2. Zuri
ZURI
Whitney is still talking when I reach the corner across from the Stillwater building, and I’ve quit hoping she’ll take a breath.
Four coffees ride in the cardboard carrier in my left hand.
My phone is pinned between my cheek and my shoulder, and the sidewalk is full of Millbrook people who don’t move for anyone.
“Conference room B gets set up first,” Whitney says in my ear. “Ms. Hale’s dry cleaning arrives before lunch, and you will intercept it. She wants the vendor folder waiting on her desk when she walks in. The blue folder. If you bring her teal again, don’t bother coming up.”
There’s no writing any of it down with both hands full, and Whitney doesn’t repeat herself. So the list goes where everything goes: in my head, in order.
I cross with the light, because getting hit by a car would make me later. The heels are the newest problem. They’re front-office dress code, per Whitney’s memo, and whoever designed them should do time. I take the crosswalk in short steps. Breaking my neck is not on Whitney’s list.
Stillwater hired me to file compliance records. I’ve been fetching coffee and dry cleaning ever since. My landlord already has every dollar I brought to this town, so I don’t get to be picky.
Two men in gray suits hold the door for each other and let it swing back on me. I catch it with my elbow and keep every coffee level. My bun is still holding.
The lobby smells like lemon polish. STILLWATER SOLUTIONS spans the wall behind the front desk, with A QUIETER CLEAN printed underneath.
“Tell me you have all of that,” Whitney says, and hangs up.
I have it.
No one at Stillwater has figured out yet that I remember everything. I plan to keep it that way.
The elevator gives me one floor’s worth of privacy, and I spend it breathing and getting my face right.
Whitney is posted at the desk outside Ms. Hale’s office, slender and spotless in cream silk. Her blonde hair is ironed straight to her shoulders, and she takes me in from heels to bun before I’ve cleared the elevator doors.
“You’re late,” she says.
“The line at—” I get out, still short on air.
“I don’t want the story.” She lifts the carrier from my hand and scowls at the middle cup, where coffee has crept out under the lid and ringed the cardboard. “And this is a mess. Deliver cleaner cups next time.”
You try running in front-office heels.
I nod. “I’ll do that.”
“Get to work.” She’s already turning to her monitor. “I’ll call when it’s time for the intercept.”
I head for records with empty hands, and my breathing evens out somewhere past the copy room.
Records is quiet, and that suits me. I drop into my chair and work my heels half off under the desk.
I’ve barely sat still when Renee comes around the shelving with a box that takes both of her arms. She sets it in front of me with a thump.
“Intake overflow,” she says. “All yours.”
Renee is the only person in this building I’d call a friend. She wears gold hoops, long braids pinned up off her neck, and reading glasses that live on top of her head. She’s the one who showed me where the good vending machine is.
I frown at the box. Running Whitney’s errands is full-time, and so is the job I was actually hired for. My review doesn’t grade on a curve. A year of this place is draining the life out of me, and it still pays better than anything else I found. So the box stays mine.
“Before you wear that frown all day,” Renee says, “I already cleared the top half for you.”
I wipe the sweat off my forehead and mouth a thank-you.
“Bar after work?” she asks, backing toward her desk.
“Sure,” I say. “If I don’t pass out first.”
Renee laughs. “Dinner’s on me tonight.” She sits back down and picks up her typing where she left it.
I give myself a little while longer in the chair. Then I stand and get my thumbs under the box lid.
My work phone rings before it comes off. The display says WHITNEY.
I flop back into my chair and stare at the ceiling while it rings. Then I grab it, because sending Whitney to voicemail is how careers end at Stillwater.
“The lunch order is placed,” Whitney says instead of hello. “Pickup is at Marcelline’s in two hours. After that you’ll do the intercept. Don’t be late for either.”
“What about my desk duties?” I ask. “The box that just—”
“Not my problem.” The line clicks off.
“Bitch,” I mutter at the dead receiver.
Then I move. Renee’s half is already sorted, so I work mine standing up, vendor files in one stack, shipping manifests in another, personnel to the locked cabinet. My hands find the rhythm fast, and my feet complain in their heels. The box gives up its last folder with time to spare.
I earn myself a bathroom break before the pickup. At the sink, the soap dispenser is new, a white pump with the Stillwater name across it and a quieter clean printed underneath in small letters. I didn’t know we made hand soap.
I pump some into my palm and hold it to my nose. It has no smell at all.
What the hell is this?
I’d better not have an allergic reaction to it. I wash my hands with it anyway, and it rinses away quick and clean, like it was never there. I check my bun in the mirror, tuck one edge back down, and go collect Whitney’s lunch.
Marcelline’s is four blocks of wind and cobblestone, and the bag they hand me is heavy enough to be feeding six.
The bakery next door has a new sticker in the window, a red circle stamped over a wolf silhouette.
I don’t slow down for it. This town keeps its ugly small and printed, and none of it is my business.
The walk back is where I do my talking.
“Errands on top of errands,” I tell the sidewalk under my breath. “Whitney and Ms. Hale. The nightmares of this whole company. Can’t stand either of them, and neither can anyone else in that building. They just hide it better than me.”
A man waiting at the crosswalk gives me a sideways look. I stop talking until he crosses.
I shoulder through the lobby doors with the bag in both hands, turn for the elevators, and a man cuts across the lobby straight into me.
The hit knocks the bag loose.
That bag is Whitney’s lunch and Ms. Hale’s lunch, and if it hits marble, I might as well keep walking to the bus station.
The bag drops. Then it doesn’t. A hand is underneath it, palm flat, and I didn’t see him move.
“Sorry about that,” the stranger says, straightening up with my bag riding easy on his fingers. “I need to watch where I’m going.”
He’s tall, with deep brown skin, a crisp white shirt, and a watch that looks expensive. His eyes are greener than anything I’ve stood this close to. Woodsmoke comes off him, warm and out of place in all this lemon.
His ears sit odd against his head. Small gold cuffs pin the tops of them down flat, and I can’t tell if that’s fashion or a problem.
I look too long, and he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Thanks.” I get both hands back under the bag.
He nods and steps around me, and his shoes don’t make a sound on the marble.
I carry the lunch to the elevators and press the button with my elbow. Otherworldly is a dramatic word, and it’s the only one I’ve got for that man.
The doors slide shut. I notice I’m smiling, and I put it away.
Whitney is gathering her purse when I step off the elevator with the bag.
“Change of plans,” she says. “You’re taking it in. Ms. Hale is eating at her desk today.”
I stop walking. I have never been inside Ms. Hale’s office. People come out of that office counting their fingers.
“Whitney, I don’t—” I get one hand up.
“She’s waiting.” Whitney is already past me, heels ticking toward the elevator, and that’s the whole conversation.
I’m wearing every errand I’ve run since morning. There’s wind in my bun and sweat at my collar, and none of it matters. The lunch is getting cold. I press my edges down with two fingers and knock.
“Come in,” she says through the door.
I twist the knob and step in.
The office is wide, white, and colder than the hallway. There’s a glass desk, white orchids, and a sitting area that has never once held a guest. It smells like nothing in here too.
“Set the bag on the counter there,” Ms. Hale says.
I set it down where she points, and then I make the mistake of looking at her.
She is the most beautiful woman I have ever stood in a room with.
Long black braids fall glossy over one shoulder, a thin earring throws light along her jaw, and her skin is deep brown and poreless.
Her eyes are blue, lit from somewhere inside, and staring is the rudest thing I’ve done all week. I do it anyway.
“Miss Spencer,” she says.
I didn’t know she knew my name.
“Whitney tells me you never miss,” she says, lifting containers out of the bag. “Reliable help is rare in this building.” She glances up. “Next time, arrive looking like you work here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My face gives her nothing.
I step out and ease her door shut.
In my head the day lines up neat: a soap with no smell, a man with pinned ears, a boss with the wrong kind of blue eyes. I don’t forget things. Today handed me plenty to keep.