The Speed of Light: A Novel(17)

Nikki rolls her eyes. “We know he’s coming in; we just don’t know when.”

“Chet is the same way,” Raj says. “On his own schedule, but always on our asses if lunch goes five seconds over. Tries to pull that ‘budgets are tight—you should all be proving yourselves every day’ bullshit.”

Hayley rolls her eyes. “It’s totally a scare tactic. It’s not like he’d ever actually fire anyone.”

We all laugh, but it doesn’t sit right with me even after they set off on their way. I look at Nikki, still leaning against the bookshelf by the door. She holds up a finger, then crosses the room back to her desk—specifically, her shelf behind it, which includes, among books and picture frames, a Keurig machine. I close my eyes, listening to the distinct gurgles and rush of the coffee maker, the heady scent of french roast wafting over me. Within minutes I hear a soft clink as she sets the steaming cup on my desk.

I open my eyes, force my body up. “You’re a goddamned angel.”

“I know.” She plops down in the cushy green chair in front of my desk, directly in the path of the sunlight filtering in through the office window. “So, you gonna tell me, or what?”

I bristle. “But you just said you wouldn’t bring it up.”

“Right, but I want to know what happened on Christmas Eve.” She leans forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you get your turkey stuffed or what?”

I choke on my coffee, cough-laughing as I wipe it off my chin. “Sheesh. No, of course not.”

“Damn. That guy sounded hot. What was his name again?”

“Connor.” I shrug away the thrill that ripples through me. “But I’m never going to see him again.”

“Why?”

“He lives in Fargo.”

I wince then because I know it’s coming—the classic Nikki look. Sure enough, she crosses her arms, lowers her chin, shoots daggers at me with fire in her eyes. “Because Fargo is sooooo far from here, right? Three whole hours? No relationship could possibly withstand that kind of distance.”

“Three and a half, actually.” She leans forward to argue or smack me, I can’t tell, but I hold up my hand. “But point taken. It’s just . . . not the best time for me.”

“Because?”

I blink. “Hmm, maybe because I was just diagnosed with multiple sclerosis?”

“So you intend to use your diagnosis as an excuse not to date ever again?”

Her voice is chiding, but my breath catches in my throat. I just can’t right now—I didn’t even want to talk about my diagnosis, and now here she is calling me out on this when things have been so damn hard. My tone is harsher than I mean it to be. “Dammit, Nik. You don’t understand.”

Several seconds tick by, the hum of my computer monitor the only sound to break the silence.

“Morning, ladies.”

I look up, and our boss stands smiling in the doorway, the epitome of a TV sitcom father with gray hair and tie askew, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a coffee mug of his own. And, like those clueless TV dads, he is completely unable to read the awkward tension in the room.

I force a smile. “Morning, Stan. How was your Christmas?”

He lets out a sigh. “Oh, it was fine, but there’s always family drama when you have both sets of grandparents trying to spend time with the grandchild.”

I nod sympathetically, eyes on Stan so I won’t look at Nikki and risk bursting out laughing if she’s making a face. She refers to Stan’s new grandchild as “Baby Uggo.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have forwarded the poor kid’s newborn picture around the office—but I thought the little kiddo was precious in that wrinkly, red-frowny-faced way.

“Anyway, back at it.” Stan rubs his neck, then turns to me. “Thanks for coming with on the residence hall tour today. Construction is actually going faster than expected—I’m excited to see it, honestly.”

I smile. “Me too. Meet you in your office in five?”

He nods and walks away, and the excruciating silence returns. I struggle to collect my thoughts, to phrase my feelings correctly, but Nikki speaks first. “You’re right. I don’t understand. But I care about you. And I’m trying to help.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Have you decided if you’re going to try that support group I texted you about?” Her eyes bore into mine.

“I haven’t really had time to think about it.” The truth is, I have made a conscious effort not to think about sitting in a roomful of strangers as I pour out my life story, but I leave that part out. I followed the link she sent me to the group’s website, looked up the schedule, and then buried it among the exhaustive mental list of emotionally difficult things for future Simone to worry about.

“I know it’s easier to bury your head in the sand, but you can’t do that forever, you know.” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it.

I wince. “I know, okay? I know.”

“When’s the next meeting?”

“Tomorrow,” I mumble. Her eyes are still on me, so I squeeze mine shut. Damn, that Nikki look. “Fine, yes. I’ll go. But just once—to try it out.”

“Good.” Her smile is triumphant.

“But look, about dating.” I cross my arms, stick out my chin. “I’m not ready, okay?”