Chapter 5
five
Work is hectic the next day due to a glitch with the rollout of a new customer claims app.
I’m a senior project manager for a large insurance company.
The job suits me because every day is different, and I never know when I sit down at my computer what’s going to happen.
I’m a problem solver and a fixer by nature, so having a job where I get to flex both of those muscles daily is a good fit.
The fact that it pays well, I get to work from home in pajamas, and most of my communication with others is done electronically is also a bonus.
The fact that my manager, Mark, is inordinately confident but achingly incompetent is not.
I’m on a conference call with our small team now. “Sophie, Martin Mendoza is not happy. Martin is Director of Central States Claims,” Mark explains.
I’ve worked for this company for eight years, and Martin has been in his position since before I arrived.
I’m well aware. Mark loves to restate the obvious, because getting into the weeds where the details lie would shed light on how little he knows.
He’s been with the company for six months and hasn’t learned a thing.
He used to work for a grocery distributor.
He only got the job because he’s the golfing buddy of the commercial lines vice president.
“Several Texas agents still can’t open the survey link on their agency websites. What are you doing about that?” He’s the opposite of calm under pressure. “I should just get Phil on this. He would’ve had it done already.”
I don’t correct him, because it would fall on deaf ears.
Phil is the reason the links aren’t working.
If he hadn’t circumvented my final review and approval and gone straight to Mark to authorize release, we wouldn’t be in this mess.
Everything Phil touches turns into a big pile of steaming dog shit that the rest of us are left to clean up.
The company, in theory, is big on team culture, all for one and one for all.
That vanished when Mark appeared. The shift was jarring and turnover was immediate.
I’m the sole woman left on the team; all the rest moved on.
I’ve reported him to HR, and I know he has it out for me too.
Sometimes I think I stay only to be a thorn in his side.
“I thought this was supposed to be done an hour ago. Martin Mendoza is not hap—”
He’s repeating again, so I cut him off by clearing my throat. “Seth’s almost done. What’s the ETA, Seth?”
“Gimme ten, Sophie. I’m almost there,” Seth responds. Seth is newish, but he knows his stuff. I like him. Mostly because he isn’t sexist and has a functioning brain. The bar is low.
Mark sighs like the answer isn’t the one he wants.
His micromanaging is wasting precious time and delaying resolution. A quick message to our group chat asking for an update would’ve been sufficient. Conference calls make him feel important, though.
Twisting my unruly hair and sliding a pencil through the knot to secure it, I shake my head at the cell phone lying on the table and circle my hand in the air in the universal sign for hurry-this-up-already.
“Okay,” Mark finally says, reluctantly. “But keep me posted, Sophie. I need to know the moment this is fixed. Martin Mendoza is not happy.”
I want to bang my head against my laptop, but instead, I say, “Will do,” in my best team-player voice and hang up.
I work at the dining table off the kitchen, and Lola is standing at the stove making spaghetti, so she heard the entire conversation. “I wonder, do you think Martin Mendoza is unhappy?”
Frustration suppresses my grin, but it wants to break free.
“Fucking hell, that guy doesn’t know when to shut up,” she continues.
“Succinct, he is not,” I agree. Lola’s heard plenty of venting about Mark, so she knows what he’s like.
"How goes the slog of monotony today? I see you spiced it up with your reindeer jammies. How very out of season, you rebel." Lola wiggles her eyebrows to reinforce the sarcasm.
"I need to do laundry, and today has been predictably nonstop. Mark started bitching about nothing two hours earlier than he normally does and then bitching about an actual emergency, managing to only make it worse. So, a normal Tuesday."
“It’s Thursday,” Lola corrects.
“Yeah, whatever. They kinda blur together.”
"You’re livin’ the dream, Soph," she mocks.
I flip her off and she smiles. "It's not all bad.
I have stability," I say, not saying the other part. That for a long time we didn't have that, and while it wasn’t monotonous, it was terrifying. Boring has been won hard-fought. Even if I wonder if it’s contributed to rapidly aging my soul.
There wasn't time for fun before. My days were spent weighing decisions that kept our little trio safe.
I didn't take risks because nothing has ever been worth it before, personally or professionally.
“You should have his job, Soph.”
I shrug. I applied. They said I didn’t meet the qualifications because I don’t have a degree. They hired Mark instead. I’m still bitter.
Before she can respond, a message pings in from Seth.
Done.
Mark could learn from Seth, the master of concise, precise communication.
By the time I’m done testing each of the links on the agency websites to ensure everything is working the way it should and call Mark, dinner is on the table.
“Did Good Guy message you back?” Lola asks while we eat. Benji is at a friend’s house working on posters for an upcoming community fundraiser, and Mabel is out of town for a few days visiting a friend, so it’s only the two of us.
I pause, a heaping fork of spaghetti halfway to my mouth, and glare. I’d forgotten and haven’t been on Instagram all day. “Don’t know,” I say before shoveling in the noodles.
The look on her face is incredulous. “You don’t know? You haven’t checked?”
I shake my head and then say, “I was kinda busy putting out fires all day. This is really good,” pointing my fork to my plate. Because it is.
“Thanks, it’s my secret recipe.”
“Prego?” I guess. No doubt it’s from a jar because Lola isn’t the type to make sauce from scratch.
She shakes her head. “Bertolli. The new kind with the added veggies blended in. I had a coupon.” Then she realizes she’s been distracted. “Back to Good Guy. Finding out who this guy is, is top priority.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She ponders for a minute while she soaks up some sauce with a piece of garlic bread. “Dunno, I just have a feeling.”
The fine hair on my arms stands on end. I don’t believe in clairvoyance, but I can’t deny that over the years she’s predicted or seen things coming that I have no logical explanation for. I rub my forearm to tame the prickle. “Like a good feeling? Or a bad feeling?”
She purses her lips and pulls them to one side while she thinks. I must look worried because she hurriedly says, “It’s not bad. I can’t explain it, but I have this nagging feeling that this person is supposed to be in your life.”
“In my life, how?” I saved my garlic bread for last, and I’m mopping up the sauce and making a mess in the process.
“Like a friend I never knew I was missing and who will somehow complete me? Or like an organ donor because I don’t know it yet, but my kidneys are lemons so I’ll need to borrow one from this generous soul in a few years? ”
She rolls her eyes like I’m being ridiculous. “No. I’m the friend who already completes you.”
“You’re my sister.”
“I’m both. And you don’t need Good Guy for a kidney; I’d give you mine. Obviously.”
“Are we having a moment?” I ask. That was sweet.
She wipes her mouth with a napkin because she’s wearing sauce like a mustache. “Shit, I think we might be.” And then she jumps back into the discussion. “Maybe he’s your soulmate. Or at the very least, a wildly satisfying night of kinky sex.”
I look at her skeptically. “He could be seventy. And live in New Zealand.”
“Or he could be thirty and live two miles away. Stranger things have happened. Think positive.”
“I’m allergic to positivity. It makes my throat swell, and I get these red bumps on my—” I’m trying to joke, but she’s not having it.
“Just think, this guy could actually be good, super-hot, and amazing in bed. Like he popped straight out of a Max Monroe novel.”
“I don’t think those men exist in real life. Has anyone ever told you you’re a dreamer?” I ask.
She nods. “Frequently. That’s irrelevant.”
“I think we’re getting carried away, and I should just be logical and keep him in my back pocket for the spare kidney.”
She finally cracks a smile because she knows she won’t convince me to dream with her. “Seriously, where do you think he lives? If you had to guess?” When I don’t answer right away, she says, “Play along. Humor me.”
I sit back in my chair, finished with my food, and think. “Hmm, I think he lives in the U.S.”
Lola loves my answer; I can see it in her eyes. “Me too. How old do you think he is?”
This is a harder question. I’ve thought about this one. Usually there are more clues in photos. “I’m not sure. Not under twenty, judging by the content of his photos.”
“Are you Gen Z bashing?”
“I’m absolutely not Gen Z bashing, the greatest creatives to come along in a very long time fall in that demographic.
I’m just saying that snowy cabin and old dog photos might point toward someone a little older.
And the perspective of the photos, something about it makes me think…
” I’m not sure how to finish my thought.
“They give you old soul vibes?” Lola offers.
I shrug. “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yeah.”
A soft smile breaks out. “That’s how your photos feel. Like you see things the rest of us don’t.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
She nods. “Always. So, how old is Good Guy? What does your gut tell you?”
I prop my elbow on the table next to my plate and rest my chin in my palm. “Forty. Maybe that’s wishful thinking.”
She wiggles her eyebrows like a cartoon character. “Forty could be sexy. And you always go for older guys. Check your messages. I’m dying here.”
I do. Nothing. “You scared him off.”
She pushes her chair back and stands to clear the dishes from the table. “Pssh. Something’s coming. We could always set you up a Tinder account, in case he’s only here for the organ transplant, and he’s not a sex god who lives two streets away.”
I throw my balled-up napkin at her. “I draw the line at Tinder. No more dating apps for me. That’s how I met Chance, and you saw how well that worked out.”
Hours later, I’m in bed ready to sleep but get the sudden urge to open my messages. The smile that stretches across my face when I see he replied two minutes ago is involuntary. So is the thing that’s happening in my chest. Maybe it’s heartburn from the spaghetti sauce.
Good Guy
I’m not sure how I can say no to that. Let’s save the world!
I take a chance he’s still on and message him back.
Persuasion into insta-friendship due to fear of retribution from the universe was going into this a little heavy-handed. I apologize for that added pressure.
I should probably tell him I didn’t write the initial message, but I’ll wait and see where this goes if he responds again.
… appears on my screen.
Holy shit.
Good Guy
I wholeheartedly appreciate heavy-handed humor.
I haven’t laughed that hard in a long time.
I’ve been scrolling through your photos today.
(Over and over again if I’m being honest. I hope that doesn’t make me sound creepy.
I promise I’m harmless.) I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you’re really talented.
You’re kind. And possibly farsighted?
Good Guy
Nope, my eyesight is 20/20. Seriously, you have a gift. Are you a professional photographer?
*makes note to schedule you an eye exam anyway* Not at all. It’s a hobby that keeps me borderline sane. How about you?
Good Guy
Am I sane? Or a photographer?
Both?
Good Guy
Neither.
His replies are quick and funny. The laughter rumbles in my chest, replacing the heartburn, when I respond.
Ha! Damn, I think the universe was right, and we are supposed to be friends. You’re really talented too. You have a great eye for light and space and subject matter.
Good Guy
Thanks. I have hundreds of photos but never share any of them. I don’t know, I kind of like the idea of keeping something for my eyes only and not sharing it with a world that always craves more from us than it should.
I completely understand. I only set up this account because I got tired of my sister hacking into my phone so she could look at my photos. Most of my followers are family. It’s a good way to stay connected.
Good Guy
Without sharing anything personal.
It’s not a question; he’s finishing my thought.
I excitedly whisper my response aloud as I type it.
YES! See, you get it!
Good Guy
Oh, I get it. Believe me. Your handle makes sense now. eye.for.an.I – photos taken only for you. Even though you share them. Clever.
This conversation is so easy; it’s probably a good time to confess.
I should probably admit that my sister is the one who sent you the initial message. Her Spidey-sense thought we should be friends.
Good Guy
So, she’s still hacking?
Meddling. Lovingly? Aggressively?
Good Guy
Perfectly. No regrets here.
Which makes me smile.
I better get to bed. I need to get up early for work. Talk more tomorrow?
Good Guy
Looking forward to it.
I type,
Post a photo, I want to see more.
And then I pause and backspace to delete and replace it with something less, I don’t know, demanding? But I re-type what I erased and hit send.
Good Guy
Will do. Night.
It’s funny how sometimes certain words take on an added dimension when you read them. Most words are just words, but others hit differently. They have weight and a voice. I heard his response.
“Night,” I say to my phone screen like he can hear me too. And then I type,
Night.
I hope it feels as three-dimensional on his end as it does on mine.