“No! That’s not necessary. I’ll do it later. They’re a bit heavy.”
“I can handle it.” I’d planned to scoot them along the floor. As long as it meant I could scoot myself out of his presence. To demonstrate, I bend over and push on one end of the biggest box, sliding it toward his office door.
He intercepts me, mirroring my pose on the other side of the box. “Leave it,” he insists. “Really. I was going to get Marvin to help me haul all of these boxes to the mailroom when I’ve finished packing.”
I clench my jaw stubbornly. “Why?”
“Because you’re more of a help to me with taping; I’ve already filled the position of pack mule.”
Giving up, I say, “Fine. Whatever.”
“Whatevuh,” he mocks, smirking at me. “You’re supposed to just follow orders, remember?”
Damn charmer. I can’t help but smile at him when he’s looking at me like that. I straighten and turn in a circle, looking for other open boxes while I avoid his eyes. He follows me around the room as we go from box to box, working without talking.
Finally, he says, “What kind of cake did you order for tomorrow? You know I hate lemon.”
Matter-of-factly, I answer, “I wasn’t put in charge of that.” Thank God.
Tomorrow’s his last day. I’ve already scheduled a vacation day. Even I have my limits. I don’t trust myself to keep up the tough act if I have to be here and watch him walk through those doors for the last time. Of course, I know logically that there has to be a last time for me to see him, and it won’t be any less poignant just because it’s not the last time for everyone else. And I guess he’ll be back periodically, since this is the corporate headquarters for the company, but I won’t be able to hold it together when he says his goodbyes tomorrow. That’s a memory I have no interest in making. And I plan to leave tonight without saying goodbye.
“But you told them I hate lemon cake, right?”
I shoot him a look through my eyelashes. “My, my. Awfully particular, aren’t you? Get the big promotion and suddenly you’re a diva.”
Laughing, he says, “Hey, I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have a flavor of cake at my going-away to-do that I’d be willing to eat.”
“You think it’s going to be a to-do, huh?” I hold the flaps of a smallish box containing a stack of back issues of Architectural Digest.
With a straight face, he answers, “I’ve been all but promised it will be. Gary told me you’ve planned the whole thing, complete with streamers, confetti, and… and… a piñata.”
I crack up. “What are you, six?”
He looks up from the tape gun, an expression of mock-hurt on his face. “I’ll have you know that you don’t have to be a child to like those things.”
“Just have the mentality of one,” I clarify.
“Are you trying to break it to me that none of those things are going to be at my party?”
“I think it’s doubtful.” I put my hand on his arm. “Are you going to be okay?”
He nods solemnly. “I suppose. As long as you’re there…”
Swallowing and blushing, I remove my hand and splutter, “Oh… y-yes. Obviously. Where else would I be?” There are no more boxes to tape, no more distractions.
After a narrowing of his eyes, he says, “I don’t know… You wouldn’t be thinking of bunking off tomorrow, would you?”
I try to laugh him away. “That sounds like something that’s none of your business anymore.” My joke falls flat, though, seeing that it hits close to a whole bundle of nerves.
“But you know what I mean, right? Pull a sickie?”
“Whatever. I’m not calling in sick tomorrow,” I say honestly.
He turns his head and looks skeptically at me from the corner of his eye. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart,” I say, doing just that with my finger.
“Because I expect a proper goodbye from you. So no eating at dodgy Indian restaurants tonight.”
“Hm,” I reply, rearranging some boxes so there’s a clear route (getaway path) to the door. “You’re getting really used to having your way around here.” Suddenly, something occurs to me. “You’re not going to make a scene in front of everyone, are you? Embarrass me somehow?” Of course, he’s not going to, since I won’t be here, but I want to make sure he never even entertained the idea.
He wipes his brow on his sleeve. “Now why ever would I do that?”
“Yes, why would you do that?” I return.
“I won’t.” This time, he crosses his heart.
“It’s just… I’d prefer not to give everyone a show, complete with hugging and mushy stuff. It’s going to be uncomfortable enough as it is.” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged out loud that his going away is going to be difficult for me.
Sticking the toe of his shoe in front of the box I’m currently shifting to the side, he says, “Perhaps we should get the ‘mushy stuff’ out of the way now, whilst we have some privacy.”
I’m about to call him crazy, considering we’re at work, and his office blinds and door are wide open, but when I glance out there, I notice everyone’s cleared out for the day. I hadn’t realized how late it was or how long we’d been in here. Even so…
“I don’t think so,” I hedge. Suddenly all of this is too real. He’s really leaving. We’re really over. I don’t do well with real.
Cajolingly, he says, “Aw, come on. Just a little hug. We owe at least that to each other, don’t you think? A proper goodbye.”
Perched on the edge of his desk, I shake my head and whisper, “I can’t.”
“Sure you can.” He stands in front of me and opens his arms. “I promise, no funny business. And no one’s here to see you being nice to me, so your image is safe.”
He
