Again, But Better(61)

I speed-dial Babe one last time. It goes to voicemail again.

“Babe, where are you? I think I’m about to do something stupid, and I need you to talk me out of it. Or maybe tell me it’s not stupid and I should go for it.” I hang up and make my way down to the sidewalk, mind racing.

I come to a standstill at the curb. I have a missed text from Melvin: Counting the minutes till your return

I blink at it. I think he’s trying to be cute, but without emojis and punctuation, there’s an underlying creepiness. I tap out of Messages and push away this new claustrophobic feeling that I now apparently associate with my boyfriend.

A yellow cab’s approaching.

Don’t do it.

I throw up my arm.

Full-blown stalker status, unlocked.



* * *



I can do this. I can talk to him again. I can say things. I’m a grown-up. I’m almost a doctor. This is casual. This is nothing.

When the taxi comes to a stop, my stomach’s turning itself inside out, but I have a plan. It’s simple and classy. Simple and classy. It’s classy. And it’s simple. I’ll ask him to grab a cup of coffee. That’s a normal thing that people ask people when they want to catch up.

I step out of the car. My tight, blue business dress rode up and got all twisted in the cab. I hastily pull it down while I crane my neck to get a better look at the generic, sleek silver building towering before me. A wide set of steps leads up to a row of glass doors.

I spend a good two minutes staring at the doors. This is a terrible idea.

Then I steel myself. Do it for the closure.

My tiny neutral-colored heels clack up the stairs. I fumble a little as I take the last two steps at once, before striding into a large, high-ceilinged, empty lobby. Gold elevators line the wall a little way in to the left, and a man with gray hair sits behind a desk to my right.

“Good morning!” I greet him.

“How can I help you?” he responds blandly.

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Pilot Penn. I believe he works at FJ Golf. Could you tell me what floor I could find him on, please?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s all right. I’m a friend of his,” I lie. I mean, we’re kind of friends.

The security man stares at me for a second, contemplating whether or not I should be allowed up without an appointment. He seems to decide I’m not a threat to the building.

His face falls, and he mumbles, “You’re going to need a visitor’s badge. Name.”

“Shane Primaveri. P-R-I-M-A-V-E-R-I,” I respond automatically. He scribbles my name on a small white sticker, slaps it on a badge that says VISITOR, and hands it over the counter.

“Put it on and head up to the sixteenth floor.”

I carefully clip it to my silver cross-body purse before ambling over to the elevators on the balls of my feet in attempt to be less conspicuous. Why is the urge to be stealth overwhelming? I don’t need to be stealth! This isn’t weird. This is fine!

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I punch the up button with my index finger.

The arrow over the elevator all the way to the left glows yellow. I nervously float up to the crack in the gold doors until I’m right up on them. There’s a muted ding as they slide out. There’s already a guy inside, holding a bunch of paper. When he looks up my eyelids snap back.

“Shit,” I breathe, stiffening as insecurities I banished years ago materialize instantaneously. It’s him. I was counting on having a few more seconds to prepare and he’s just here.

He’s sporting khakis and a white button-up shirt today, carrying two big stacks of paper. He stares at me blankly for a half a second before actually registering that I’m me. I know when he does because his eyes widen like he’s seen a ghost, and the paper slips from his hand. It flops to the floor of the elevator with a hard thud.

“SHANE?” he spurts.

I inhale sharply. You are a grown lady who’s been successfully networking her ass off at medical conferences the last four years. You can and will confront Pilot Penn.

I take the step forward into the elevator. “Hey, Pies.”

The doors start to close. He gathers the paper off the floor before snapping back to a normal, standing-with-two-packs-of-paper stance.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is still laced with shock, but he’s trying to regain his composure.

“I’m actually here to talk to you…”

His forehead crinkles up. “To talk to me?” He’s loud and confused again.

My instinct is to laugh, but his eyes catch mine and instinct drowns real fast in my ever-growing pool of anxiety.

I suck up some air. “Yeah, I’m sorry to disturb you at work, but I kind of really needed to talk. To you … Can we go grab a coffee or something?” I resist the urge to fiddle with the zipper of my purse.

The doors slide open to reveal floor sixteen: a large, bright open room lined with windows and divided into gray cubicles. Pilot steps out, and I follow as he strides along the edge of the room.

“I haven’t seen you in”—he pauses, turning to look at me—“six years?” He takes on a higher pitch with those last two words.

He rounds into one of the cubicles, drops the two packages of paper on his desk, and collapses into a desk chair. He closes his eyes and takes a breath before looking back up at me.