I consider whether to tell him about the call. There’s a part of me that knows it’s probably going to be a wild goose chase and Jack will hand me my ass for wasting his time or even indulging the crazy caller with my attention. I don’t want to look more like a newbie than I already do.
But what if there’s something to her story?
I consider my options and decide I should meet with her first, before saying anything to Jack. That way, if it’s a non-story, I can put an end to it, and he’ll be none the wiser. And if it turns out that there’s something there, I’ll hand it off and he’ll have to give me credit for doing my job. Either way, it seems like I need to meet with her by myself first. What’s the worst that could happen?
12
Jack
Well, holy hell. She managed to get here early.
After the beating she took yesterday, I’m not surprised she figured out she has to take her job seriously. I wasn’t so sure how she’d be feeling this morning and I almost called to check in, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Driving her home already felt like overstepping the colleague relationship but it seemed like the right thing to do.
I’m pleased to see the neat stack of wire feed items she’s left in my in-box, although I’m still going to check everything myself because I can’t afford to miss anything.
“You made coffee?” I say, when she comes back to her cubicle after dropping pages off on different people’s desks.
“Yeah, how’d you know it was me?” Linden asks, scooting her chair in and swiveling halfway around to look at where I’m standing by the printer, waiting for a few pages to hit the tray.
“It doesn’t taste like shit, for one thing.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I can’t handle Jeremy’s concoction, so I made my own.”
“Appreciate it.”
She turns back toward her computer and scans the news feeds. I should get to work, but I find myself wanting to linger. “You doing okay?” I ask.
“Yes. Good. Great. Thanks again for the ride. And, you know, from now until the end of days, for never, ever mentioning that I tried to kiss you… just, thanks.”
Tried? You were damn successful. But um, okay…
“Sure.”
“Anyway, moving on, right? I’m gonna choose not to dwell on the embarrassment that was last night, if you don’t mind, and focus on work.”
“Okay by me, but you don’t need to feel embarrassed.”
“I’ll feel a lot better if we stop talking about it.”
“Fine. Done. What’s on the wires?
“You haven’t already looked? Come on, Jack, don’t pretend you haven’t already written the whole paper in your head.”
“I may have glanced at the feeds.”
“So you know, then.”
I don’t know why I’m lingering by her desk. I’m clearly making her uncomfortable because she keeps looking away, as though she’d prefer to get back to work. But I don’t want to leave it at that. I saw a different side of her last night and I’m curious.
“So… did you have fun? At the bar?”
She turns to look at me with a little scowl, maybe annoyed that I’m not letting her work. I can’t help enjoying the way her cheeks are turning pink at my question.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about it,” she says, a little edgy.
“I mean generally, earlier. How was your night, with your friend? And those guys?”
“It was alright.”
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
“Great.”
“Uh huh,” she says, eyes narrowing. She looks determined to win this test of wills and tell me nothing. It frustrates me and makes me want to dig deeper. Maybe that’s just a bad reporter habit.
Or maybe it’s a need I have to satisfy. But why? What do I want from her?
I want her to say she’s glad I came along when I did to save her from those overgrown frat boys. Which is ridiculous. She’s the last person in the world who needs saving, and I have better things to do.
“Okay, well next time we end up at the same place, you should come say hello,” I say, throwing in the towel on the conversation.
She opens her eyes fully and looks confused. And, for some reason, even more annoyed. “What makes you think there will ever be a next time?”
“Statistics. We work in the same place. There are only so many bars and restaurants near here. What, you don’t plan on ever going out after work again?”
“Probably not.” She’s winding her hair into a bun before twisting a rubber band around it. Pieces fall out around her face and it’s a little messy and extremely sexy. I have to stop looking at her or I’m going to run this conversation off the road. I want to tell her to take the goddamned rubber band out of her hair because it looks gorgeous when it’s loose. And now my mind is off and running to how her hair would look strewn across my pillow in the morning after a long night of sex.
Stop thinking about that.
I return to the conversation we’re having, or at least the one I’m trying to have with a woman who doesn’t seem to want to engage. “You can never imagine yourself going out after work? Why not?”
“I don’t really go out much in general, so it seems like the odds are slim.”
That interests me. I want to know why she’s so against getting out in the world. Is she getting over a bad breakup? Is she just antisocial? But I also don’t want to pry, and she already seems disinterested in me and in having a conversation.
“Huh. Okay. Well, in the event you ever do find yourself in a social setting where I happen to be—ever, even in a case where the slimmest of odds work in my favor—I’m just saying, feel free to come say hello.”
She’s silent. Then she nods. “Okay.”
I can tell the conversation’s over as far as she’s concerned, but I’m not satisfied. Her cold shoulder drives me crazy and I don’t know why. I do know why, but I’m ignoring it. I don’t date reporters, especially ones who are as aggravating, sassy and stubborn as her. And yet, I can’t let it go.
“That’s it? Okay?” Even I don’t know what I’m getting at, at this point, so I sure as hell don’t expect her to know how to answer.
“What do you want from me, Jack? Are you that desperate to parade your manliness around that you need me to get up close and personal with you at a bar just so I can see you with your hot date?”
Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
“I’m sorry. Parade my manliness? My hot date? What the hell are you talking about?”
She shakes her head like I’m the densest idiot to walk the planet. “I already sit next to you. I already have to hear you talking to women you date or screw or whatever the hell you do with them. Do you really need me to come say hi at a bar so I can see them up close?”
“Um, no?"
“Great.” She looks at me with no emotion in her eyes. “So, are we done with this conversation?” she asks.
Honestly, not in the least, but I’m so confused by her whole demeanor, accusation and lack of interest in talking to me in general that I just nod and watch as she straightens the notepads and pens on her desk. But I do feel the need to correct her impression of me, as the kind of guy with a preference for blonde, Botoxed, sixty-year-old women.