I had gone to get paper to replenish the printer but decided to take a minute to catch my breath. We’d been working together alone for hours, and being the object of Alex’s focus for long periods of time was invigorating, but trying not to say or do anything stupid was exhausting.
Not to mention fighting the ever-present attraction, a live wire that bounced around, shocking me in the heart every time he gave me a lopsided smile or touched my arm.
“Not lost. I’m just trying to, you know, pick the best one.”
We stared at the identical stacks of packaged printer paper together.
He rubbed his chin, considering the options. “It is hard to decide.”
“And what about the ones I don’t pick. What if they feel left out?”
He snorted. “Like getting picked last for dodgeball, something that happened frequently to me in middle school. I feel for the paper, I do.”
I groaned. “Dodgeball is the worst. It’s torture. Who wants to be picked first for torture?”
He turned to face me, standing only a foot away, his eyes dark in the low light of the closet. “What if being printed on is torture for the paper? Must be painful. Stacked in a dark tray, yanked through gears and machinery, and forcefully covered in ink.”
I laughed.
This was one of the many things I appreciated about working with Alex. I could talk to him about anything that popped into my head, even if they were completely random tangents. I could make ridiculous statements about paper feeling lonely and he would play along.
He reached for my face then, tucking a strand of hair back behind my ear. His fingers lingered on my cheek. His eyes dipped to my mouth.
Holy shit. Did he want to kiss me? Was this really happening? Was I dreaming? I wanted to pinch myself, but if this was real, there was no way I’d risk it.
I leaned into him and shut my eyes, every cell in my body gravitating toward him like he was a mirage in the desert, and let me tell you, I was thirsty. His breath caressed my lips, and then . . . and then he pulled away.
“Uh, here, I think this one is dying for torture.”
I opened my eyes. He grabbed a ream of paper from the stack and left the room. Shocked, I stood there, staring at where he had been a moment ago. What had just happened? It took me a minute to collect myself. A long minute. When I went back to the employee area, we went back to work. Had I imagined the whole thing?
He acted like nothing happened. And then, the next week, I was off his team.
I’m sure he asked for me to be removed because of that moment with the paper. I, of course, spent weeks obsessing over it. What did I do wrong? Could he tell how into him I was and was embarrassed for me? Whatever he did, touching me, leaning in, he clearly thought it was a mistake.
I thought we were friends. We bonded over a shared love of colorful design. I even helped him pick the colors for different levels of Bubble Crush. That’s when I told him about my own dreams of designing clothing. And he didn’t laugh or tell me it was a pointless dream like everyone else. He didn’t point out my drab work clothes and lack of visible style. He encouraged me. He sincerely appreciated my hidden creative streak. At least, I thought he had.
Shortly after that, Mark showed an interest in me and . . . he’s not worth mentioning.
I get home and try to work on a new pitch, but I can’t focus.
My resolve wavers about forty-seven times over the course of the day.
Figuring out what to wear is an agonizing decision. I want to look cool but casual, nice but not like I’m trying too hard, sexy but not overly so. I wish I could call Eloise or ask her advice, but the thought makes me queasy.
Besides, I don’t have a phone.
I finally settle on a pair of dark, stretchy jeans and a T-shirt Eloise gave me. It’s a multihued V-neck, colorful and vibrant and more eye-catching than I would like but there’s a bit of red lace in the bottom of the V covering my slight cleavage, and I have a little red jacket to match. She wore it to some teen choice award. I think she wore it as a dress, but it barely covers my ass so I’m not sure how she managed to pull that off.
I use the dirty pay phone to call a cab and take it into the city, jangling with anticipation and unease the entire ride. I attempt to distract myself by gazing out the window as we drive over the Bay Bridge and into the city, the cables and towers dazzling in white lights, the city a glimmering jewel in the distance. But it doesn’t help.
The cab drops me on the corner of Grant and Fresno, right in front of the Saloon. The building is two stories, with chipped and faded red siding.
There’s no line to get in. I sort of expected one. I mean, Alex is pretty chill, but he is an up-and-coming millionaire. I’ve seen articles of him in The Chronicle regaling the locals about his successes and noting even who he’s dating and where he’s been spotted around town.
The battered wooden front door is open but I stop at the corner, staring at the words painted on the glass front window: Saloon established 1861.
Sounds filter out into the night, laughter, music, people talking, glasses clinking.
My stomach churns, my body thumping with the urge to flee.
No. I’m not running. I’m going to do this.
I force myself to move to the front door and peek inside. Despite the noise, it’s only half full.
Thank the heavens. If it was packed, my willpower might have run away along with the rest of me.
The lighting is dim, which helps. If it’s dark, people can’t see me as clearly
