I tilt my head at him. “Neither do you.”
Maybe there’s a way to spend time with him without the making out. Maybe I can convince him to take a break. He works too hard and maybe I can do something about it. But not now. I should think of something though. There has to be a way to have it all, take care of everyone and everything in one day.
But that day is not today.
I back up. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks though. Bye, Alex.” I wave and turn and hustle up the street to the pay phone. It’s cab time.
It’s not easy to walk away, to pretend like there’s nothing between us when I’ve memorized his scent, his lips, the feel of his body pressed against mine.
But I can’t think of him now. That way lies madness and obsession.
Once home, I race upstairs, grab the costume from my closet, and then knock on Hugo’s door.
He answers his door like he did the first day, all menacing and stern and I smother a laugh. The man is a grizzly bear on the outside and a teddy bear on the inside.
“Here. You’re going to need this.”
“Who are—?”
I shake the garment at him. “Don’t ask questions, just take it. I’ll be back later.”
Saffron is in the design district, squished between a Starbucks and a nail salon. The interior is all warm colors, reds and oranges. Booths in the front give way to an open seating area near the back. Red hanging tapestry curtains lend the area an exotic but comfortable ambiance.
“Hey.” I find Presley sitting at a small booth near the front. And I’m only slightly sweaty and shaky as I slide into the seat across from her, and that’s mostly from running back and forth across the bay.
“Hey.” Presley hands me a menu with a smile. “I’m glad you came.”
“I’m glad I came too.”
She smiles and nods and I avert my eyes down to the list of entrees.
The restaurant is filled with the clink of silverware on plates, the soft chatter of other patrons. And between us: silence.
Oh no. We’re going to sit here in silence the whole time, and Presley is going to think I’m a total loser and regret ever making an attempt to befriend me.
I shake the thought away. If I do anything stupid, I can always try again tomorrow. It’s not like I haven’t done that before. I take a breath and try not to think about it. Which means, it’s all I can think about.
A sliver of nausea slips in through the cracks of my uber-cool, I-told-Mark-to-fuck-off façade.
What if it’s awkward and strained the whole time? I didn’t make a list of things to talk about. What if we have nothing in common?
I take a slow breath, inhaling in through my nose and then out through my mouth.
It’s okay. Even if I totally screw this up, tomorrow I can try again. This is temporary.
My heart rate drops a notch.
That’s better.
“So what made you say yes this time?”
I glance up from the menu. Presley is watching me with no idea of the mental gymnastics being performed inside my brain.
When I don’t respond right away, she adds, “I mean, I’ve worked at Blue Wave for over a month and I’ve asked you to lunch or drinks or out to dinner with the rest of the team about every other day. Did I finally annoy you into agreeing?”
I smile. “I wasn’t annoyed, I came because—” Wait. Why did I agree to come out this time when I’ve been avoiding everyone at work for basically the entire span of my career? It’s a good question. I could tell her the truth, I’m stuck in a time loop in which I cannot change anything and now I’m throwing shit at the wall and hoping it sticks, but I decide to go for the simple and shocking. “I got fired.”
Her mouth pops open. “You did? Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
The waiter comes over and we order, deciding to share latkes and tabouleh with chicken kebabs and falafel.
“You sure we can eat this much?” I ask once the waiter disappears with our order.
“Absolutely. My stomach is an empty pit that needs to be filled with Mediterranean food, wine, and my parents’ approval.”
I laugh. “Now there’s a statement I can relate to.”
Presley grins. “But we need to talk about you. What happened at work?”
My hands clench together in my lap, staring down at a scuff on the table. “Today’s pitch didn’t go so great.” I mean, better than the last five million times, but not good enough.
“So they fired you?”
“Uh, well.” I blow out a breath. “That and also I suck at my job.”
She coughs, choking on her drink. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting, um—”
“Brutal honesty?”
She shrugs. “Self-awareness.”
Ouch. “Right.”
“You don’t suck at your job,” she rushes to explain. “You’re fine at your job. I just think,” she considers me for a moment, her nose wrinkling, “I don’t think you like it. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m not sure your heart is in it. You tell me, do you like working at Blue Wave?”
I don’t have to think long to answer the question. “No. I don’t like it.” But how to fix that? It’s not like I could get somewhere else to hire me in one day. And even if I could, it’s not like I can start a career somewhere else. Not unless I get myself out of this day.
“I don’t like it either,” she says. “I recognized the job dissatisfaction because I feel it every day.”
Surprise pushes me back in the seat. “You don’t like working at Blue Wave?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine. The job is fine. I’m not planning on staying. I just need money to live off while I’m building a following on Insta for my
