Chapter 39
Chapter
I sleep over at Mark Winterson’s house again on Tuesday, and once again he leaves in the middle of the night.
But when I creep downstairs and search his office and living room, there’s no sign of papers anywhere—it’s like he’s never printed out a thing in his life.
His computer is locked, and of course I don’t know the password.
I pace the room, biting my nails. Why did I think I could be some kind of spy? It’s not like I have relevant skills.
I’m scanning every surface of his office, like that will yield a clue. The leather and chrome chair that looks very Modern Design, the red and blue Persian carpet, the cringe mini samurai sword sitting on the desk by his computer.
I take a picture of the mini sword and send it to Sarah with the caption, What did I get myself into?
Sarah must be a night owl, because the dots that show she’s typing leap up right away.
Sarah:
i’m trying not to judge but
hahahahahaha
Ruby:
YOU’RE JUDGING
MY TERRIBLE TASTE IN MEN
IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME OKAY
Sarah:
i’m laughing with you!
you pointed it out!
On autopilot, I open Slack for a second instead of Signal. And a message from Mom pops up at the top of my screen.
sampaguita72:
Ruby, what are you doing right now?
I nearly jump out of my skin.
sampaguita72:
Your green light came on
Isn’t it late?
She really has a sixth sense for when I’m fucking up!
ruby.ocampo:
Just getting a midnight snack!
I’m going back to sleep in a second!
sampaguita72:
Are you sure you’re all right?
How are things with that boyfriend of yours?
You haven’t mentioned him in a while
Oh God, that’s right—with everything going on, I’ve fallen off with updating her.
ruby.ocampo:
Oh things are great! We’re going to a wedding together this weekend
sampaguita72:
Oooh fun! Gosh I envy you
Maybe you’ll catch the bouquet!
I regret that I didn’t get to see you get married
Oh God oh God. Is marrying Mark Winterson the thing that would help her move on? Is there a way I can give her the illusion we’re heading in that direction and spy on him at the same time?
But then again, maybe Greg was right: I don’t know what will free her from Slack, or if it even is something to do with me. I get back into bed and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep, but I lie awake the rest of the night.
Later that week, Greg is on the eighth floor talking to Sarah, but he keeps glancing over my way.
I feel so antsy, I can’t sit still anymore, so I get up and shut myself in the copy room. And a few minutes later, there’s a soft knock, and Greg slips inside, shutting the door behind him.
There’s a knot of stress in my chest, because oh God I’m balancing too many things emotionally right now, keeping up too many ruses at once—for Mark Winterson, for Mom. But it’s not like anyone can see us in here.
“You okay?” he asks, wrung out.
I laugh unhappily. “Are you?”
We stare at each other for a long moment. The light in here is dim. One of the overhead bulbs burned out and no one has gotten around to replacing it yet.
“Don’t think I’ve really slept since we talked the last time.” Greg smiles like it’s funny, and his voice drops lower. “I hate the idea of you over there with him. When I thought this was actually what you wanted, it was one thing, but…”
I throw my arms around him, hugging him so forcefully, he lets out a surprised gasp. But he eases into it—hands on my back, his chin on my shoulder—and I’m flooded with relief, like stepping into a hot shower after a long day.
“Hey,” Greg says. “It’s okay.” He squeezes me tighter.
His fingers knead the muscles between my shoulder blades, working out the tension around my spine.
It’s like Greg knows what I need, still, unspoken.
Even in high school, my back would always be tense—too many hours bent over my desk studying—and he would sit behind me and work my sore spots with his thumb. Apparently he still remembers.
I take a step back, crossing my arms. Something he said has been bothering me. “Why did it hurt to be around me? At the end of high school.”
Greg stares down at the carpet, and the long pause that follows nearly makes my heart stop. “Right after we kissed…” He heaves a deep sigh. “I overheard you and your mom talking.”
Suddenly it’s hard to swallow. “You overheard us?”
“It must have been, like, a day or two later? I was passing by, and the window was open, and…and instead of walking on like a normal person, I…” His eyes go up to the ceiling, clearly embarrassed. “I crouched in your bushes for a while to listen.”
I have to laugh in disbelief.
“Your mom was saying I have my head in the clouds, I’ll never go anywhere, I’m a bad influence. That I’m not the kind of guy you should be trying to date. And you said, I know, Mom. We’re just in high school, it’s not that serious.”
“I said that to placate her!” It feels like someone has turned up the thermostat in this room about ten degrees. “I needed to calm her down! And we were in high school. Why didn’t you give me a chance to explain?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I knew you weren’t going to go against your mom. And I didn’t want to be the one to make you.”
It hadn’t ever occurred to me that he might think that, and now I’m flipping through years’ worth of memories, reviewing them in this new light.
“I told myself: I like you too much, but it’s not going to work,” Greg goes on. “And my feelings are just going to create problems for us.”
“Why didn’t you ever talk to me about it?”
“I guess, in my mind…I thought you rejected me already.” He lets out a defeated little laugh. “Didn’t want to run a race I couldn’t win.”
I remember now—Greg was like this with a lot of things.
Like that time I asked what he wanted to do when he got older, and for once he didn’t answer with a joke.
Maybe he was sleep-deprived, or the moon was in a strange phase, but he said that if he could do anything, he’d want to be a professor.
It made sense for him, the way he read voraciously, like he was hunting for something.
After that, whenever I tried to bring it up, he’d deny it, find a way to deflect. And then one time, after I’d needled him enough, he spit out the truth like the words burned him: It’s not realistic, okay! I don’t want to play a game I can’t win. I’d rather not even try.
I’m so frustrated—I’m so mad at him, deciding this all on his own!—that tears spill out onto my cheeks.
“Hey.” Greg steps closer and cups my face in both hands. “Ruby. I’m sorry. It was—it was the wrong thing, looking back.”
He wipes away my tears with his fingers, and I try to muster a reassuring smile.
“I thought you were over it already,” he says, voice raspy. “I thought I would get over it someday.”
It’s clear now from the tremor in his voice that he never really did. All the times I judged myself for not being able to move on, all the years I felt pathetic—he was feeling the same, right there with me.
“I just thought…I knew where I stood,” he says, eyes searching mine. “I wanted to be respectful. Not ruin our friendship because I got carried away.”
A bitter little laugh shakes out of me. “It’s possible you went overboard.”
“I see that now.” He scoffs, and his thumb strokes my cheek. “I was wrong. I’m sorry I didn’t fight for us back then.”
We’re standing so close in this tiny, dark room. It would be so easy to lean in and press my lips to his.
Suddenly the Xerox machine behind me springs to life, making a horrible metallic shriek.
I pitch forward, hands on Greg’s chest, and we tumble to the ground so I’m on top of him, blue light from inside the machine shining on the walls, the top moving back and forth frenetically, its buttons glowing in random patterns.
The machine spews out a stream of paper, and it flies against the wall, landing in a pile in the corner.
“Jesus!” I scramble to my feet.
“Maybe you leaned on a button?” Greg picks himself up and studies the display screen, hitting the side of the machine—but it keeps making that ka-klack-ka-klack sound and spits out more paper, as if to spite him.
I glance at my phone, conscious of how long I’ve been away from my desk, and there are about a million and one notifications.
sampaguita72:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING
Oh God oh God oh God. How does she know? What else can she see?
sampaguita72:
WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH GREG IN THE XEROX ROOM?
In the corner of my eye, something moves—a security camera in the far corner, turning jerkily in our direction.
I look back at the spitting copy machine and realize with creeping horror—is that her? In the cameras, in the copy machine? Is the haunting spreading outside of Slack?
Erica opens the door. “God, what is happening in here! Such a racket! What did you do to the machine?”
Al comes in behind her, and he and Greg take turns inspecting the display and hitting the sides of the copier.
The machine is still spitting out paper, flying upward toward the ceiling, white sheets floating down in lazy spirals.
“Ruby, don’t just stand there—call maintenance!” Erica shouts, fingers plugged in her ears to drown out the whining copy machine noise.
I nod and speed down the hallway, barely watching where I’m going, heart in my throat.