Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Cat
Dear Andi,
Sure, happy to help! How about Saturday? We can meet at the office at 11 AM.
Let me know if that works! Happy Friday!
Best,
Cat
Catherine Sulin Li | Games Writer + Avid Eater | catlimakesgames.com
I review my work. The entire email is too … upbeat. Impulsively, I delete the signature, the salutation, and all the exclamation points. Better. Before I can second-guess myself, I hit send.
I’ve spent the day dodging Andi by hunkering down in my cubicle, like a Medusa afraid of subjecting others to her visage. On the upside, procrastinating on replying helped me finish Evaralin and even get Catha partway outlined. On the downside, I both really need to pee and am as dehydrated as a World of Warcraft player who’s become one with their gaming chair. At least now that I’ve finally gotten back to Andi, I can run into her without feeling guilty.
Standing, I waddle toward the bathrooms. I lick my lips when I see the water fountain, but I adhere to a strict “first in, first out” policy, so I walk past it. There’s a yellow pylon blocking the entrance to the women’s room, but the gender-neutral one looks free, so after glancing around, I let myself in. Sweet, sweet relief. I vow to never let fear of a boss keep me from taking nature’s calls again. I’m about to flush when I hear a thud on the door.
Who the hell is knocking? Can they not read the word OCCUPIED under the clicked lock? It’s not like I’ve taken that long.
“Need a second,” I call out.
Grumbling, I wash my hands and wipe them on my jeans. When I open the door, I’m hardly surprised to see Andi standing on the other side of it, arms crossed and looking impatient in her form-fitting flannel with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Lady troubles again?” she asks, tapping one foot.
Tearing my eyes away from her inked-up left forearm, I retort without thinking, “Actually, I was taking a dump.”
Andi pulls her head back. She looks so much like the shocked Pikachu meme that a snicker jumps to my lips. Too late, I cover my mouth as a bubble of sound escapes. I smile sheepishly at Andi’s collarbones. Look at me working overtime for you, Sally.
“Sorry,” I say. “All yours now.”
“Thanks … I think.” To her credit, Andi doesn’t hold her nose or anything, just inhales and dives right in. Brave.
I go back to my desk and see a response from Andi at the top of my inbox. After checking the time stamp to make sure she’s not emailing me from the toilet (she’s not), I open the missive and read:
Cat,
Revivify @ 11 AM.
Andi
The brevity of the reply puts me on edge. Without quite knowing why, I reread her handful of words ten or so times. I half expect her email to turn into a purple-tongued mimic and attack me. Would it kill the great Andi Zhang to indulge in social niceties once in a blue moon? Add a “thanks” or even a “tx” to the ends of her emails, especially when she’s asking for a favor?
With effort, I hit delete and bring up Catha’s file again. I should be sending Evaralin x Sentinel out for review, but my limit for hard-to-write emails on Fridays is one, so too bad. Andi and the team will simply have to wait until Monday to see what I’ve done with their angsty half-elf.
Catha x Sentinel occupies me through the end of the workday. In my headcanon, she falls in love with Sentinel as soon as she sees them but is politically betrothed to a high-ranking elf belonging to the River Clan. In order to win Catha’s hand, Sentinel must challenge Catha’s fianc é to single combat … and win. Doing so will erode the River Clan’s support for Sentinel and their cause, though. Will more players opt to secure their love … or their power base? I cackle to myself, delighted at the choice Catha-romancers will be forced to make.
By the time I lift my eyes from the screen of my laptop, the sun’s cutting horizontally through Heartrender’s windows, casting ladders of light on the carpeted floors. Only a handful of people are left, most of them milling about with beers. Small wonder: it’s already past six.
“Whatcha doing here so late, Cat?” Moira, one of the tools programmers, shouts over to me. “Wanna grab a drink and join us?”
I toss her and the rest of her bubble a quick salute. “I’m good. My fri—girlfriend’s coming to pick me up soon.”
They bob their heads and get back to their conversation as I shove my things into my messenger bag. On second thought, why hasn’t Sally texted me yet? Last week, we met up at six on the dot, but it’s already 6:12 PM . I skim my thumbs over my phone. Will I seem uptight or needy if I ping her? We did arrive at Andi’s place early last week. Maybe she’s still at work, reassessing what time she needs to leave.
Or maybe she’s rethinking our deal.
Calm down, Cat. Shouldering my bag, I decide to give her another few minutes and wait outside. That way, as soon as she’s here, I can hop in without delay. I ride the elevator down to the ground floor and find a street-facing bench, between the main double doors and the mouth of the parking garage.
6:16 PM … 6:18 … 6:20. My phone remains resolutely black. I don’t even know Andi’s address.
I’m about to give in and text Sally when a roar like a jet engine banishes all thoughts from my brain. A motorcycle farts out of the garage and tears down the street, blasting the Black Keys at an eardrum-shattering volume. I glare after it, momentarily distracted.
“Uh, hey?”
I turn to look straight ahead, expecting to see Sally pulled up in her white Tesla. It’s not Sally, though. It’s Andi. On a freaking motorcycle, this one smaller than the one that just zoomed by. The smile that was forming on my face droops into a scowl. “Hi?”
“Are you …” Trailing off, Andi rubs the back of her neck with one hand. “You coming to D&D tonight?”
I nod. How come I didn’t hear her approach on her two-wheeled noise machine?
As if discerning my question, Andi says, “Only assholes take their mufflers off.” She waves the helmet in her lap in my direction. “You want a ride? Sal’s running late.”
I frown. “She didn’t say anything to me.”
“Ah.” A pucker introduces itself in Andi’s cheeks, like she’s biting the inside of her mouth. “She does that sometimes. Forgets to check the ‘To’ line.”
Great. As if I needed another reminder of how much better Andi knows my fake girlfriend than me.
I could use the ride, though. Save myself the cost of an Uber. And the indignity of asking Andi her address. But … a motorcycle?
“Is there room?” I ask.
“Sure,” Andi says, producing a second, pink helmet from the back of the bike. She beckons me, and my feet, as if of their own accord, move forward. My hands take the helmet from her. It’s heavier than it looks, which (fair or not) makes me more confident in its structural integrity.
“Is it safe?” I hate how tentative I sound, but at the same time, I know nothing about Andi’s driving record. Biking record?
“It’s safe. I’ve been riding this thing since college. Haven’t gotten into a scrape yet.”
She sounds … proud. I nearly roll my eyes. Of course Andi Zhang could figure out a way to be arrogant about something as mundane as her chosen mode of transportation.
Although she does look sort of cool leaning against her bike like that, with one ankle popped.
“Well?” Andi’s strapping on her own, black helmet like she’s ready to leave, with or without me. In a panic, I pull on the pink orb, buckle it, and swing one leg over the back of the vehicle.
“What do I hold on to?”
“Me,” Andi says. Her voice is muffled, distant. “Or you can hold on to the rear grab bars, but that might be less comfortable. Just don’t make any sudden movements, keep your spine straight, and relax.”
She doesn’t wait for me to say I’m ready. The engine rumbles to life below us, and I latch on to the grab bars just in time for the asphalt to start shucking by. Within seconds, everything becomes a blur of gray and green, sidewalks and buildings and pedestrians and their dogs.
We make it out of the city and onto the highway before I realize she’s right: my shoulders are complaining at me for being turned out for so long. I want to stick it out, but after another minute, I surrender to the pain and snake my arms around her waist. Under her leather jacket, her frame is narrower than I expect, and I end up hovering my hands over her sides like a prepubescent boy with sweaty palms. With a gulp, I register how close our bodies are. How tightly my knees are pressed up against her thighs. How, with a little pressure, I could feel the shape of her abs, the points of her hips.
“Hold on tight.”
She must be practically screaming to be heard over the wind, but her advice reaches my ears like a whisper. I obey, cupping my hands around the dip in her waist. It’s only because I want to stay in one piece, I tell myself. Because I don’t want to fall off and have my brains dashed out on the pavement. It has nothing to do with the strange, electric sensation in the pit of my stomach, humming and buzzing and threatening to escape out into the tips of my fingers and toes.