Have You Seen Me?(2)

He halts at the wide counter to the right of the entrance, opposite the Pullman-style kitchen, and grabs a coffee capsule. Probably dark roast. He likes his coffee strong and never takes milk or sugar. It’s surprising he doesn’t keep an espresso machine in his office, because that’s what he really prefers, especially the moment he rolls out of bed.

I watch as he waits the few seconds for the coffee to brew, seemingly lost in thought now that the call’s finished. I’ve been so good since we split about not looking at him, stopping myself from searching, sonarlike, for his presence, refusing to think of the body beneath those clothes, the sea-salt smell of his skin that used to make me wonder if he was a merman.

Five months. That’s all it lasted. We were ridiculously careful, betraying not even a hint of flirtation at work. But our coworkers had started to put two and two together. I sensed it before Damien did, conscious of their eyes swinging in slo-mo between us in meetings. Someone, somehow, detected a tell in Damien’s interactions with me that gave us away, like Jason Bourne catching the reflection of an asset in the blade of a butter knife.

Aware that the truth was seeping out, we agreed to cool things between us for the time being, and I put on as good a face as I could. It never restarted. And for weeks, months really, it hurt like hell.

His coffee’s done brewing. He secures a lid on the cup, adjusts the messenger bag that’s strapped over his torso, and turns, clearly bound for his office. I lower my gaze, back to the notepad, but I sense his attention land on me. And soon, out of the corner of my eye, I see him striding in my direction. Oh, lovely. He’s about to be treated to my best impression of a sewer rat.

There’s a whoosh as the door opens, and instinctively I stuff both feet back into my shoes and sit up a bit straighter.

“Ally?” he says.

I glance up, feigning nonchalance. “Morning, Damien.”

He looks serious, possibly even annoyed with me. Has a project of mine blown up while I was gone?

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“I’m sorry. Do you need the room?” That possibility had just occurred to me.

“No, I’m asking why you’re here. At Greenbacks.”

“Today, you mean?” The pulsing in my head intensifies. “It’s my first day back.”

“What are you talking about?” He steps closer, his eyes burrowing into me. “You haven’t worked here in years.”





2


My head’s practically pounding now.

“Damien,” I say. “I-I-I work here. I—”

But even as the words sputter from my lips, I realize they’re not true. I don’t work here. I don’t come to this place anymore. I press a hand to my head, urging alternate images to form in my mind, but I can’t seem to remember where I do work.

My eyes fill with tears. Don’t cry, I think. But a drop plops on the sleek black table.

“Ally, what’s going on?” Damien asks, his voice softening. “Tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you come here to see me?”

I shake my head. The answer’s hopelessly out of reach. I start trembling, shaking, really. When I glance back at Damien, his expression reads as more concerned than cross.

“Let’s go into my office, okay?” he says.

He leads me from the room, abandoning his coffee cup so he can both grasp my arm and open the door. The work area is still mostly empty, with just one woman settled in a cube outside Damien’s office door, possibly the person I saw in the baseball hat. She raises her eyes from beneath a fringe of black hair, curiosity piqued.

He guides me to a chair inside his office and then shoves the door closed. Instead of sitting at his desk, he drags the other visitor chair over next to me.

“Okay, talk to me,” he says, taking a seat. His voice, so cool before, is almost tender now. “You must have come here for a reason. To speak to someone?”

I search the room with my eyes, hoping a clue will miraculously leap into view, but there’s nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a shake of my head, “but I’m not sure how I ended up here. I can’t remember.”

“It’s okay, don’t worry. We can call someone to help you. Where’s your phone?”

“Um, in my purse.” He lowers his gaze to my lap and sees I’m not in possession of one.

“It’s probably in the conference room. Stay here, and I’ll get it.”

When he’s gone, I think as hard as I can, squeezing my head in my hands as if it were dough, but I still can’t picture where I work. Or what I do. Or where I should be at this moment.

It’s only a few seconds before Damien comes hurrying back. I see the woman with the black hair raise her eyes again, managing to monitor his actions without moving her head even an inch.

“It’s not in there,” Damien says, shutting the office door behind him. He remains standing this time. “Could you have left it someplace?”

“I—I don’t know.” My anxiety spikes. If I don’t have my purse, I don’t have my phone. Or my wallet, either.

“Where did you come from just now? From home?”

I stare up at him, not comprehending at first, my heart beginning to hammer.