Chapter 9 Molly
Molly
I’ve had a lot of time to think about the series of events and variables that led to our unfortunate end and have gone back and forth on whether the catastrophe was my fault.
Well, it’s certainly not my fault that he cheated on me–he made his choices–but I didn’t even see it coming and that does seem like a me problem.
I sometimes comb through old photos of us and try to put myself in that moment, seeking signs that my fiancé and partner of five years was cheating.
Only, I still can’t find them. Matt was happy, I thought, and I know I was happy.
We were going on dates and giggling in bed at night; it’s not like we weren’t having sex or weren’t kissing each other goodbye in the morning.
The day before I found out he was cheating, we met up for pizza at our favourite spot and he told me we should name our first son Vince in honour of Vinny’s Pizza.
And all the while, he was going back to work and having sex with his colleague Luce in his office? Insane behaviour.
Perhaps the worst part is that when I found out and immediately started packing a suitcase to stay at Hailey’s, he didn’t understand why I was so upset.
I’m not marrying her, he said, as if this absolved him. I’m marrying you! I love you! I’d never want to own a house with her, or share a bank account with her, it’s just sex.
Five years together and, somehow, he never brought up his stance on ‘ethical nonmonogamy’. When I asked him if he’d be upset if I was sleeping with my coworkers, though, he really thought about it and then said I’d probably have a harder time not getting attached, so I shouldn’t.
Delusional. Literally delusional. I was five months away from marrying the guy.
I can’t help thinking that I’m just a poor judge of character.
Hailey is always trying to find someone for me, but it feels safer to avoid dating altogether.
If I don’t go on dates, I can’t start liking someone, and if I can’t start liking someone, I won’t hate myself for trusting the wrong person again.
So, I tuck my phone into my desk drawer, muting my texts and this week’s plea for double dating someone new.
I will start dating again. One day. I miss the companionship, the sex, and having a person that was… mine. Someone I could go to with all my gossip and tiny woes. Not yet, though. Not until I get my life together, whatever that looks like.
For now, I need to focus on the task at hand: extension cords.
Everyone keeps complaining about not being able to find anything when we get quick turnaround equipment requests, so I’ve been reorganising one of the supply shelves while stewing on the failings of my love life.
Last on the list is the big clear tub of extension cords on the top shelf, which are just barely out of my reach.
I press onto my toes, holding my breath while I try to gain purchase on the piece of the tub that’s sticking out over the ledge. It moves an inch, and I would celebrate, but there’s a lot more to go so I swing my arms and try again.
Another inch.
Cool, so I’ll get this box down at some point today, maybe. There’s a sheen of sweat covering my face and chest, but I guess this is better than the annoying tickets Ryan’s been assigning me this week–or this month, this year.
I repeat the process two more times, until the tub teeters almost off balance enough to fall towards me. I greatly miscalculate, though, because when I stretch to knock it one more time, it tips off the shelf towards me just as I’m trying to catch my balance.
I gasp and brace for impact, only for two hands to reach from behind me to catch the box before it can brain me. I know it’s Elijah before I even turn around.
He lifts the box easily and deposits it on the ground next to us.
‘Your unwillingness to ask for help, or even a stepladder, astounds me,’ he says. His gentle ribbing surprises me almost as much as his sudden proximity to me in this storage closet. I take a step backwards only to trip on one of the carboard boxes I’d emptied.
One of his hands snatches the back of my elbow and tugs me towards him before I can fall right onto my ass. God, and now we’re standing even closer together.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble and shake his grip off my arm.
‘Any time.’
We stand in the quiet closet for the space of three breaths, him saying nothing, just smiling in that friendly, affable way he has. I shift on my feet and try not to wring my hands.
‘Did you need something, or…?’
‘Oh.’ Elijah snaps to attention. ‘Right, no, was just walking to the kitchen and saw your life flash before my eyes.’
‘Death by extension cord,’ I muse and his eyes sparkle with amusement. ‘Well, then, I’ll just…’
I gesture to the remaining items for me to organise.
‘Would you like some help?’
‘Not particularly,’ I say, though if it was Devi asking it would have been an eager and grateful yes.
‘Right.’ Elijah watches me for another long moment until I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Right,’ he echoes and steps out of the closet, making me feel like maybe I can breathe now.
‘Hey,’ I call, stopping him before he can retreat too far. He whirls around. ‘What were you getting in the kitchen?’
Elijah opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. I’ve never seen him get something from the kitchen, so I’m tempted to call bullshit and say he was just coming to bother me. ‘Kenneth told me he hides some of the good coffee pods in the back of the drawer by the microwave.’
I gasp, scandalised and thrilled to learn this. I’ve always thought that the best of the pods disappear way too quickly, but I thought someone might have been pocketing them. ‘That little shit.’
‘Well, now you know where to find them.’ Elijah holds his finger up to his lips and winks–winks!–before walking away.
It’s not until I’m halfway through sorting the cords that I remember I’ve never seen him drink coffee.
I am drafting a short story about a bag of speaking clementines in my journal when Jen, the department manager, peers over my cubicle and sing-songs my name like she’s really happy to see me. This is how she sounds when she wants something; I know her tells.
‘Jen,’ I say, no lack of suspicion in my tone. I slide the journal into my desk drawer and swivel to face her.
‘Molly Mae,’ she says, though Mae is not my middle name.
Jen is a tall Black woman in her forties with better style than basically anyone in the department.
She has a bright pink mug that says Girl Boss on her desk and, to be fair, she really is a heavy hitter around here, so I think she’s earned the title.
‘Can you invite Elijah to happy hour?’ she asks.
‘Absolutely not.’ He was on the email like the rest of us.
‘Don’t be like that. He didn’t come to the last one and hasn’t RSVP’d yet, so I think he might not come unless you invite him. He likes you!’
‘He likes Kenneth.’ I point to the wall separating my desk from Kenneth’s and, sure enough, hearing his name beckons him to stand up and join the conversation.
‘Who likes Kenneth?’ he asks.
‘Elijah. Go invite him to happy hour,’ I tell him.
‘Nah, you should invite him. You’re his favourite,’ he says. I throw my hands up, not sure where everyone got this idea that Elijah likes me more than anyone else when I’m four times as mean as any person he comes in contact with on a given day. And I’ve been thinking I should be worse.
The pair share a look and then stare at me expectantly until I let out a heavy sigh and stand up.
They’ll keep pestering me about it until I do, and the happy hour is tonight so it’s now or never.
I adjust my skirt and walk towards his office.
With Halloween next week, Devi has hung little bats around the office, and they swing slightly as the heater hums through the vents, bringing with it the smell of hot dust and winter.
The basement is a unique part of Drummond–cosier, somehow.
I think Devi is mostly to thank, but even the cubicles are more decorated than on other floors. Marginally less corporate.
I pull my shoulders back and look over my shoulder at where Jen and Kenneth are watching me like I’m their favourite reality show. I groan inwardly and then knock on Elijah’s door, which is open a crack.
‘Come in,’ he calls.
When I toe his door open, he’s sitting with a book open next to his computer, obviously reading it while sipping from that green bottle of his. He clicks the straw closed, closes the book and smiles pleasantly at me.
‘Hi, Molly.’
‘Are you slacking off reading… minotaur porn?’ I point at the book, where a woman is enthusiastically clutching a much taller minotaur to her.
Elijah’s eyebrows shoot up as he looks down at the book.
Like he’s surprised by the book he was just reading.
He picks up the paperback, looks at the three printed sides of the cover.
‘I suppose I am,’ he says, then smiles. ‘Fun story.’
‘Do you read monster romance regularly?’ I ask, unable to help myself.
He slides his big desk drawer open and retrieves a paper shopping bag that’s been folded at the top.
I recognise the logo of the bookstore a few blocks from here.
He retrieves two more paperbacks, both with similarly dramatic covers of women embracing inhuman creatures (Sexy Mothman on one, a Sexy Orc on the other).
He glances up at me and we both laugh, quiet little sounds, his almost embarrassed, mine amused. Elijah shrugs and puts the books back in his desk drawer.
‘The bookseller was very persuasive,’ he says by way of explanation.
‘You like to read?’ I ask, then want to kick myself as a reminder that I do not care what he does or doesn’t like.
‘I do,’ he says. ‘Books have always been a companion to me. And they teach so very much about the world. What people fear, where they wish to escape to. Like a reflection of the current consciousness.’
Elijah gives one last look at his minotaur book, and I wonder what he’s gleaned about the societal pulse from its pages.