9. Nine
Nine
Agatha
W e'd seen each other the last three days straight, but I made dinner today. I loved spending time with him. He was the D to my Ork, and I wanted more. But something weird was in the air, and a pit formed in my stomach. I nudged a stray noodle with my fork, the clink of cutlery against the plate breaking the comfortable silence. Arnold's eyes flitted around the table, his hands fumbling with the edge of a napkin.
"Agatha," he started, and I knew that tone. Serious. Like he was about to dive into the deep end without checking for water. He caught his breath, blue eyes locking onto mine. "Are you gonna keep doing it? The phone stuff with other guys?"
A lump formed in my throat. I swirled my wine glass, watching the red liquid dance but not daring to take a sip. My heart raced, thumping against my chest like it wanted out. This was the moment, wasn't it? The big reveal was that Dorky Agatha had to justify Angel Sinclair's existence.
"Arnold, I..." Words tangled on my tongue. I set the glass down, a little too hard, wine sloshing dangerously close to the edge. "It's what I do."
His face tightened, those sandy strands falling across his forehead as if trying to shield him from the answer he already knew but hoped to never hear. I reached across, my hand hovering over his. I wanted to bridge that gap, to smooth the creases of concern etched between his brows. But my hand dropped to my lap, defeated.
"Does it make you uncomfortable?" My voice was quieter now, barely above a whisper. I could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and expectant.
"Agatha, I just... it's hard." His fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening. "You're with me, but then you're not, you know?"
I nodded, even though part of me wanted to shake him, to scream that Angel was just a persona. That the woman he had dinner with, the one who spilled sauce on her blouse and laughed too loud at bad jokes, she was real. She was right here. But instead, I stayed silent, the remnants of our meal a battleground we weren't prepared to fight on.
I swallowed the last bite of my noodles, the slurp loud in the silence. I wished I had more. Anything to shove in my mouth to avoid how he looked at me right now. The question hung in the air, a dare I couldn't ignore. My eyes snapped to his, surprise flickering before I squashed it down.
"Of course," I said, reaching for the napkin and dabbing at my lips. "It's my career, Arnold."
He leaned back, chair legs protesting with a soft squeak against my kitchen tiles. His face, an open book a moment ago, was now folded into lines I couldn't read. Hurt, maybe. Jealousy? Definitely.
"But why?" He ran his hand through his hair, a nervous tick I'd come to recognize. "Other guys, Agatha. When you're with me?"
I fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth, avoiding the intensity of his blue gaze. The words came out all wrong, too sharp, too defensive.
"Because it's not real. They're just voices on the other end of a line. I've been doing this a long time, Arnold. It's what bought me this place. My things. My freedom."
"Voices," he echoed, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the tabletop. "But they get to hear Angel, the side of you that... I hoped it was just for us. You know... when we got together."
"Arnold, it's different." I wanted him to understand and see beyond the job to the woman who fumbled through dates and tripped over the air when nervous. "With you, it's real. Angel doesn't even exist."
He pushed his chair away from the table, the scrape loud in the quiet apartment. His eyes searched mine, looking for something I wasn't sure I could give.
"Is it?" His voice broke just a little, betraying the hope he'd clung to. "Because right now, it doesn't feel that way."
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling the heat creep up my neck. "You knew what I did for a living when we started this, Arnold." My voice sounded more like a hiss, even to my own ears. "It's just a job. It has nothing to do with us."
His hands hovered above the table as if he wanted to reach out but thought better of it. "I know, but hearing you talk..." His voice trailed off, and he swallowed hard. "It makes me feel... jealous."
"Jealous?" My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn't how the night was supposed to go. We'd laughed over burnt lasagna, and now this? I knew I should have put myself on vacation and not answered when BigDick69 called. But he was a big payday, and I hadn't worked for almost a week. I thought he'd have been okay with it. I'm not Angel. I'm Agatha. Real. Awkward. Dorky.
"Yeah." He looked down, scuffing his shoe against the leg of the chair. "The thought of other men hearing Angel is uncomfortable."
"Look at me, Arnold." I waited until those blue eyes met mine again. "Those guys, they don't mean anything. It's not real."
"Doesn't change how it feels." He leaned against the back of his chair, arms folded, mirroring my stance. "Doesn't stop the images in my head, Agatha. You being intimate, even if it's just your voice."
"Intimate?" I scoffed, but the word knotted in my stomach. "Arnold, you're making it sound like I'm cheating."
"Am I?" His gaze never wavered, and the question hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
I leaned in, my palms flat on the table. My heart raced, but I needed him to understand. "Look, this is work—strictly business. I clock in, do my thing, and clock out. There's no attachment."
Arnold stood abruptly, his chair skittering back. He towered over me, a storm brewing in his eyes. "But it's intimate, Agatha! Your voice, those words—it's like you're giving a piece of yourself away."
"Intimate?" The word echoed in my head, mocking. "It's an act, Arnold. Theater of the mind." My hands shook, but I clasped them together, trying to appear calm.
"An act?" His voice rose, a touch of incredulity breaking through. "How can you say that when you pour so much into it?"
"Because that's what it takes to be good at it!" I shot back, my voice louder than intended. Heat crept up my neck; my skin flushed with frustration.
He paced, short strides filled with nervous energy. "I can't help picturing it—your sultry tone, the breathy whispers..."
"Stop!" I cut him off. "Just stop. It's not real. What do we have? That's real. You're who I want, not some faceless guy on the line."
"Then why does it feel like you're slipping through my fingers every time you pick up the phone?" His voice cracked, raw emotion spilling over. "May I remind you, I was a faceless guy on the line. I was the guy you talk to every night."
I stood, too, our gazes locked in a silent battle. We were both lost, stumbling through a minefield of insecurity and desire. He was right. How could I convince him that he's the only one I've ever done this with? I don't think he'd believe me even if I tried.
My chest heaved, the air thick with tension. I could see Arnold's jaw clench, his eyes searching for something in mine that wasn't there.
"Arnold, this is me." My voice broke through the silence, each word like a brick in the wall I was building. "This job, my career—it's part of who I am."
He blinked, his eyes clouded with confusion and hurt. He looked like someone trying to decipher a foreign language without a dictionary.
"If you can't accept that," I continued, the words tumbling out faster now, "maybe we're not meant to be." The room spun slightly as I let the ultimatum hang between us.
His lips parted, but no sound came out. A battle waged behind those glasses, a storm of emotions he couldn't quite quell. His hand ran through sandy hair again, the gesture a mix of frustration and disbelief.
Regret flickered across his face suddenly, like a shadow passing over the sun. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness.
"Agatha, I—" He stopped short, the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air like a promise unkept.
I watched him struggle; his whole body tensed as if preparing to sprint away from whatever monster lurked inside his head.
"Angel..." It was barely a whisper, my professional name slipping out from his lips like a plea for the persona he fell for, not the real, awkward woman standing before him.
"Angel's not here, Arnold." I bit down on my lip, fighting the tremble in my voice. "It's just Agatha. Clumsy, ordinary Agatha."
His gaze dropped to the floor, and his hands found his pockets, a sanctuary from the turmoil. He took a step back, the distance between us a chasm now. Silence filled the room, suffocating, as the weight of his jealousy and insecurity bore down on him.
"Sorry," he murmured to the ground. The word hung in the air.
My heart clenched, twisted up in a mess of affection and exasperation. I wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap, but my arms stayed glued to my sides. Arnold was lost in thought, a man coming to terms with his own shadows.
He needed time. We both did.
Cheeks red, eyes darting away from mine, Arnold fumbled with the words tumbling out of him.
"Agatha, I... I'm sorry."
His hand raked through sandy hair, movements jerky and uncoordinated as he backed toward my front door. The apology hung awkwardly between us, a bandage over a wound too deep.
"Arnold, wait—"
The plea died on my lips. He twisted the knob, a quick glance thrown my way, his face contorted in pain. And just like that, he was gone, out into the dim light of my apartment hallway.
I stood there, feet glued to the spot, heart pounding against my ribcage. The door clicked shut, and the silence screamed. I moved then, shuffling forward, peering through the peephole.
I caught the tail end of his retreat, lanky frame disappearing around the corner. His head was down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, the very image of defeat.
"Damn it." My voice bounced off the walls, empty and alone.
My back met the cool wood of the door, and I slid down. Knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight around them. I buried my face in my arms, breaths coming out in short huffs.
What just happened? How did we get here? I thought things were good. We were good. Those days spent together weren't lies. Goddamn. I shouldn't have answered the fucking phone.
A sinking feeling settled in my stomach, a mix of guilt and what-ifs tangling up inside me. The taste of our argument lingered, bitter and unresolved.
"Great job, Agatha," I muttered under my breath. "Really nailed that one."
I closed my eyes, replaying the scene over and over. Arnold's face, the hurt etched across it, haunted me. The way his insecurities had spilled out, raw and exposed, made my own doubts rear their ugly heads.
We were a mess. A pair of nerds fumbling through something that felt too big for either of us to handle.
Get it together, girl. I pressed my palms to my eyes, willing away the sting.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Time to think, to figure out where to go from here. But my mind was a jumble of thoughts and emotions, none of them pointing to a clear path forward.
Tomorrow. I'll figure it out tomorrow.
For now, I needed the quiet, the stillness. Just me and the echo of his departure bouncing off the walls.