The Fortunate Ones
Page 28
“Okay,” I concede. “Well, thank you.”
“He should be there in a few minutes.”
“I’ll head outside in a second.”
I’m standing up, pulling a sweatshirt on over my pajamas, when he admits, “I wasn’t sure what color to get.”
“You didn’t outsource the job to Beth?”
“No. It only took a few minutes,” he says, quick to downplay the significance.
Even so, I smile thinking of him picking out my bike himself. Then I frown, thinking of him picking out my bike himself.
Outside, the sun is setting behind the houses across the street, and cicadas nearly drown out the sound of children playing a few blocks over. I plop down on the curb and glance left and right, checking for the courier.
“Okay, well, I’m outside now.”
A long pause follows and I wait for the inevitable goodbye. Instead, he says, “I saw your text the other day.”
My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. “You saw it, but didn’t reply.”
“I saw it, but didn’t reply,” he echoes.
I chuckle. “I know you’re a little older, but text messages aren’t like paper letters—you’re allowed to respond immediately.”
His tone doesn’t carry the same amusement as mine when he replies, “I thought it was probably best to give you a little space.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“This phone call?”
I know what he’s really hinting at, but I refuse to acknowledge his concerns because they’re my concerns too, and if we both agree that this is a bad idea, it’ll end. No reason for any more phone calls.
“How was your day today?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, so I sigh, “C’mon, it’s a platonic question. Pretend I’m your friend.”
“My day was fine. Busy. I’m still at the office, actually.”
“But the sun’s about to set.”
“I missed it rising too.”
I frown thinking of him locked away in his office all day and all night.
“Well, spoiler: it looks the same as it did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.”
He laughs, and then I hear the hinges of his chair squeal. I picture him sitting behind his desk, loosening his tie and tilting his head toward the ceiling. Maybe it’s the first time he’s taken a deep breath all day.
“I took our new CFO to the club for lunch today. I didn’t see you there.”
Was he hoping to?
“I had a job interview.”
“How’d it go?”
“Oh, you know.” I drag my Birkenstocks back and forth along the concrete. “Not that great.”
“Why do you think that?”
I laugh, thinking over the worst parts of the interview. “I could just tell, but it’s fine, because I was actually hoping to work at Twin Oaks until I die. I bet the mortician will let me wear my uniform to my grave.”
He chuckles. “You won’t stay forever.”
“No, probably just until forever isn’t very long anymore.”
“I could hire you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” he goads. “You could teach me French.”
“Uh huh, right.”
“Bonsoir.”
Oh Jesus, even his terrible French accent is sexy.
“Say something,” he urges.
“Si seulement les choses avaient été différentes.”
“What does that mean?” he asks with a dark, husky tone.
I tell him to look it up if he wants to know.
A car turns down my street and I perk up, hoping it’s the courier, but he passes right by.
“What were you doing before I called you?” he asks.
“Power napping,” I admit sheepishly. “I had plans to be more productive, but I fell asleep before I got around to actually doing anything.”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept a full eight hours, let alone took a nap during the day.”
“You should try it. You’re getting bags under your eyes,” I tease.
“I’ll stick to caffeine. I feel like I’ve never needed much sleep. At Caltech, my buddy and I would go stretches where we slept on pallets in the computer lab. We’d wake up, code, eat, code, sleep, and shower in the gym on campus when we couldn’t stand the stench any longer.”
That sounds horrible.
“Why?”
“We were building BioWear. There wasn’t time for anything else.”
“But now your company is successful,” I point out. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the fruits of your labor?”
He chuckles like the idea is completely preposterous. “Now I have even less time than I did then. I believe a wise 20th-century poet said it best: mo’ money, mo’ problems.”
I laugh and the hinges on his chair squeal again. There are footsteps and then the sound of ice clinking against glass. He’s sitting in his office, pouring himself a drink. He should go home, but why would he? It’s not like there’s anything better waiting for him there. The thought is almost too much to bear, so I come up with a simple solution.
“I think you should get a pet.”
He laughs. “A pet?”
“Yeah, like a dog or a hamster. Something to keep you company.”
“A hamster.” Another laugh. I can practically see him rubbing his brow and giving in to the conversation. “I don’t have time for a pet.”
“What about a fish?” I ask. “You could put it in a gigantic tank in that empty house of yours and just swim around with it in SCUBA gear.”
A white delivery truck turns onto my street. His headlights flash across me and I jump to my feet, waving him over. “Wait, I think my bike is here!”
“I’ll let you go then.”
He sounds disappointed, and I am too. I’d like to stay on the phone with him the rest of the night. I’d like to be the one to coax him out of his loneliness, but that’s not in the cards for us.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
The sadness in his tone eats away at me.
“Thanks for calling,” I say, hoping he deciphers everything left unsaid.
He pauses before replying, “Thanks for answering.”
By the time I hang up, the delivery truck has pulled up in front of the curb, and I watch as a tall skinny guy hops out with a clipboard in hand.
“Brooke Davenport?”
“That’s me.”
He nods and then I watch as he pops open the back doors and wheels my new bike down the ramp and onto the sidewalk. I was expecting something similar to what I had, but this is one of those fancy bikes I’ve always dreamed about owning one day. Even better, it’s the same color as my bookshelf: sunflower yellow. I beam.
“I’ve never seen a bike this color before,” I say, stepping forward to brush my hand across the polished body.
He shrugs. “Had to pick it up from a paint shop this afternoon.”
My stomach knots into a tight ball. There’s the answer I was seeking earlier. No one takes the time to get a bike custom painted out of guilt. No, this is something special.
The next day, I force Ellie to drive me to a pet shop and then to James’ office downtown. He’s in a meeting, so I leave the goldfish with Beth, along with fish food and a note.
This is Harry. He needed a friend. Take good care of him! XO, Brooke.
PS I love the yellow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later, Ellie and I are changing out of our work clothes in the employee locker room at Twin Oaks. I’m sweaty and hot from working in the cabana during the peak of summer. Ellie is annoyingly fresh-faced and beautiful from her shift working the lunch service.
“Here…can I just—”
Sweet-smelling mist hits the back of my head, and I turn to find Ellie holding her body spray at arm’s length with one hand while pinching her nose closed with the other. She spritzes me again.
“Stop Febreezing me like I’m a sofa!”
“He should be there in a few minutes.”
“I’ll head outside in a second.”
I’m standing up, pulling a sweatshirt on over my pajamas, when he admits, “I wasn’t sure what color to get.”
“You didn’t outsource the job to Beth?”
“No. It only took a few minutes,” he says, quick to downplay the significance.
Even so, I smile thinking of him picking out my bike himself. Then I frown, thinking of him picking out my bike himself.
Outside, the sun is setting behind the houses across the street, and cicadas nearly drown out the sound of children playing a few blocks over. I plop down on the curb and glance left and right, checking for the courier.
“Okay, well, I’m outside now.”
A long pause follows and I wait for the inevitable goodbye. Instead, he says, “I saw your text the other day.”
My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face. “You saw it, but didn’t reply.”
“I saw it, but didn’t reply,” he echoes.
I chuckle. “I know you’re a little older, but text messages aren’t like paper letters—you’re allowed to respond immediately.”
His tone doesn’t carry the same amusement as mine when he replies, “I thought it was probably best to give you a little space.”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“This phone call?”
I know what he’s really hinting at, but I refuse to acknowledge his concerns because they’re my concerns too, and if we both agree that this is a bad idea, it’ll end. No reason for any more phone calls.
“How was your day today?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, so I sigh, “C’mon, it’s a platonic question. Pretend I’m your friend.”
“My day was fine. Busy. I’m still at the office, actually.”
“But the sun’s about to set.”
“I missed it rising too.”
I frown thinking of him locked away in his office all day and all night.
“Well, spoiler: it looks the same as it did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.”
He laughs, and then I hear the hinges of his chair squeal. I picture him sitting behind his desk, loosening his tie and tilting his head toward the ceiling. Maybe it’s the first time he’s taken a deep breath all day.
“I took our new CFO to the club for lunch today. I didn’t see you there.”
Was he hoping to?
“I had a job interview.”
“How’d it go?”
“Oh, you know.” I drag my Birkenstocks back and forth along the concrete. “Not that great.”
“Why do you think that?”
I laugh, thinking over the worst parts of the interview. “I could just tell, but it’s fine, because I was actually hoping to work at Twin Oaks until I die. I bet the mortician will let me wear my uniform to my grave.”
He chuckles. “You won’t stay forever.”
“No, probably just until forever isn’t very long anymore.”
“I could hire you.”
I burst out laughing.
“Yeah, c’mon,” he goads. “You could teach me French.”
“Uh huh, right.”
“Bonsoir.”
Oh Jesus, even his terrible French accent is sexy.
“Say something,” he urges.
“Si seulement les choses avaient été différentes.”
“What does that mean?” he asks with a dark, husky tone.
I tell him to look it up if he wants to know.
A car turns down my street and I perk up, hoping it’s the courier, but he passes right by.
“What were you doing before I called you?” he asks.
“Power napping,” I admit sheepishly. “I had plans to be more productive, but I fell asleep before I got around to actually doing anything.”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept a full eight hours, let alone took a nap during the day.”
“You should try it. You’re getting bags under your eyes,” I tease.
“I’ll stick to caffeine. I feel like I’ve never needed much sleep. At Caltech, my buddy and I would go stretches where we slept on pallets in the computer lab. We’d wake up, code, eat, code, sleep, and shower in the gym on campus when we couldn’t stand the stench any longer.”
That sounds horrible.
“Why?”
“We were building BioWear. There wasn’t time for anything else.”
“But now your company is successful,” I point out. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the fruits of your labor?”
He chuckles like the idea is completely preposterous. “Now I have even less time than I did then. I believe a wise 20th-century poet said it best: mo’ money, mo’ problems.”
I laugh and the hinges on his chair squeal again. There are footsteps and then the sound of ice clinking against glass. He’s sitting in his office, pouring himself a drink. He should go home, but why would he? It’s not like there’s anything better waiting for him there. The thought is almost too much to bear, so I come up with a simple solution.
“I think you should get a pet.”
He laughs. “A pet?”
“Yeah, like a dog or a hamster. Something to keep you company.”
“A hamster.” Another laugh. I can practically see him rubbing his brow and giving in to the conversation. “I don’t have time for a pet.”
“What about a fish?” I ask. “You could put it in a gigantic tank in that empty house of yours and just swim around with it in SCUBA gear.”
A white delivery truck turns onto my street. His headlights flash across me and I jump to my feet, waving him over. “Wait, I think my bike is here!”
“I’ll let you go then.”
He sounds disappointed, and I am too. I’d like to stay on the phone with him the rest of the night. I’d like to be the one to coax him out of his loneliness, but that’s not in the cards for us.
“James?”
“Yeah?”
The sadness in his tone eats away at me.
“Thanks for calling,” I say, hoping he deciphers everything left unsaid.
He pauses before replying, “Thanks for answering.”
By the time I hang up, the delivery truck has pulled up in front of the curb, and I watch as a tall skinny guy hops out with a clipboard in hand.
“Brooke Davenport?”
“That’s me.”
He nods and then I watch as he pops open the back doors and wheels my new bike down the ramp and onto the sidewalk. I was expecting something similar to what I had, but this is one of those fancy bikes I’ve always dreamed about owning one day. Even better, it’s the same color as my bookshelf: sunflower yellow. I beam.
“I’ve never seen a bike this color before,” I say, stepping forward to brush my hand across the polished body.
He shrugs. “Had to pick it up from a paint shop this afternoon.”
My stomach knots into a tight ball. There’s the answer I was seeking earlier. No one takes the time to get a bike custom painted out of guilt. No, this is something special.
The next day, I force Ellie to drive me to a pet shop and then to James’ office downtown. He’s in a meeting, so I leave the goldfish with Beth, along with fish food and a note.
This is Harry. He needed a friend. Take good care of him! XO, Brooke.
PS I love the yellow.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two weeks later, Ellie and I are changing out of our work clothes in the employee locker room at Twin Oaks. I’m sweaty and hot from working in the cabana during the peak of summer. Ellie is annoyingly fresh-faced and beautiful from her shift working the lunch service.
“Here…can I just—”
Sweet-smelling mist hits the back of my head, and I turn to find Ellie holding her body spray at arm’s length with one hand while pinching her nose closed with the other. She spritzes me again.
“Stop Febreezing me like I’m a sofa!”
