Chapter 24. Micah
MICAH
Brynn blurs past me through the lobby’s double glass doors.
I follow her down the hallway.
Coming around the turn to the elevators, she collides with a Falcon Messenger delivery person.
The gangly blonde loses her balance and bungles the tower of boxes in her arms.
“Sorry,” Brynn mumbles, then stoops and picks up the fallen packages.
“You okay?” I look at Brynn, her eyes black like marbles.
“I’m fine,” both girls’ voices echo.
The girl gives Brynn a pinched look as she takes the packages back, her face ashen like she could hurl in the hallway. She hurries away without a word.
Brynn waits until the girl’s out of earshot before turning to me, her lips tight, fighting back tears. “Some people need to get a life.”
Uh-oh. I check the time on my phone. “Did you bring lunch?”
“I need some air.” She double-taps the elevator button.
I sigh, thinking of the number of Shadow People that may come along for the ride. Still, I take my chances when it arrives and step in beside her.
Her eyes stare ahead as more people hop on—real ones, I presume—pushing us to the back.
I keep up with her when she exits onto Fifth Avenue. “So, you hungry?”
She musters a half-hearted smile. “Thanks, but I brought my lunch today. I just needed to get out of there.” She starts walking away.
“You like Indian?”
She hesitates, then pivots. “You know, that sounds amazing. But I’m not sure I’ll be great company. And I don’t have my wallet.”
“I got this.”
She sighs, her face softens a little. “I think my salad can hold another day in the fridge.”
I play it casual walking beside her on Thirty-Fourth over Park to Lexington, my hands in my pockets while my heart ricochets inside my chest. I want to mention last night, gauge her reaction.
She doesn’t act like she loathes me. Did her pulse quicken or her hands perspire like mine did?
Does she know how close I came to kissing her—like, full-on kissing her?
A part of me feels relieved it didn’t happen; she might have pushed me away.
The other part dreams of how she might have responded.
I bite my lip, trying to read her face.
She’s quiet. Her cheeks still blaze a bright red.
Maybe Zoe and her disciples ganged up on her since she’s the only intern being allowed to work on new campaigns. I heard Zoe say something about Brynn in passing. No one pays attention to her. She’s never demonstrated an aptitude for advertising the way Brynn has.
We enter the restaurant. Brynn snaps up a menu near the door and walks over to the counter to order.
“Here, we have time.” I motion to one of the booths.
The server places a menu in front of me as we sit down.
Brynn glances at me.
I tilt my head. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What set you off back there?”
She looks away. Her shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. “People running their mouths about stuff that’s not their business.”
“Your business, I assume.”
Her eyes harden. “I need this job. I’m not here to make friends.”
Including me. My chest deflates; the sting of her words cuts deep. I blink a few times and lower my head into my menu. I guess I imagined last night.
I sense her eyes searching my face.
I rearrange it, pretending to be absorbed in today’s specials.
She clears her throat. “I’ve been forced into adulting sooner than expected.”
Haven’t we all.
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty.”
She squints at my answer.
“What, you thought I was older? I started as an intern four years ago.”
“You? An intern?”
“Same year Scott came on as creative director. He mentored me.”
The server pops up next to us.
“I’ll have the chana masala,” Brynn tells him.
The server jots down her order.
I guess we’re doing this. “Make it two. And some naan for the table, please.”
Brynn’s face brightens a bit.
I’m done talking about work. “So, what kind of food did you grow up with? I mean, did your family make any traditional dishes?”
She crosses her arms, her chin in her chest. “Yeah, cooking and sharing meals was a big part of my family’s culture.
My dad tried to teach me all the time, but I wasn’t interested.
” She shifts in her seat, her face wistful.
“He learned to cook authentic Peruvian from his mom, who immigrated here in the ’70s.
Before I became vegan, I used to love coming home to the smell of seco de cordero—um, lamb stew—cooking on the stove.
I ate a lot of lomo saltado too . . . beef stir fry with onions, tomatoes, and, believe it or not, French fries. ”
“Quite a combination.” I fold my arms, mirroring her. “Never heard of it.”
“He’d add his own flavor with whatever we had on hand. We’d stop at our favorite . . .” Her eyes narrow.
“What?” I smile a little. “You’ve got my mouth watering.”
“Why are we talking about this?” Her face stiffens.
Because I’d rather not talk about myself. “I find it interesting. You have an accent when you speak Spanish. Are you bilingual?”
“Only when it comes to the food.” Her amber eyes dance a little.
I doubt I saw fire in them last night. Just my wishful wanting that she felt something too.
I can’t deny being somewhat in awe of this girl. How she puts herself out there helping others: the lady in the elevator, her friend on the subway. At work, meanwhile, she’s a font of creativity and laser focused. Hard to believe she’s only eighteen.
When our plates arrive, the spicy aroma restores my appetite. The air buoys back inside of me, the wound mended by a giddiness born of being alone with her. Hearing about her family makes me want to meet them, see where she grew up.
“Thanks for this. I haven’t eaten out in a while.” She lays her fork on her plate.
“You looked like you could use a break.”
“I’m not a fan of the gossip.” Her gaze drifts from the table. “Especially when people don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Yeah, the agency can feel like an extension of high school. Now that you’re officially one of them, makes you fair game.”
“You don’t seem to run with them.”
“I already know what they think of me. I do my job and don’t see them outside of work.”
“What do you do outside of work?”
Besides fend off the Shadow People? I shrug, pushing the food around on my plate. “I work out; run in Central Park sometimes.”
“I have to ask.” She snickers. “What’s up with the notebook?”
Busted. Guess I’m not as stealthy as I thought.
“I’m sort of a . . . collector. I jot down phrases and words that I like.”
“Are you a writer?”
“I wouldn’t call myself one. Words calm me.”
“Should I even ask?” Her eyes crinkle above her smile.
“No.” I grin. “I see you hanging back after everyone goes home, word-crafting away.”
“I’m new, it takes me longer to come up with ideas.” She holds her opposite shoulder and crosses her other arm underneath. “And other times . . .” She cocks her head like she’s trying to decide whether she should continue.
“I won’t tell.” I hold up my hands.
“Um, I do a little research. The agency has better Wi-Fi than I do at home.”
I don’t want to know if she’s looking for another job, though I wouldn’t blame her. “Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Her lips disappear into a line.
I stop myself from asking more and sign the receipt. “Back to the grind?”
She nods. “Thanks for lunch. Felt good to clear my head.”
“Don’t let them get to you. Besides, after this summer, I doubt you’ll see this motley crew again.” I sigh. “I know what Meredith said—and this is not what you want to hear—but Kershaw McKenzie hasn’t given an intern a full-time offer in forever. Our hiring budget’s tight these days.”
Her head snaps up. “What if Donovan leaves?”
“Why, you heard something?”
“No . . . I thought . . .” Her face falls. “Never mind.”
I could appease her, tell her it’ll all work out, but I don’t want to lie. Not to her. So I say nothing at all.