Derrick and Jennifer turned to me.
“What?” I leaned backward, feigning confusion as they leaned in toward me.
“You work for him?” Derrick asked.
I shook my head.
“How do you know him?”
“How does he know you?” Jennifer corrected him.
“He sits on 41 with me. So we’ve chatted. I haven’t worked for him. Yet!”
“I’ll tell you what I would not be doing if I worked with a guy who looked like that,” Jennifer said. “Working! I wonder if he has any female associates working for him. Must be wildly inefficient!”
I shrugged. “I barely remember to eat at work. I’m too busy to notice anybody’s looks.”
Derrick smirked. “Mm-hmm. Not buying it.”
The clatter of metal on metal cut their attention from me back to the chef. He chopped an onion on his board with a knife in each hand at such speed that the thin blades appeared as just vertical silver streaks in the air before he tossed the rings onto the hibachi grill with a sizzle.
I watched out of the corner of my eye as Peter took his seat next to a woman with her back to me. Her posture was perfect, and the blond hair cascading down around her shoulders was silky and straight, the kind I’d always wished for. I often was complimented on my hair, but I still often scrutinized my split ends, thinking they were broken and limp because my hair was naturally curly and I destroyed it by blow-drying and then ironing it every time I washed it. Peter placed his hand on the back of her chair as she took a video with her phone of the children at the table, clapping in delight at the spectacle of their food being cooked.
I looked around the restaurant—at the mom-jeans wearers, the underage drinkers, and the younger children with their parents. It no longer seemed an appropriate way to amuse ourselves now that we had growing bank accounts that we didn’t need to watch carefully and professional reputations that we did. I stared at Jennifer as she opened her mouth and the chef flipped a piece of shrimp into it. She and Kevin giggled childishly, and I was reminded of a fourth-grade trip to SeaWorld. I took a long sip of my Sapporo, which suddenly tasted bitter.
I angled myself awkwardly toward Derrick so that I could keep Peter in my peripheral vision as Kevin recounted his conflicted feelings over his latest date.
“. . . and what was I supposed to say? You know? So, I said of course she could come over. But I don’t want to see her again because she came over on the first date.”
Peter had disappeared from my view, and his wife now sat beside an empty chair. I scanned the restaurant.
“At least she’s not the only girl I’m seeing,” Kevin continued. “Do you know anybody for me, Alex?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, have to pee,” I said, already walking toward the restroom at the front of the restaurant, my legs wobblier than they should be after a few shots of sake and a beer.
I’d lied to my friends, but I’d been suddenly overcome by the desire to be in Peter’s line of vision—to remind him I existed. I placed my phone to one ear and plugged the other one with my finger as I walked up and down the dead-end corridor housing the women’s and men’s rooms, furrowing my brow to appear focused. My knees weakened as the door to the men’s room swung open. I corrected my posture and said “Yes” into the phone, even nodding for emphasis, but it was a large man in pleated khakis and a white T-shirt who exited into the hallway.
I resumed my pacing, but as I turned for the tenth time, I realized how simultaneously pathetic and bizarre my actions were. I took my phone away from my ear without hanging up on my imaginary correspondent and noticed a hint of perspiration at the nape of my neck. It felt unbearable, and I dropped my neck forward and scratched the skin under my hair hungrily.
“Do you know why we scratch itches?” Peter appeared at the other end of the hallway by the entrance to the restaurant, slipping his phone into his breast pocket with one hand. His nose was slightly red from the breezy night air. I placed my hand as nonchalantly as possible on the wall beside me for support.
“Lots of theories. One is that we scratch at a tingle as a reflex to prevent bugs and stuff on our skin. Amazing how we know to snatch our hand away when we feel something too hot. But we scratch it when we feel a tickle. Right? Our bodies are pretty remarkable,” he said, and I had to fight the urge to scratch up and down my arms and stomach. “Some nerves cannot sense itch and pain at the same time, so it relieves the itch when we scratch it. Some say pain is more tolerable than itching.”
“I have a high tolerance for pain,” I said, surprisingly steadily.
Peter winked. “Don’t all lawyers? I think itchiness is much worse. Anyway, enjoy your dinner. I’m back to Dad duty.”
I managed a wave only after he had already turned. Then I walked back and took my place between Jennifer and Derrick.
“All good?” Derrick shot a sideways glance at Peter returning to his table. “You’re just a work crush wrapped up in puppy love and tied with a little obsession, aren’t you?” He playfully tapped the tip of my nose.
“You’re annoying.” I chugged the remainder of my beer and dove into my shrimp fried rice, then forced myself to focus on the knife tricks our chef performed. I lost myself in the charade so successfully that I forgot to look at my phone for a good thirty minutes. When I finally did, my stomach sank. I had missed thirty-seven emails in that period. The Stag River deal had clearly reached boiling point, and the latest email from Jordan told me to “call as soon as you can, no matter the hour.” I excused myself before dessert, leaving cash for the check and multiple apologies.
“Get out of here,” Derrick said, throwing my hundred-dollar bill back at me as though it repulsed him.
“Go!” Jennifer agreed encouragingly. I guess with our new account balances, they could afford to cover me.
It was ten o’clock on a Friday, so I opted to hop in a cab home rather than to the office. Sam was already in bed, his deep snoring indicating that he had already been asleep for some time, when I got there. I logged on to my computer at our dining table and dialed Jordan’s cell phone.
“Hey,” he answered. “Can you call me in the office?”
“Yup.” He didn’t sound angry that he was in the office while I was not, but still, it worried me. I should have never left. He was going to think I was a slacker. Should I head back there right away? But then I’d waste the commute time. I dialed him back on his work line.
“Hey. So, we got comments from Onyx’s lawyers, and they’re a mess. It’s like these guys have never done a merger. Which is . . . annoying. But the bad part is, their timeline is completely out of control. They just moved closing up a month. That means we need to put together the offer . . .”
Jordan instructed me to get started on the stock purchase agreement, and from the alertness of his tone, I gathered that he had no intention of leaving the office anytime soon. He didn’t mention when he would need the draft, but I decided to give myself twenty-four hours, to prove my work ethic. I put my head down and worked through most of Saturday on my couch, struggling to respond politely to Sam as he came and went from our apartment. I sent the documents to Jordan just before midnight, when Sam was already asleep. I woke up Sunday morning to an email with Jordan’s markup attached, his scan showing large blocks of red ink. Does this guy sleep? I wondered, perusing the angry red strike-throughs of the language he wanted removed and scribbles of the language he wanted to replace it with. Did he have a scanner at home, or was he still in the office?