Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Joey
Living with Beckett hasn’t been bad.
At all.
In fact, I’d say he’s one of the better roommates I’ve had.
We’ve lived together for a couple of weeks, and sometimes I forget he’s even there.
The man rarely makes himself known. At one point, after three days without proof of life, I texted him asking if he’d moved out.
I even asked him if he needed me to feed Barbara or his sourdough starter, Agatha, because I was that concerned.
When I do notice signs of his existence, it’s usually a light on upstairs or the gentle creaking of the wooden floors above my room while I’m lying in bed, restlessly staring at the ceiling.
I can’t help but wonder what he does so late at night. . .
No, I won’t allow myself down that rabbit hole of thinking. If I do, I fear I’ll never come back out of it.
When I do see him—fleetingly—he’s incredibly kind and respectful.
He even offered to do my laundry when I was overwhelmed after working late and had forgotten to wash my clothes.
Another evening, he offered to make dinner for me again. When I hesitated and ultimately declined because I didn’t want to be a burden, I swear his forest green eyes dropped with a hint of sadness. That sight alone made me never want to deny him again.
Next time he offers to make me dinner, I’ll eagerly accept. Unfortunately, this leads me to my next dilemma. . .
Under absolutely no circumstances am I allowed to fall for my roommate.
But he makes it damn near impossible when he’s such a good human.
Then again, he’s probably like that with everyone. Like he’d give a stranger the shirt off his back in the middle of a snowstorm, then pretend he’s not freezing so that stranger doesn’t feel so bad.
Naturally, that makes me like him even more. The cherry on top of his warm and altruistic personality is the lethal combination of his jet-black motorcycle, the swirling ink over his large body, and the love he has for his cat.
Oh. And his biceps. I may or may not have fantasized about sinking my teeth into them on more than one occasion.
Undoubtedly, I’m drawn to him like bees to honey. And I’m certain that beneath the surface, there’s another side of him waiting to claw itself out.
That first night in the kitchen, when he made grilled cheese for me, he relaxed a bit more. Especially since it was just the two of us.
Maybe it’s the empath in me, but I tend to take socially anxious people under my wing. I know what it feels like to be excluded and it hurts when I notice others being painted as unapproachable when often, they’re just nervous.
Not that Beckett is unapproachable. He’s kind and soft-hearted. Thoughtful and introspective.
Interestingly enough, I’ve discovered that we’re opposites in an eerily similar way.
We’re both travelers, semi-loners, and independent to a fault. But while he’s reserved and guarded—I can practically feel the wall he has up—I wear my heart on both sleeves with a neon sign above my head that says very likely to cry if you look at me wrong.
Granted, we’re only here for a short time, and yes, while the idea of having a bit of fun is tempting, I’m not in the market to get my heart broken. I’m too old and tired to play that game. In my experience, people tend to drift away from me when they meet someone else.
Someone who isn’t too much.
Someone who has their life more together.
Someone less forgettable.
And I’m not emotionally stable enough to go through all that heartache and self-doubt right now.
I’ve wasted too many nights spiraling down the endless tunnel of my thoughts.
Wondering what I could’ve done to keep some person close to me.
Going over and over every single interaction with them, every text message, every conversation.
Analyzing and agonizing over every verbal and nonverbal cue.
Torturing myself, hoping to find the crack that ultimately led to the shattering of our relationship.
On a lighter note, I’m 99 percent certain that I’m not Beckett’s type.
I can be dramatic, scatterbrained, and mildly impulsive.
Whereas he’s cautious, mindful, and stoic.
I wear clothes in every color and pattern imaginable while Beckett seems to be allergic to colors other than black and gray.
I can survive off coffee and spite, and I’m pretty sure he needs three solid, protein-packed meals a day.
The very definition of opposites, if you ask me.
An everlasting love story for the ages? Probably not. I’m more likely to get a shark bite at an aquarium.
Yawning, I slink down into the driver’s seat and rest my head on the cushion. It’s way too early to be at the office. I was so worried I’d miss my first meeting of the day that I’m now sitting in the parking lot twenty minutes early.
Sighing, I take a sip of my coffee and reach for my all-time favorite way to pass time and turn my brain off.
A crossword puzzle.
Sure, I could use my phone or do those fancy ones from prestigious newspapers. But there’s something comforting about holding the floppy book in hand and scribbling out letters with a dried-out pen.
I sit up and tuck one leg under the other, then prop my crossword puzzle up on my steering wheel.
Anxiety wraps around me like a suffocating blanket this morning.
A knot of dread coils in my stomach at just the thought of meeting with my nemesis, Norma.
It’s a one-on-one meeting, meaning I’m going in with no backup and no armor.
My only resources are myself and my quickly dwindling optimistic spirit.
I chant my daily mantra multiple times in my head: Don’t be a smartass today. You need this job.
I’m locked in on this puzzle, deep in thought about a seven-letter word for a commonly used kitchen item that’s not a toaster.
Steamer? Nope.
Blender? Doesn’t work with the letters already in place.
A hard knock on my van window spooks me, and I jolt, nearly spilling my coffee all over myself.
“Sorry.” Max winces. “But I’ve been standing here like a creep trying to get your attention.” His voice is muffled through the thick window, his apologetic expression makes it tough to be mad at him.
Closing my eyes, I suck in a steadying breath. It’s not his fault that I’m extra jumpy this morning. I gather my stuff from my passenger seat, loading myself down with three beverages, four notebooks, an extra jacket, and enough snacks to feed a little league team after practice.
Max, on the other hand, only has a sleek laptop case and a single coffee. He gives me a slow once-over, a brow arching as he takes in all my things.
Max unsuccessfully tries to hide his amusement. “Looks like you’re ready for anything. A food shortage, a power outage, a snowstorm in the middle of spring.”
I balk at his comment. “I didn’t know it was a crime to be prepared,” I say as we cross the parking lot. “Next time there’s a flood, we’ll see if I allow you to borrow the backup rain boots in my van.”
We’re laughing as we step across the threshold into our office building.
Once inside, we settle into our space, a sprawling open floor plan laid out before us.
Each of the long tables lined up in neat rows is topped with three large desktop computers evenly spaced out.
The bright morning light streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the room, making the polished wood shine and casting the space in an airy glow.
It’s the perfect atmosphere for a creative agency.
Though pretty soon, Nemesis Norma will be here to dim the warm glow. From our previous meetings and email correspondences, the woman is a walking, talking, hazardous storm, ready to wreak havoc wherever she goes.
“By the way, I’m sorry I can’t play defense for you in your meeting with Droplet,” Max says, rolling his chair closer to me.
Turning to him, I wave my hand. “No worries at all. I’ll be fine.”
I am very much worrying and I do not think I’ll be fine.
“Good. I’ll do my best to be there next time, I promise.” He rolls back over to his desk, slips a set of headphones on, and gets to work typing at his desktop.
The office is so quiet I can practically hear my nervous heart hammering in my chest. I have fifteen minutes until she arrives, so I scurry my overprepared self into the conference room to set up. The absolute last thing I need is for technology to fail me in front of an already displeased client.
Once the projector is up and running, I pull up my presentation of ideas for Droplet’s branding. Then I go over my notes and hastily run through the presentation one last time, ensuring I didn’t miss anything important.
Mood board of ideas and inspiration? Check.
Mock designs even though they gave me zero direction? Check.
Three color palettes because I’m paranoid? Check.
A couple of minutes before our designated meeting time, the ominous sound of heels clacking on the floor starts up and slowly gets louder.
Every step makes my heart pound forcefully in my chest. I’ve always been confident in my abilities, and my past clients have been more than satisfied with the branding I’ve produced for them.
Some have even reached out to me privately, asking me to take on freelance projects for their side hobbies, so I’ve done my fair share of work for podcasters, photographers, and bloggers as well.
But Norma is in a category of her own. Our emails have been. . .not great. No matter what I say, she’s unhappy.
It’s like she wants me to fail at this project, which makes zero sense. Why would anyone deliberately undermine their own company’s rebranding efforts?
The door squeaks open, and the woman who has haunted my dreams for the last week steps in.
Steeling my spine, I slap on a smile and coolly walk over to her. With any luck, I’m giving off a carefree, breezy vibe. But on the inside, I’m trembling like a Chihuahua without a sweater.
That’s how nervous I am.
“Hi, Norma. So nice to see you again.” I hold out my hand.
Rather than shake it, she gives me a vacant look and sighs. “Wish I could say the same.”
Oh. Okay. Wow. I guess this is how it’ll be today.
The receptionist stands in the doorway, eyes locked with mine, sending me a sympathetic look and mouthing good luck.
As Norma settles at the table, I take a deep breath, fighting the defeat already creeping into my bones. Then I spin around, head high, and stride to my laptop.
“Let’s jump in, shall we?”
Norma gives me a once-over, a sneer on her face.
My stomach sinks. “Uh. Is something wrong?”
She clears her throat. “Shouldn’t you be wearing something more professional when meeting with a client? Maybe a pair of slacks? Heels?”
Suddenly feeling insecure, I glance down at my long, flowy dress. It’s navy blue with small white flowers on it, and I pulled a thick gray knit cardigan over it this morning. I’m not showing an ounce of cleavage or a peek of shoulder.
Hell, I’m not even showing an ankle because I’m wearing my tall suede boots.
Unease swirls in my stomach. What’s this woman’s deal? What decade does she think we’re living in?
“Thank you for your concern, but we’re here to discuss Droplet. Not my clothes,” I reply firmly. What I really want to say is Lady, you and your heels can get fucked.
Norma gives a displeased hum. “Very well then. Let’s proceed.”
I give a curt nod. “Based on the approved design brief, I’ve come up with a couple of options for logos, typography, and color palettes. Taking into consideration your target audience, I kept the design traditional, but still fresh.”
She hums, focus fixed on the slide on the screen. “For colors, I was thinking black and white. To keep it simple. I’m not a fan of the green-and-white color scheme.”
A huff of air escapes my lungs. Seriously? A black-and-white scheme will make them blend in with their competitors. Almost every insulated water bottle company is using black and white, from websites and print materials, to logos and packaging. I was under the impression they wanted to stand out.
Suddenly, I’m being pulled in two different directions, and I don’t like it.
But I give her a hesitant nod. “Sure, I can certainly do that.”
The unease in my stomach only grows, making it impossible to ignore. I try to push it aside and not allow it to cloud my judgment, but it’s becoming near impossible.
After this presentation, I’m going to need a stiff drink, a hard cry, and copious amounts of sour candy for dinner.
Norma is officially the client from hell.