I give her a little wave, pushing my office door open with the toe of my shoe, closing it behind me when I’m all the way inside. Make the extra effort to close the horizontal blinds, which are ordinarily—permanently—kept open.
I pull the thin string until they slide slowly down, creating a blinder for the office staff beyond, who will unquestionably suspect me of looking at porn or having sex on my desk like Sheila in accounting—or Dennis in marketing.
I settle at my desk for an early-morning extracurricular activity.
It takes a little while for my computer to warm up, but when it does, I hunker down in front of it like a spy about to begin her first mission and greedily click open search engines.
B-R-O-O-K-S
B-E-N…one N or two? Shit. Two Ts or one?
I try both.
“Brooks Bennett…Brooks Bennett.” I cannot believe I’m creeping online—as if I don’t have a million other things to occupy my time. And doing this at work, in my office, feels sketchier still. Like a good old-fashioned stalking session, the kind I used to have in college with my friends when I liked someone.
“You’re not getting paid for this and it is a clear violation of company policy,” I reprimand myself as some weak tactic to thwart my own efforts. But I persist, already ankle-deep in the fray, already gazing at photos of him—the few that pop up in my search, knowing more will appear when I hit his social media pages. “Dad would kill you if he knew you were wasting company time to stalk your dumb neighbor.”
Brooks Bennett is…kind of a tool; logically, I know he is. The cat knows it. That guy probably has more lotion and skincare than I do, and he came over wearing house shoes, for Pete’s sake. Only my grandfather has ever worn those, and he’s pushing eighty.
Brooks talked during all the television shows. Occasionally chewed with his mouth open. Talked while he was eating. Scratched his nuts in front of me twice. Brought up all the good times he had in college. His fraternity. And disciplined Desdemona.
But oddly enough, we had a good time together, and Desi both hated and loved him (an excellent sign). We spent the day laughing on my couch, eating breakfast—then ordered lunch, then ordered Thai takeout for dinner. Binged an entire series, watched an entire movie.
It was late when he left my apartment, reluctantly crossing the hall for bed. Though he’d almost passed out on my couch twice, he refused to spend the night.
Whatever—it’s not like he had a drive across town; he only had to walk a few feet.
Yet here I am, googling the wiseass during business hours, with my office door closed and curtains drawn like a total psycho.
He’s not difficult to find, not with his name combination. The first thing that pops up is a collegiate business organization photograph, taken during his tenure at an illustrious university out east.
Just like me.
Brooks is in a black tux, black bowtie, and he’s got a dark mustache.
I lean in closer, pushing on a pair of glasses.
Correction: fake mustache. Felt, from the looks of it, but honestly so hard to tell since the picture is sepia-toned.
What an idiot he must have been, I muse, betting he was probably a giant asshole, undoubtedly hazing all the new pledges as an upperclassman.
Brooks is cute. No—he’s painfully handsome.
Crooked, cheeky smile below that dumb mustache. Dark, shaggy hair. Broad shoulders and debonair in a tuxedo, although to be fair, on the bottom he probably wore boxer shorts and not dress slacks.
The rest of the crew look like morons, too—daddy’s money doesn’t buy anyone class, and these guys look like they just rolled out of bed and stumbled into the photo shoot. Several of them are wearing sunglasses inside. Three of them have cigars dangling from their spoiled mouths.
One kid dons a sombrero.
I move along to the next photo of Brooks, this one from a hometown newspaper, the article a write-up of the students from his high school who got full-ride scholarships to colleges and universities.
Brooks received four offers, and my heart beats a bit faster.
Good grades, hard worker. Crazy good-looking. Funny.
Maybe not so spoiled after all.
I find his Instagram; he follows a ton of people but doesn’t post often. Mostly just food and old buildings? Which surprises me—you’d think an egotistical guy like him would post gym selfies and pictures of himself dressed up, or at fancy bars.
No such posts.
His Facebook is set to private and unsearchable.
I recline back in my chair, steepling my fingers, deep in thought. Maybe he’s not such a tool after all. Maybe there’s a bit of substance to him, barring the fake mustache…
Hmm.
7
Brooks
I do not have time for this. I do not have time for this.
Get to work, asswipe.
Focus.
“Abbott Margolis—how the fuck is that even spelled?” I’m a smart guy; two college diplomas on my wall prove it. So what the hell am I doing stalking Abbott and why the hell can I not figure out how to spell her goddamn name?
My long fingers hover over the keyboard of my computer, suspended and at a total loss. They can’t type without a command, and I have no fucking clue how Abbott spells her name.
It’s not like this little Google sesh will amount to anything. It’s not like I want anything from her. Besides, my prissy little neighbor seems more like the relationship type, and we all know I’ll never be part of a couple.
Not any time soon, anyway.
Sure, I’d like kids someday. But like, when I’m forty.
Not the fucking point, Bennett.
Get back to work.
There is a clock mounted on the wall in my office, and its second hand ticking is the only sound. There’s no sound of my fingers typing, nor of my mechanical pencil being dragged along a piece of paper.
Just the ticking of the clock, one second at a time.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
My index finger hits the A key. Then the B. O.
T.
Enter.
How the fuck is Margolis spelled?
M-A-R-G-O-A-L-E-S.
Enter.
Nothing pops up. I try again, this time with a new letter combination.
Nothing.
Fuck.
Dammit.
Why am I wasting my time with this? Why can’t I spell?
I hit my intercom. “Taylor?”
“Yes, boss?”
Cringing, I lean forward so he can hear me. “I need you to find the spelling of a name for me.”
The sound of him shuffling for paper. “Is this the name of a building or the name of a place?”
“Neither.”
“Is this the name of an architect?”
“Why does it suddenly sound like we’re playing a game of Guess Who or Twenty Questions and you’re trying to win something?”
Taylor huffs into the intercom, lowering his voice. “Look, it’s barely noon, I can’t eat carbs, and I am an intern for an architectural firm. I want to design buildings, but I’m stuck answering the phones up front. I have to amuse myself any way I can.” If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was pushing his bangs aside and throwing his head back, à la Cher.
Pure diva.
“So. Who am I searching?” He’s already clicking away on his computer, no doubt pulling up LinkedIn.