Oh, that’s right. I’m not the kind of girl someone throws caution to the wind for like that. Dang you, fantastical brain.
“I’m . . . uh . . . happy for you,” he says, his hand gesturing toward me, his lips pulling upward. A placating smile.
This rankles. He’s happy for me? As if he has any right to have feelings about my love life? Are we supposed to be friends now? Because last I checked, he was my boss and that was all he was offering.
I tilt my head to the side, studying his face. His eyes are everywhere but on me. “So you brought me in here to make sure I’m okay with doing the feature? That’s it?”
“Well, yes,” he says, and then stops himself, huffing a breath out his nose.
“Yes?”
“Yes. I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
Liar.
“That’s great,” he says.
“Yes. I’m super-duper happy.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. Also, super-duper? Good one, Quinn.
“Are you happy?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Sure. Absolutely.”
We stare at each other for a moment. Henry’s brow knits together, and his gaze moves away from my eyes and slowly down to my lips, where it lingers until he pulls himself out of whatever trance he’s in and his eyes move back to mine.
Sweet déjà vu.
There are words that are left unsaid. Like a clothesline hanging between us, our thoughts written on cards and attached to it with clothespins, the words blowing back and forth with the wind. Henry has things he wants to say; I have things I want to say.
But we don’t.
Instead, I place my palms on my thighs and anchor myself to stand up.
“Thanks for the chat,” he says, giving me a thin smile.
“Sure thing,” I say, and then I turn to leave.
Before I shut the door, I look one more time at Henry, who’s swiping a hand down his face, his eyes closed, his face pinched.
I walk back to my desk wondering what that was all about, thinking it would be best to get my crazy-train brain out of here. But just as I pass by Jess’s desk, she calls out to me.
“I have a question for you,” Jess says as I turn back around.
“Sure,” I say, reaching up and running my fingers through my hair.
“You’ve been getting emails from someone named Thomas, and honestly, I can’t really tell if they’re something I should be sending to you or not. They seem to be complimentary, yet not so complimentary. And it seems like he might . . . know you?”
I roll my eyes. “Let me see one,” I say, walking over to her computer.
“Well, I haven’t gotten many, but this one came in today.” She turns her screen toward me.
From: [email protected]
Subject: That Suit
Your hair was on point today. I only watched the news report for 2 secs, but I wanted to make sure I wrote in to tell you. But that suit! Good hell, woman! Can you please get something with less shoulder padding? You look like you’re about to invade Russia. Vive Napoléon!
—Thomas
P.S. You’re still a settler of Catan.
Thomas. I shake my head at the screen and chuckle despite not wanting to find that butthead even a little funny.
I reach up and touch my shoulders, feeling the pads of the royal blue suit coat I’m wearing. I didn’t think they looked all that big. The color looks good under studio lighting, and it also brings out my eyes. Stupid Thomas.
“You can forward his emails to me,” I say. “He’s a friend. For now.” Clearly Thomas thought it would be funny to send emails to my work address and not just text me like he usually does. Probably to test and see if they would get through.
On Monday at Hester’s I had told my friends about what happened with the emails, and I even opened up about Grace Is Amazing. We laughed a lot. It was the best therapy and made me wonder why I hadn’t told them before. I could have saved myself a lot of agony.
“Thanks, Jess.” I turn to go but then pivot back. “How goes the Grace Is Amazing emails?” I’ve been curious if the old hag has still been sending me emails on a consistent basis.
“Sorry, who?” Jess asks.
I forgot that she has to go through so many people’s emails. “Grace Is Amazing—she writes me every day to tell me how much she hates something about me.”
Jess clicks in the search bar and types in Grace’s name, and nothing comes up.
“That’s weird,” I say. “Maybe search by her email address?” I give it to Jess since I unfortunately have it memorized. So many times, I hit reply on those emails, wrote something out, but never sent it.
“Nothing,” Jess says, when her search once again garners no emails.
“That’s so strange,” I say. “I wonder what happened to her.” Where could she have gone? Maybe she’s been actually eaten by cats after all. I only jokingly wished that upon her.
~*~
I’m grateful to have some time in the garage working on the curio cabinet, even if it is a Friday night and on paper it sounds super lame. This is my happy place, though. Plus, all my friends have other plans tonight, so here I am.
The cabinet is coming along nicely, although there’s still so much to do on the outside, that feeling of wanting to give up washes over me once again. I fight it, though. I need to see this one through. I won’t settle. I won’t prove Thomas right. Although, as the room is currently getting full of pieces I quit working on, it wouldn’t take much.
The inside of this cabinet is so lovely, it needs hardly any work. I just need the outside to match the interior and then it will be perfect. It’s like a metaphor for me . . . good insides, not so great outsides. Actually, I’m not even sure my insides are so good right now. I just don’t feel like myself. Like I’m standing at a precipice, needing to decide to take that jump.
But I can finish this cabinet. That’s something I can do. I can’t let this piece go the way of some of the other furniture in the garage. Plus, I’ll make a pretty penny off this one . . . if I sell it. Part of me wants to hang on to it. To put it in my apartment as a reminder of that one time I stuck it out when it got hard. Or maybe by the time I’m done, I’ll be so sick of it, I’ll just want it out of my face. Time will tell.
I start working on the left side of the piece, sanding down the corner where I fixed some rotted wood.
The door swings open, and my insides tighten, waiting for my mom to walk through the door, a new diet book in her hands. But instead, it’s Tessa.
“Tess,” I say, smiling without teeth. “What’s up?”
“I just came to see what you’re up to,” she says.
“Still working on this,” I say, knocking on the side twice with my knuckles.
She scrunches her nose at it. “Think you’ll make a lot off this one?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Maybe. If I sell it.”
“What else would you do with it? Mom won’t take that,” she says, pulling her chin inward at the thought that such a hideous piece could have a place in my parents’ home.