, paired with a chunky teal statement necklace. Matching orchid-purple glasses perch on the bridge of her nose as she reads something on her phone, huffs, then sets it down.
“And I addressed some of the comments on the manuscript. I’m still working on the statistics, but the introduction is done.”
“Wonderful.”
She isn’t focused on me, but rather, continues to watch the door, like Bill Nye the Science Guy will spontaneously appear in the threshold.
Each passing second adds to the discomfort beating in my chest until I’m squirming in my seat.
Her phone dings, and she snatches it, reads a message, peers at me, and then responds on her phone.
Sweat dribbles down my back, and her manic smile aimed in my direction sends a tremor through my body. Why is she looking at me like a villain in an action movie?
The skin around my thumb stings as I scratch at my cuticle.
“Did you have fun at trivia with Mateo?” she asks, returning her phone to the table beside a small sign that reads “How can I kelp you today?”
“Huh?”
The muscles in my face defy my brain, and my jaw falls slack in bewilderment.
“It’s great that you and Mateo are learning to get along.”
The only response I can offer is a grunt, because I wouldn’t say that we “get along.” Trivia was a one-off where the need to crush the rest of the participants outweighed any animosity between us.
I pull out my notebook with flair, hoping it will inspire Cheryl to start the meeting.
“Was there a specific reason you wanted to meet?” I ask, flipping to a clean page. “Is it the manuscript? Lab work? The BIO 201 course?”
Am I spiraling?
Maybe .
“No. No. None of those things.” She waves me off. “I’m just waiting for—" A knock rattles the door, and joy blooms on Cheryl’s face as she calls out, “Come in!”
I’m ready to jump out of my skin, confused as hell, when I hear the two words that send me into a tizzy.
“Hi, bruja.”