You Deserve Each Other(60)

One of the people I’ve secretly been in touch with about a job at a craft store I’d really, really like (and have already gotten my hopes up about) told me three days ago after I interviewed that she’d take three days to check my references and consider other applicants in the pool before emailing me with a decision. I’ve spent the day alternating between obsessively checking my phone (and my computer, in case for whatever reason the email doesn’t pop up on my phone) and pretending the Internet doesn’t exist. My nerves are shredded.

The longer I go on pretending I don’t have a notification, the heavier Nicholas’s gaze becomes. It weighs on me, distrustful. I see his problem clearly, because it’s one I’ve been struggling with myself: he has questions, but with the state our relationship is in right now, certain information feels privileged. We’re not in a position to demand answers.

It’s like when two people are casually dating but haven’t made it official yet. In this tender stage, they’re not entitled to know everything they want to know about each other, so they can’t behave with unearned familiarity. That’s how it feels between us.

Nicholas is frustrated by his restraint. The whole situation is an annoying dance that breeds resentment.

“How did Brandy’s orientation go?”

I’m surprised by his interest, especially since he didn’t even pretend he doesn’t know her real name. “She says her boss is sleazy. She’s already looking for a new—”

“Melissa doing well?” he asks, interrupting me.

“Uhh …” Melissa and I are both grateful to be able to let our acquaintanceship drop. “I haven’t talked to her.”

“Still talk to Zach?”

I shrug. I wouldn’t be surprised if Zach and I never crossed paths again. He’s the kind of guy you can picture running off to Los Angeles on a whim, where he’ll invent some simple gadget that becomes a daily staple you can’t imagine ever going without, and in five years I’ll see him on the Forbes list of billionaires.

Nicholas’s gaze darkens. His foot jostles restlessly on his knee.

“What kind of lotion do you wear?” he asks me.

“Huh?”

“I’ve been thinking of ideas for Secret Santa. Your lotion smells nice.”

It’s called Sweet Seduction, and I slather it on after every shower. The notion of him giving Stacy Mootispaw a present called Sweet Seduction and subsequently having that woman smelling like me makes me want to scratch my eyes out.

“I think what you’re smelling is my shampoo.”

“No, that’s not it.”

I sort through a stack of junk mail because I desperately need to break eye contact. I’m not as talented a liar as I used to think, and I don’t want him seeing that this bothers me so much. I’m not giving him the name of my lotion even if he stabs bamboo shoots under my fingernails. Stacy can smell like latex gloves and antiseptic and stay in her own fucking lane.

My phone buzzes again. Is it the craft store job? Or somebody else telling me no? There’s a zero percent possibility that it’s good news, whatever it is, so why bother getting up? What’s the point in ruining the rest of my night and getting myself depressed tomorrow? I’m never checking my phone again. I’ll become an anti-technology recluse. I’ll be wholly dependent on Nicholas, which he’ll love. He wants to yank away all my safety nets before tossing me out to sea.

“I think someone’s messaging you,” he says quietly.

I shrug. “Probably a spam email.”

“And you don’t want to check? Might be Brandy.”

“I don’t think so. She’s on a date with Vance the optometrist.”

He hears the fear in my voice, the stubborn refusal. His eyes are lasers burning right through me; I can smell my skin heat up and start smoking. The fact that he doesn’t know all my notifications are rejections means he hasn’t tried to pry into my phone when I’m not looking, which I appreciate. No matter how much this bugs him, he won’t invade my privacy.

“Maybe jewelry,” he says suddenly.

I glance up. I haven’t applied to any jewelry stores. But then, he doesn’t know that’s what’s on my mind. He doesn’t know my organs are being pressed in a vise. “What about jewelry?”

“For Stacy.”

This topic is annoying. I am thoroughly, decidedly annoyed and there are thorns growing out of my flesh. Who cares what she gets? Does he ever put this amount of thought into presents he gets for me? I’ll tell you the answer to that one: no. “I still don’t see anything wrong with getting her a gift card.”

“Jewelry would be nicer.”

“Expensive jewelry would be, but isn’t there a max on how much you’re supposed to spend? Most offices that do Secret Santa keep it under twenty bucks or something like that.”

“No, there’s no limit,” he says slowly. His eyes glitter, one corner of his mouth hooking back. I hold my breath because I can just tell he’s about to toss a grenade. “Besides, I want her to know I care.”

“She won’t know it came from you,” I remind him. “It’s Secret Santa.”

“I think she’ll know.”

“How? How will she know, Nicholas?” God, it’s stupid for grown people to give each other holiday presents. When it comes to colleagues, anyway. It’s undignified. People who work together shouldn’t be forced to socialize unnecessarily. Whatever happened to professionalism in the workplace?