Chapter 18 Molly
Molly
Yesterday I waited for Elijah to come into work so I could yell at him. I was queasy and anxious about the confrontation that was to ensue. Today, my stomach is flipping for an entirely different reason.
Then last night, outside of my building, he was fervent, almost desperate, even in just the short moments his lips were on mine. It’s dangerous business, kissing Elijah Thorne.
I glance again at the office door, then shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut tight.
Be fucking normal, Molly. This is Elijah I’m thinking about, the man who reads monster smut on his lunch break and may never know the difference between ‘reply’ and ‘reply all’ on an email thread. He’s my most incompetent colleague.
Though, that doesn’t quite feel fair any more–he’s been learning. He keeps a journal with detailed notes; he refers to it before asking me questions, often placing it in front of me and pointing to something for me to clarify before trying to manage a task himself.
He’s not useless, he’s just… learning. And old. At this rate, he’ll be more useful than Ryan by the new year.
So, fine. Elijah is my ancient, sometimes infuriating, hot, vampire coworker. There. Nothing to get all buzzy fingertips and stomach butterflies about.
‘Hey,’ someone says behind me, close to my ear.
I yelp, whirling around in my desk chair to find a bright-eyed Elijah, coat still on and bag slung over his shoulder like he’s just walked in and had to stop by my desk first thing.
He’s wearing a green knit scarf, and his black baseball cap has been replaced with a navy blue one that says Read More Books in a gothic font. It makes me grin.
‘Didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says, still leaning quite close to me. Close like when he asks me a question, but usually I’m not smiling like a fool when he’s asking me about work.
What is wrong with me?
I attempt to wrangle my face into something neutral. ‘I like your hat.’
‘Me too. I got it from that bookstore.’
‘The one where they’ve been peddling you erotica?’
‘The most respectable establishment in this fine city,’ he says, and I’m back to trying to wipe the stupid smile from my mouth. ‘Happy birthday, Molly Marie.’
‘Marie’s not my middle name.’
‘Anne, then?’
‘June,’ I admit. ‘And thank you.’
‘Will you eat lunch with me today, Molly June?’
I sit up straighter, surprised by his forthcoming ask. Aren’t we supposed to be playing this cool? Pretending we’re not eager to see one another? God, it was only a kiss. Two kisses.
‘I usually go to the gym and then eat something on the roof,’ I tell him. ‘But it’s getting too cold, so the cafeteria it is.’
‘Count me in.’
‘Okay,’ I say, acquiescing way too easily.
‘Okay,’ he says, and–honest to God–winks at me before retreating to his office. I hate that I feel a flutter, but I do, I really do.
Is it because he’s a vampire? He said his freaky mind powers don’t work on me, but there’s probably something in vampire lore that makes people who kiss them feel like they have to do it again urgently and immediately. This is the only explanation.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ Kenneth asks from over the wall of his cubicle. He showed up ten minutes late, sipping from his protein bottle, a bag of bagels in his other hand.
‘Nothing,’ I say too quickly.
‘You’re smiling. And when I walked in you and Elijah were huddled together like you were gossiping.’
‘We were talking about you. I bet that you’d wear the baby-blue polo and I was right so now he owes me five dollars,’ I say.
Kenneth ignores me. ‘I knew there was something going on with you, I knew it.’ He whispers this last part with satisfied emphasis on each word and I offer as frigid a glare as I can muster.
‘We were just talking. There’s nothing going on.’
‘Right, okay.’ Kenneth pulls a face like pretend I’m an idiot all you like but I know what I saw.
The worst part is that he’s right, and I do so hate when Kenneth is right, unless it’s about a sports question at trivia. Then it’s okay.
‘Did he get the nerve to ask you out yet or did you have to do it?’ Kenneth asks as he shrugs his coat off and hangs it in his cabinet.
‘It’s not like that,’ I say, patience hanging on by a thread.
I exhale and press the power button on my laptop repeatedly until my fingerprint unlocks it.
I turn to tell him to mind his own business and am met with his arm outstretched over the cubicle wall, something wrapped in brown paper in his hand.
I recoil and blink many times until I can confirm that it’s in fact a bagel he’s offering me.
‘For… me?’ I ask tentatively. He nods and waves the bagel in front of me with more emphasis until I take it.
‘They had the cinnamon raisin with the pumpkin cream cheese again,’ he says by way of explanation. It’s my favourite kind. Despite my reluctance to yield anything to Kenneth, I’m touched. ‘Happy birthday. You look younger than thirty.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, and mean it. ‘For the bagel. Don’t comment on how I look again.’
He smiles, and because he can’t do a nice thing without doing three bothersome things to make up for it, he leans closer and whispers, ‘You can share it with your boyfriend.’
I flip Kenneth off, ignoring his snickering as I turn back to my computer to eat my bagel and get to work. I try not to think of my hot, somewhat-competent, vampire coworker.
After lunch a few days later, I’m well into my mouse-wiggle segment of the day where I passively write a short story in my journal and move my mouse every few minutes to make it look like I’m adding shareholder value.
I’ve been working on a short story about a woman who inherits a hedgehog from her aunt and decides to become nocturnal to spend more time with the creature.
My computer pings, a Teams message from Elijah.
I slide the notebook back into my top drawer, biting my lip to keep from smiling.
He’s dutifully had lunch with me for the last three days, me eating and him sitting across from me, plying me with questions while he sips occasionally from the neon green bottle he brings around.
I click open his chat.
Elijah: What are you working on over there?
Biting my lip to keep from smiling, I respond.
Molly: Another short story that will find its final resting place in the box of used journals that I keep in the credenza in the living room.
Elijah: You’re a writer? Why didn’t I know this?
Molly: You never asked?
I hover my pinkie over the enter button, debating how much I want to tell him about this past life of mine. Screw it.
Molly: I got a master’s degree in fiction. It’s actually why I moved to New York in the first place.
Elijah: Molly June, you contain multitudes.
I exhale a laugh, then glance over the cubicle shoulder to make sure Kenneth has his headphones on. I don’t need him pestering me.
Molly: I knew I shouldn’t have told you my middle name.
Elijah: I like your middle name.
Elijah: Now back to the more important matter at hand, you’ve been withholding a life as a prolific fiction writer from me?
Molly: I never said I was prolific.
A few seconds pass before he starts typing again, then stops for a minute.
I chew on a hangnail on my thumb while I wait, then realise what I’m doing and rub a pump of hand sanitiser on my hands.
A notification bubble appears next to his name with a new message and I can’t resist looking immediately.
Elijah: I’ve just typed your name into the internet and discovered a short story called ‘Two Bird Brains’. Is that by you or another Molly June Mason?
Molly: Me.
Molly: Don’t read it!
Elijah doesn’t respond, and if I had to guess, he’s already reading it.
The story was the first one I ever had published in an online journal, a strange story about a woman who gets a job at a bird sanctuary and falls in love with one of the corvids she’s taking care of.
She starts sleeping in the sanctuary and, in the end, turns into a bird herself.
The story is too long, with prose way too purple, but when I wrote it, I was so proud of myself for how much I’d grown since my first stories in high school and my undergrad.
I’m still proud of myself, or that version of myself, and stand by the work despite the ways I’d write it differently if I wrote it now.
I suppose that’s the thing about growth; ideally, it’s not supposed to stop. I think we’re supposed to keep looking back at past selves with a wince and a smile, hoping that we’ll keep getting better.
Molly: Fine, you can read it, but if you hate it, I don’t want to hear it.
I busy my hands while I wait for him to respond, the minutes ticking by while my stomach tumbles in that way it always does when I know someone is reading my writing. It’s not something I’ve felt recently, not for a couple years anyway, and the return of it is as exhilarating as it is bothersome.
Elijah: Molly, that was excellent!
Elijah: I was worried the protagonist would end up dead, eyes picked out by her beloved–I like your ending so much more. Hopeful, though bittersweet, leaving behind her family for a life in the bird sanctuary.
Elijah: Are there more? Where can I find them? The Google?
Molly: Thank you, and yes there are a few more on The Google lmao.
Molly: but you don’t have to read them
Elijah: Why would I not read them?
Molly: No minotaurs :(
Elijah: I should’ve known you were a writer. You’re clever.
Elijah: Why don’t you ever talk about it?
Molly: I don’t really write any more. Just for me.
Elijah: For the credenza.
Molly: Yes. For the credenza.
Elijah: Have you heard the bit about hiding light under a bushel?
Molly: I was forced into a weekly bible study as a youth, so yes.
Molly: But as you said, my light isn’t hidden under a bushel, but a second-hand IKEA credenza. So I think it’s fine.
Molly: Also, aren’t you supposed to be working?