On Second Thought
Page 75
“So good. I met someone! He seemed straight, didn’t have a doll collection or long toenails and lives in a cute apartment, but his grandmother is the landlord, so there’s a red flag.”
“Well, it could be legit,” I said. “She’s not living with him, is she?”
“I didn’t see her,” Rachelle said. “I thought I smelled old lady powder, but I didn’t find hard evidence.”
“Ainsley, can I see you for a moment?” Jonathan said.
“Sure, Jonathan!” I said, my voice hard. I whirled around and swept into his office.
He closed the door behind me, then sat at his desk.
“Thanks for the call yesterday.” I folded my arms and resumed glaring.
“I didn’t call you.”
“I know.”
He blinked. I don’t understand this sarcasm you employ, human.
“What do you want, Jonathan? Are you firing me? Finally?”
“No. I need you to sign this.”
He passed a sheaf of papers across the desk, then folded his hands. I glanced down.
Consensual Romance in the Workplace Agreement
We, the undersigned...voluntary and consensual...not have a negative impact...public displays of affection...
I tossed the papers back on his desk. “This your form of snuggling?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is the conversation we’re going to have after—” I lowered my voice “—sleeping together? Don’t you want to say anything to me first?”
“Absolutely not. I need you to read that. If you wanted to sue me right now, you’d be well within your rights.”
“Why? Because we did it?”
He flinched. Less than flattering. “Please keep your voice down, and yes.”
“You are the least romantic person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m simply trying to protect—”
“I know. I’m not stupid. Give me your pen.” I grabbed it, scrawled my signature on every page, initialed in four spots and tossed the pen back at him. It bounced off the desk and hit him in the chest.
“This is necessary, Ainsley. Please make sure you read the paragraph on public—”
“Jonathan, enough. Okay?”
He stood up. “I’m sorry if this has insulted you somehow.”
I threw up my hands. “It would’ve been nice if you called me. I was feeling a little unsure on Saturday, since your first words to me upon waking were ‘Get out.’”
“Actually, I believe I said—”
“I didn’t even know you liked me on Friday, and the next thing I know, we’re doing the wild thing, and then you didn’t call, even though you said you would, which is breaking a commandment in the dating world, and now you greet me with a form from your lawyer.”
He took a slow breath. “Lydia was under the weather yesterday, so the girls stayed over last night instead of going back to their mother’s.”
“Which you could’ve let me know.”
“I don’t want my daughters to overhear me talking to someone I’m...potentially involved with. Their mother has confused them enough.”
“Text, Jonathan. Email. We live in a wondrous modern world.”
He tilted his head, not quite looking at me. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”
Right. I was dealing with Captain Flatline.
“How about ‘Hi, Ainsley, I trust you had a pleasant weekend. I know I did, especially Friday night. Unfortunately, my daughter is sick, so I can’t talk, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’”
His mouth curled up the tiniest bit. “I did have a pleasant weekend. Especially Friday night.”
Though they were my words, his deep dark voice made them seem...delicious. “How’s Lydia feeling now?”
“All better.”
“Would you like to say anything personal to me, Jonathan?”
“No. We’re at work.” But the smile grew.
I smiled back at him, feeling gooey and melty and happily stupid.
“Don’t you have articles to edit?” he asked.
“Right,” I said. But my smile stayed put, even as I went off to read articles on how more and more family physicians in our area were offering their patients Botox.
A few hours later, as I was reading Candy’s latest warm and touching response to a daughter whose mother was cold and unloving, my father walked in.
“Dad!” I said, fear shooting through my limbs. He’d never come to see me at work before. “Who’s dead?”
“Is someone dead?”
“I don’t know. You tell me!”
“Is it Gram-Gram?” He looked startled.
“I don’t know! Is it?” We stared at each other a second. “Dad, are you here to deliver bad news?”
“No,” he said. “I thought we could go out to lunch.” He paused. “Should I call your grandmother?”
“I’ll do it.” We were both superstitious, Dad and me. Him, because he worked in baseball, and those men fell apart if they didn’t wear their special pants or cross themselves three times before batting or turn in a circle three times at first base.
Me, because I’d grown up in a world where moms went for a bike ride and got hit by trucks.
“Hi, Gram-Gram!” I chirped when she answered, giving Dad the thumbs-up. “Just wanted to say hi. How are you?”
“Oh, honey, you’re so sweet! You are! I’m fine. Well, I’m lonely. I’m a lonely old woman waiting to die.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. “I’d miss you too much.”
“Well, it’s true. I have nothing to look forward to.”
“What about that date you went on?” I’d fixed her up with George from Kate’s grief group, and they had lunch the other day.
“All he talked about was soup.”
“You like soup.”
“That’s true. Bisque. I really like bisque.”
“See? It’s a start.”
“You’re wonderful. Do you know that? You’re my best friend. I love you, honey!”
“I love you, too, Gram-Gram.” I hung up, feeling relieved, adoring, adored and rather pimpish.
Jonathan was staring at me from his office. Not only did I have a family member at my desk, I was making a personal call at work. “I’d like to schedule that employee review, Ainsley,” he called.
Apparently, sleeping with the boss wasn’t going to win me any points. There was no hint of a smile in his dead-eyed stare. “It was an emergency,” I said. “We thought Gram-Gram might be dead. She’s not. I’m going to lunch. You remember my dad, right? Bye!”
My father drove me in his little convertible, and it was like old times, doing errands/visiting his girlfriends when I was a kid. We talked about baseball, how much we both missed Derek Jeter, where Dad’s next game would be, the pulled pork sandwich he’d had in Kansas City.
“Shall we eat here?” Dad asked, pulling up in front of Hudson’s. “I’ve never been.” He and Candy didn’t go out together a lot (or ever), and the place was relatively new.
“Sure. I came here for drinks with the girls a few weeks ago. It’s really cute.”
A few minutes later, we had a nice table overlooking the river and had placed our orders—fettuccine Alfredo for both of us, rich and delicious and unhealthy, the kind of food Candy never made. “So, Dad. This is nice. And strange. I don’t think we’ve had lunch together in ten years.”
“Well, it could be legit,” I said. “She’s not living with him, is she?”
“I didn’t see her,” Rachelle said. “I thought I smelled old lady powder, but I didn’t find hard evidence.”
“Ainsley, can I see you for a moment?” Jonathan said.
“Sure, Jonathan!” I said, my voice hard. I whirled around and swept into his office.
He closed the door behind me, then sat at his desk.
“Thanks for the call yesterday.” I folded my arms and resumed glaring.
“I didn’t call you.”
“I know.”
He blinked. I don’t understand this sarcasm you employ, human.
“What do you want, Jonathan? Are you firing me? Finally?”
“No. I need you to sign this.”
He passed a sheaf of papers across the desk, then folded his hands. I glanced down.
Consensual Romance in the Workplace Agreement
We, the undersigned...voluntary and consensual...not have a negative impact...public displays of affection...
I tossed the papers back on his desk. “This your form of snuggling?”
“Excuse me?”
“This is the conversation we’re going to have after—” I lowered my voice “—sleeping together? Don’t you want to say anything to me first?”
“Absolutely not. I need you to read that. If you wanted to sue me right now, you’d be well within your rights.”
“Why? Because we did it?”
He flinched. Less than flattering. “Please keep your voice down, and yes.”
“You are the least romantic person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m simply trying to protect—”
“I know. I’m not stupid. Give me your pen.” I grabbed it, scrawled my signature on every page, initialed in four spots and tossed the pen back at him. It bounced off the desk and hit him in the chest.
“This is necessary, Ainsley. Please make sure you read the paragraph on public—”
“Jonathan, enough. Okay?”
He stood up. “I’m sorry if this has insulted you somehow.”
I threw up my hands. “It would’ve been nice if you called me. I was feeling a little unsure on Saturday, since your first words to me upon waking were ‘Get out.’”
“Actually, I believe I said—”
“I didn’t even know you liked me on Friday, and the next thing I know, we’re doing the wild thing, and then you didn’t call, even though you said you would, which is breaking a commandment in the dating world, and now you greet me with a form from your lawyer.”
He took a slow breath. “Lydia was under the weather yesterday, so the girls stayed over last night instead of going back to their mother’s.”
“Which you could’ve let me know.”
“I don’t want my daughters to overhear me talking to someone I’m...potentially involved with. Their mother has confused them enough.”
“Text, Jonathan. Email. We live in a wondrous modern world.”
He tilted his head, not quite looking at me. “I wasn’t sure what to say.”
Right. I was dealing with Captain Flatline.
“How about ‘Hi, Ainsley, I trust you had a pleasant weekend. I know I did, especially Friday night. Unfortunately, my daughter is sick, so I can’t talk, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’”
His mouth curled up the tiniest bit. “I did have a pleasant weekend. Especially Friday night.”
Though they were my words, his deep dark voice made them seem...delicious. “How’s Lydia feeling now?”
“All better.”
“Would you like to say anything personal to me, Jonathan?”
“No. We’re at work.” But the smile grew.
I smiled back at him, feeling gooey and melty and happily stupid.
“Don’t you have articles to edit?” he asked.
“Right,” I said. But my smile stayed put, even as I went off to read articles on how more and more family physicians in our area were offering their patients Botox.
A few hours later, as I was reading Candy’s latest warm and touching response to a daughter whose mother was cold and unloving, my father walked in.
“Dad!” I said, fear shooting through my limbs. He’d never come to see me at work before. “Who’s dead?”
“Is someone dead?”
“I don’t know. You tell me!”
“Is it Gram-Gram?” He looked startled.
“I don’t know! Is it?” We stared at each other a second. “Dad, are you here to deliver bad news?”
“No,” he said. “I thought we could go out to lunch.” He paused. “Should I call your grandmother?”
“I’ll do it.” We were both superstitious, Dad and me. Him, because he worked in baseball, and those men fell apart if they didn’t wear their special pants or cross themselves three times before batting or turn in a circle three times at first base.
Me, because I’d grown up in a world where moms went for a bike ride and got hit by trucks.
“Hi, Gram-Gram!” I chirped when she answered, giving Dad the thumbs-up. “Just wanted to say hi. How are you?”
“Oh, honey, you’re so sweet! You are! I’m fine. Well, I’m lonely. I’m a lonely old woman waiting to die.”
“Don’t say that,” I said. “I’d miss you too much.”
“Well, it’s true. I have nothing to look forward to.”
“What about that date you went on?” I’d fixed her up with George from Kate’s grief group, and they had lunch the other day.
“All he talked about was soup.”
“You like soup.”
“That’s true. Bisque. I really like bisque.”
“See? It’s a start.”
“You’re wonderful. Do you know that? You’re my best friend. I love you, honey!”
“I love you, too, Gram-Gram.” I hung up, feeling relieved, adoring, adored and rather pimpish.
Jonathan was staring at me from his office. Not only did I have a family member at my desk, I was making a personal call at work. “I’d like to schedule that employee review, Ainsley,” he called.
Apparently, sleeping with the boss wasn’t going to win me any points. There was no hint of a smile in his dead-eyed stare. “It was an emergency,” I said. “We thought Gram-Gram might be dead. She’s not. I’m going to lunch. You remember my dad, right? Bye!”
My father drove me in his little convertible, and it was like old times, doing errands/visiting his girlfriends when I was a kid. We talked about baseball, how much we both missed Derek Jeter, where Dad’s next game would be, the pulled pork sandwich he’d had in Kansas City.
“Shall we eat here?” Dad asked, pulling up in front of Hudson’s. “I’ve never been.” He and Candy didn’t go out together a lot (or ever), and the place was relatively new.
“Sure. I came here for drinks with the girls a few weeks ago. It’s really cute.”
A few minutes later, we had a nice table overlooking the river and had placed our orders—fettuccine Alfredo for both of us, rich and delicious and unhealthy, the kind of food Candy never made. “So, Dad. This is nice. And strange. I don’t think we’ve had lunch together in ten years.”
