22 #2
I need to rage to someone, but Margie’s filming a commercial her agent booked for her. Avery’s always lab-coated and covered in the cooties he studies, so he can’t pick up until way later. Mom… I laugh. She hates this job. I’d get a more sympathetic ear out of my dry cleaner.
I pick up my phone and scroll, pausing on a name in the Ds. It belongs to the only person I kinda, sorta, really feel like talking to at the moment, which worries me.
Demon. It’s how Jack is listed in my phone. Gence made us exchange numbers when he was trying to head off our little war at the pass. The picture I added to his entry was the first horned, red-faced, evil creature Google served up.
Do I…? I click to start a text.
Hey. It’s Penny. From next door.
I delete it. Too formal.
I try again, enjoying the fantasy of maybe texting Jack.
Jackoff Penny here
I snort. Friggin’ autocorrect. I’ve just deleted the “here” when Rochelle peers over my cubicle wall, startling me. “Hey, Penny, the pivots you sent are great.” She gives me a bright smile and disappears back over my wall.
I look down at the text. No, no, no. To my utter horror, I accidentally hit send when I was startled by Rochelle. What’s worse, he’s already responded.
I can’t tell if you’re calling me a jackoff or if you’re making a demand of me. Punctuation matters.
I drop my phone. And then I drop my head in my hands. My face flames.
And then…I laugh. I laugh until the Donna promotion angst is a distant second to the exhilaration of sparring with Jack.
I sit back in my chair and pick up my phone, rereading my text and his response. The same mischief-maker that led me to dip a french fry in his shake has me typing out: Meet me for lunch and I’ll tell you which way I meant it.
I delete that immediately and write out the much more respectable:
I think we both know which I meant.
His response is gratifyingly instantaneous, as if he was waiting for my message.
Yeah, the latter. Got it. What’s up?
I grin and debate for a second before harnessing my chi and texting:
I’m starving, and everyone I like is busy.
The dots representing his impending response linger for far too long, and my anxiety spikes. I try on ways of backing out of that invite before he can decline, ways of backing away from how I just put myself out there.
Pick the place.
At his response, all the breath in my lungs whooshes out at once. I type out the name of a lunch spot not far from my office and, pretending not to have stalked him and googled his office, ask if it’s too far.
That works. Meet in twenty.
I log out of my computer and grab my purse, racing to the bathroom to touch up my makeup.
“You would fix your face before meeting anyone,” I announce as I apply fresh lipstick and a touch of cream blush.
My hair is a rat’s nest from the weather.
I comb my fingers through it, wincing when I tug out a strand.
Relax. You live next door to him. This is not a big deal.
I want to run to the restaurant and post up, like a mobster scoping out a joint before a sit-down with a rival family.
Instead, I force myself to go back to my desk and hammer out a few more emails.
The walk to the restaurant feels like an eternity because I slow my walk to a leisurely tourist speed.
I even pop into a boutique and try to look at shoes. I’m five minutes late.
He’s not here. The restaurant isn’t big, and I can tell immediately he isn’t in it. I look at my phone, but there are no missed texts or calls. My ego—I refuse to call it anything else—plummets to somewhere in the vicinity of my ankles. Was he kidding about meeting me? Is this another prank?
“Someone ordered a jackoff?” a voice murmurs behind me, and I whirl around.
Jack is smirking down at me, and the sheer roguish charm of him, of the humor in those gray eyes, makes me want to leap on him, smooth my hand over his stubbled cheek, and run my tongue over his lower lip.
Instead, I take in a steadying breath and give him a roll of the eyes.
Turning my back on him, I lead us to an open table.
The place is über-modern, the walls covered in outsize paintings of lunch items. A giant grilled cheese here, an enormous tuna melt there. A waiter hands us menus as we take our seats, and I smile when Jack orders a salad. No comfort food for the health nut today.
“I’ll have a grilled chicken sandwich, please. No mayo? And a seltzer water.” I hand the waiter back the menu.
“No mayo,” the waiter repeats, his expression blank. He brushes his pale hair from his eyes and gapes at me.
“Yeah… Just the chicken and everything that comes with it, only no mayo?”
He nods slowly, and I’m not encouraged to see he’s written none of our order down. He gestures to a guy nearby to fill our glasses with water.
“So,” Jack says, a dangerous spark in his eyes. He’s in black suit pants and a pale-lavender shirt sans tie, his dark hair styled into a respectable-looking ’do. “Didn’t expect to get a text from you, like…ever.”
“Unpredictability. Keeps the enemy on his toes.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“Very Sun Tzu of you. ‘The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.’”
“Something like that, nerd.”
“Nerd, I can take. But enemy? Still?”
“Okay, frenemies. Since we’re breaking bread and whatever.”
Jack grins. “I didn’t realize it was you texting at first. I…don’t have you in my phone under your name.”
“Oooh, what am I listed as?”
He fiddles with his phone and holds it out: “Grinch” is written in the First Name field. I laugh out loud. There’s a picture of the green monster in the contact file as well.
I pull up his contact in my phone, taking a sip of water and holding the phone up for his review.
“Demon? Could’ve been worse.”
Our food arrives, and I look down with dismay. It’s some minced beige meat on top of a bed of greens. It looks like someone dropped cat food on a plate. There’s a small roll to the side of the mess.
“Sorry, can you tell me what this is?” I ask the waiter.
“It’s the chicken you ordered.”
When it becomes apparent that I’m not going to say anything further, Jack says, “She ordered a chicken sandwich.”
The waiter blinks. He’s young, looks stoned, and I’m supremely uncomfortable about the whole situation.
“No, no, this is fine. It’s okay. I can have this,” I say, desperate for the topic to be over.
Jack eyes my plate dubiously.
“Seriously, it’s fine.”
“No. It’s not. You ordered a chicken sandwich.
That’s what you’re getting.” To the waiter, he says, “Can you get her a grilled chicken sandwich, please? No mayo. I’m going to need you to write that down.
” The waiter scrambles to pull out a pad and jots it down, forgetting the chicken mess in his haste to get back to the kitchen.
I’m simultaneously envious of Jack’s ability to calmly demand what he wants and also mortified by the whole thing.
“Can’t wait for my spit sandwich,” I say, because I feel like I have to say something.
“It’ll pair nicely with the spit Bolognese I made for you.”
Jack pushes his plate into the center of the table and gestures for me to eat. He takes a bite of salad. “So, what made you ask me out? I’ve been waiting for this day for ages and ages, just glued to my phone.”
“Dumb.” I huff out a chuckle, pushing some salad around. “I didn’t ask you out. You’re a distant third in my affections behind Margie and Avery, but they’re all tied up. I needed an ear to bend.”
“Bend away. I’ll just be here licking my wounds.”
I sigh. “A lady I can’t stand just got promoted, and I’ve been waiting for even a tiny raise for ages, and…nothing. It just sucks. I’ve been killing myself, nights, weekends—”
“Fuck ’em. If someone doesn’t recognize your worth, you either force them to recognize it or you walk.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to take up vacuuming and pancakes?”
“No. Vacuuming and pancakes are for closers.”
I let out a wholly attractive grunt-laugh and tear apart the tiny roll the waiter left behind. I can’t bring myself to eat Jack’s salad. My stomach hates me right now.
“Speaking of work, is your schedule going to let us get cracking on the wall again tomorrow?” he asks.
I nod, my mouth full of stale bread.
My chicken sandwich arrives, and I give the waiter a weak smile, overly effusive with my thank-yous.
We finish up, Jack insisting on paying and leaving a respectable tip despite Chicken SlopGate, and we walk outside. I thank him, blushing for God knows what reason as I stare up at him.
The edges of his lips curl upward into just the tiniest of smiles, and for a moment, this foggy day is blindingly bright.
“All right, I’d better get back—”
“Yeah, me too. Thanks again for lunch.” I clear my throat and turn, forcing myself not to look back.
I’ve taken no more than ten steps when I give in to the urge and glance back over my shoulder. And I can’t be sure, but something about his too-casual posture tells me that I just missed him looking at me, too.