Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Ceci
Bex looks up from her desk when I enter our shared office. “Hey, stranger.”
“Sorry I’ve been MIA.” Reaching my desk, I pull my laptop out of my backpack and plug it into the dock. “The overstimulation got to me.”
I haven’t been to the office in three days, working remotely in the middle of the night when I think best. Insomnia has consumed me ever since Wish hung up on me, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
The fluorescent office lights were overwhelming, and the idea of putting on a bra and makeup made me want to curl up in a blanket burrito and never leave my house again.
I don’t feel like myself when I’m not wearing makeup.
It’s my armor. After years of throwing my hair into a messy ponytail and swiping on mascara and lip balm before losing myself in my computer, it feels surprisingly grounding to blow out my hair, apply a full face of makeup, and dress like the Bad Boss Bitch I want to be. That I am.
“Hey, it happens,” Bex says, shuffling some papers on her desk. “You’re doing better?”
“Much.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Oh, and I think I figured out what was wrong with the code. It came to me in a dream.” I woke up from a dead sleep, picked up my computer from the other side of the bed, and worked for two hours before passing out again.
“Whatever works.” She doesn’t care about the details behind the sensor’s mechanism that conveys the impact, or how it evaluates severity, only that it does. “Are we ready for human testing?”
For the last six months, we’ve only been using crash-test dummies as we tweak our approach. I’m confident that with this latest tweak in the code, we’re on the right track.
“I want to quadruple-check everything, but I think so, yeah.” My dual monitors flicker to life, along with my inbox.
Fifty-seven unread emails pop up, and I immediately close out of my email client.
“I need to write up a progress report for Heidi. Our next board meeting is a few weeks away, and she’s champing at the bit for updates. ”
Bex grimaces. “Better you than me.”
“Thanks, babe.”
My sarcasm doesn’t bother her, though. She rolls her eyes and refocuses on her computer, so I do the same. After a few minutes, she turns on our favorite playlist, and we work to the upbeat pop music, sometimes singing along.
I’m in the zone. Nothing will distract me. Nothing will bring me down.
Until a knock raps on the open office door, and I glance up to see four hours have gone by. My eyes are dry from staring at the screens for so long, and my bladder protests, and oh yeah, I guess I’m hungry too.
Nick Mitchell, Bex’s fiancé, stands in front of her desk, a canvas tote bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark gray joggers and a hoodie, a backwards Boston Bulldogs cap on his head.
“You’re alive,” my coworker says with a sarcastic gasp.
I cock my head in confusion. “Why would you think I’m dead? I’m right here.”
“You were majorly in the zone.”
“I brought you dinner,” Nick adds.
“Me?”
“Well, both of you,” he amends. “Bex said you guys were working late tonight.”
My stomach twists into knots. “I don’t want to keep you here. Go home. I’m fine on my own.”
“Shut up. We’re going to take a break, eat dinner, and then you can go back into your fugue state if you want. But you need a break.” She reaches a hand out to me, and with a heavy sigh, I rise from my desk chair and take it. “Come on. No more screen time.”
“Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes, and she laughs.
Nick leads the way to the players’ lounge. Strictly speaking, we’re allowed to use the space, but it always feels weird. Like an imposition. I don’t venture outside of our office much.
Bex settles at a table in the center of the room, so I gingerly take the seat opposite her, my sore muscles protesting after not moving for so long. My morning Pilates session can’t compete against four hours of hyperfixation.
The hockey player dishes the takeout containers onto three plates—real china plates, not paper ones. I want to ask if I can help, but my eyes are still so tired, and I yawn, the exhaustion of using my brain for so long hitting me.
He sets a plate in front of me, and I blink at the sweet potato, brussels sprouts, apple, and cranberry salad topped with a chicken breast and goat cheese. My head whips up as I stare at him.
“How did you know?”
“What?” He blinks a few times, confused.
“This is my favorite dish from Olde Boston.”
“Oh. Bex mentioned you guys like going there.” He shrugs. “It’s no big deal.”
I pop out of my seat and round the table, hugging him from behind. “It really is.”
He clears his throat. “No it’s not.”
“Shut up and let me hug you.”
If I thought he was truly uncomfortable with physical affection, I wouldn’t do this. But he’ll soon learn there are very few boundaries between Bex and me, and as her partner, that extends to him.
“Okay.” His big hands come up to pat my forearm. “There, there.”
Bex giggles, then reaches for her phone and snaps a photo. That’s what makes Nick shrug me off.
“Enough,” he barks, as if he isn’t the world’s sweetest, gooiest cinnamon roll. “Eat your dinner, Bex Marie. I know you skipped lunch.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she says with a pout, picking up her fork. “It just… happened. We got busy.”
“Do I have to drop by every day to remind you to eat lunch?” His voice has a whisper of a threat, and I look away with the overwhelming sense I’m intruding on a private conversation between a couple.
“No, of course not.” She spears a piece of salmon from her plate. “You have road trips. You can’t come by every day.”
Nick grumbles under his breath.
“I’ll make sure she eats,” I assure him.
To my surprise, he rolls his eyes. “You’re just as bad as she is.”
My jaw drops.
“Maybe I should ask Tyler to check in on you.” He’s the meal prep guy everyone on the team uses. His sister, Amelia, is the team’s physical therapist.
“We’re fine. We’re grown-ass women. We can take care of ourselves.”
He snorts. “You both hyperfixate on work to the detriment of your health.”
I open my mouth to retort, but… I can’t deny it. I’m a workaholic, and so is she. There are worse vices in the world. At least it’s not meth. Although that would probably calm me down.
I love my legally prescribed stimulant medication.
“We’ll figure something out,” Bex cuts in. “Boundaries are hard.”
Nick’s face softens. “I know they are, Bex Marie. And I’m so proud of you for trying.”
It’s with Nick’s voice in my head that I message Wish when I get home.
I’ll never know unless I try.
He joins our game less than two minutes after my invitation. The weight of our awkward conversation, and the lack of communication for the last three days, is heavy in the air.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt.
Wish grunts. “Sorry? What for?”
“I made things weird. And now you’re avoiding me. And—”
His soft chuckle echoes in my ear. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”
“But—”
“My friend was in crisis, and I had to help him. And things have been really busy with work. I had another road trip, although it was only two nights.”
“So we’re okay?” My voice comes out small. Afraid.
I am not afraid. I am not small. I am woman, hear me roar, or however the phrase goes.
“Yeah, Annie,” Wish says, warmth and affection in his tone. “We’re good.”
I clear my throat. “Do you want to play?”
“Sure.”
He starts the game, and I lose myself in the familiarity. His soft breaths, the grunts he makes when he gnashes the controller keys, his warm laughter when I manage to one-up him.
“Hey, Annie?” His voice is quiet through my headset.
“Yeah?”
“Do you really live in Boston?”
“For a long time. You?”
I could have sworn he used to be West Coast based, but maybe I made that up. Or confused him for another of our online friends.
“I moved here four years ago. For work.” He clears his throat. “I live in the Financial District.”
There are plenty of skyscrapers in that part of town. Expensive buildings. I wonder what he does to afford that neighborhood. Is he a finance bro? Tech bro?
“I’m in Back Bay.”
My little enclave is ritzy. Expensive. A lot of old money, a fair bit of new money. I don’t fit in here. But I don’t know that I fit in anywhere, really. At least for now, this is home.
He exhales heavily. “Wow. That’s… close.”
“Like two or three miles.”
“Do you…” He pauses.
“Hmm?”
“Would you be interested in meeting up sometime? Maybe have lunch?”
Relief washes over me like a tidal wave. Maybe we can be friends, real friends, in person.
“Yeah, Wish. I’d like that a lot.”
“There’s this little bistro on State Street I like to go to sometimes,” he says. “Olde Boston Public House. Do you know it?”
My heart stops. “That’s my favorite place.”
He clears his throat. “Really?”
“I told you, I’m obsessed with their harvest bowl.”
A gusty sigh blows from his lips. “Then we’re going to meet. And you’ll get your harvest bowl.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“How about this. I’ll wear a blue tie, and you wear a blue sweater. We’ll match.”
I laugh. “Somehow, I can’t picture you in a tie.”
“I’ll have you know, I wear a suit and tie to work every day.”
“Really?”
“They relaxed the dress code, but I still like it. It makes me feel like I’m doing something important. That what we do means something.”
“It does. Of course it does.”
He hums, clearly not believing me.
“When do you want to meet?”
“I’m busy all day tomorrow,” he says after a moment. “Does Thursday work for you? I can get away for dinner.”
Butterflies flutter deep in my belly, and I press my hand to my stomach, as if I can feel them fluttering away. I’m going to meet Wish. My best friend for the last seven years.
“I’d like that,” I whisper. “I’d like that a lot.”