We hold each other’s gazes. I like him like this. He’s slightly vulnerable and carefully honest. And he delivered a gift of coffee when I needed it the most. My favorite coffee.
“Thanks, Fox.”
He spreads his arms wide and rests them on the back of the bench. When I lean back with him he curls a hand around my shoulder.
“All part of the plan to get in your pants.”
I grunt in good humor rather than kicking him in the shin. This, I’m learning, is the most genuine part of him. The part that has been labeled the “bad boy” by the public is actually Barrett being Barrett.
“I’m immune to you,” I tell him. But when his fingers trail along the side of my neck, goosebumps lift to the surface of my skin. Electric tingles dance over my arms when he tunnels those fingers into my hair.
“Soft as I thought.” His voice is low bordering seductive. Then he pulls his hand from my hair and stands so abruptly I’m left sliding down the bench without a strong, firm torso to catch me. “Ready to go to work, Kitty Cat?”
He takes my hand to help me up and just as quickly drops it. We’re not going to talk about the bizarro flash of disappointment that occurs when we walk not hand in hand back to the office.
By five thirty, I finish my edits and shoot them back to Mia. I hadn’t planned on finishing them today, but I was on a roll.
I stretch my arms overhead and crack my neck, my attention going over my laptop screen to Barrett. He’s hunched over his own laptop, leaning close like he’s attempting to crack an uncrackable code. The office is dark, everyone having left to tend to their assignments or clocked out for the day. There’s always someone here working late on a deadline. I guess today that someone is Barrett.
I shut down my laptop, tidy my desk for tomorrow, and then walk over to check on his progress. He doesn’t flinch, his fingers poised over the keyboard, his wrists glued to the edge of his desk.
“How’s it going?”
He jerks to attention, glassy eyes blinking.
“Hey, Kitty Cat.” His voice is slightly craggy. He must notice because he reaches for his water bottle and drains the scant few ounces left. “You outta here?”
“I’m done with the edits Mia gave me, and I jotted down a bunch of notes for the Hole in One date.” I shrug. “I’m ahead. I’ll start writing that column tomorrow.”
“Good. That’s good.” His eyes return to the screen, his shoulders resuming their hunchback position. I feel sorry for him. He’s obviously struggling. I glance at the screen and spot several corrections within the text, and a few comment bubbles from Mia off to the side.
“You know, sometimes it’s good to walk away for a while so that everything looks fresh when you come back.”
“Nah, I’m good.” He says this without moving a muscle.
“At least sit up straight in your chair.” I put a hand on his back. He recoils, sending me a glare. I snatch my hand away and instead reach for his water bottle. “I’ll refill this for you.”
The bottle is ripped from my hand and he’s on his feet so fast I’m practically eye to eye with him a millisecond later.
“I’ve got this, Kitty Cat. Go home.” His eyebrows are a pair of angry slashes, his mouth pulled into a frown.
“Fine. Be stubborn.”
He says nothing as I turn and huff to my desk. I’m aware that I’m huffing and truly wish I could stop. Once my bag is over my shoulder and I’m tromping through the dark office, I call over my shoulder “Enjoy your suffering!”
He doesn’t reply to that, either.
I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks or how hard he has to work, but it niggles at me on the drive home, while I shower, and when I pull on a casual pair of drawstring shorts and a baggy tee sans bra. It’s still there while I’m chopping lettuce for a late dinner salad, and when I uncork a bottle of pinot grigio.
“No wonder he doesn’t have any friends,” I grumble around a mouthful of spring mix lettuces. “Or a girlfriend,” I add before sipping my wine.
As if on cue, my cellphone rings. I let it chime for three full rings while deciding what to do about the caller. Curiosity wins.
“This is a surprise.”
“Catarina. How are you.” North’s inflection is flat. This isn’t a question but an extension of his greeting. Since he didn’t ask, I don’t answer.
“What can I do for you?” I feel a vague, but no less present hurt radiate through me. Not surprising, I suppose. We didn’t break up that long ago, though some days it feels like ages. My lingering anger is more muted than it should be. Why’d I stay? is my favorite question to ask myself lately.
“I wanted to check in.” His voice loses its edgy abruptness. “To see if you needed anything.”
“Like what? A gallon of milk? Loaf of bread?” I shovel the last bite of salad into my mouth and chew like a bored cow.
“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s displeasing.”
“It displeases you,” I say as I walk my salad bowl to the sink. “Oh, dear.”
“Are you in need of...companionship?”
I shut off the faucet. “Companionship?”
“Friendship?”
“Friendship?”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
“No.”
He’s silent for a few breaths.
“I’m trying to figure out why you care if I’m companioned or friended,” I admit.
“Because... Because I didn’t do a very good job of...things.”
“You mean of ending things?”
“Right.”
“North, are you feeling guilty?”
“No. I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I wish I’d have handled the breakup better.”
Ouch.
“Well, I’m fine and no longer yours to look after.” My heart sags at the word yours. I used to belong with him and now I don’t. Everything has changed. A season has ended. That could be where the hurt is coming from. Endings are usually sad. The sad part isn’t necessarily because I miss North, but because I’m home alone. I often ate dinner alone, wondering when he would return from work or if he’d call or stop by. Now I eat alone and never wonder where he is, because it doesn’t matter. That’s sad every which way you cut it. I liked having someone to wonder and worry about.
“We’re friends though,” he says.
“We are?” I can’t help blurting. “I generally like my friends.”
“Catarina. There is no need to be cruel.”
“I’m not being cruel. I’m stating a fact. I don’t want to hang out with you. We ended. We’re done. You moved on.”
He says nothing.
“Haven’t you? The pretty blonde from work?”
“I told you she’s married.”
“That doesn’t matter to a lot of people.”
“It matters to me.” His voice is laced with pain. Enough that a sliver of guilt creeps along the back of my neck. “I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat sometime this—”
A series of hard knocks on my front door interrupts.
“Who could that be at this hour?” I mutter.