So Much More(65)

I look at Miranda and the brown, deli lunch sack in her hand, and answer, “Yup, she’s here. And no. Thank you, Janet.”

“Okay. Call me if you need anything,” she replies.

“Will do. Thanks.”

When I hang up, Miranda is settling in the chair across the desk from me, and she’s amused. “The office secretary hates me, Seamus. She’s a pit bull.”

I plan on commenting, but I’m speechless as I watch her take two sandwiches and napkins out of the bag and then she hands me one. She does it like it’s natural and has been done a million times before. It hasn’t. I search my memory, and I never remember her doing anything like this. I’m more convinced now than ever she’s possessed. I unwrap my sandwich and lift the top roll to peek inside, it’s roast beef with spicy mustard and banana peppers. “How did you know I like this? This is my favorite.” It sounds accusatory instead of grateful.

She shrugs, untouched by my cynicism, as she takes a bite of her sandwich. “I asked Mrs. Lipokowski. Weird woman, but nice enough I suppose. And she loves you, Seamus. You should’ve seen the sparkle in her eye when I mentioned your name, it was like some sort of magical Peter Pan pixie dust shit.”

“She is nice,” I defend. Not that Miranda was degrading her, but I still feel like I need to say something. I look at her, basking in nonchalance like she was born that way—which I damn well know she wasn’t—eating her sandwich I’m more dumbfounded than ever. “Why are you here? Am I about to be poisoned? Did you put something in this sandwich?”

“Can’t I just do something nice for you?” she says offhandedly like nice is all she’s ever been to me.

I shake my head. “No. You never have before.”

She huffs, but it sounds more like a slightly amused laugh. “I deserved that.” Then she’s serious and whispers, “I’m trying, Seamus.”

I give in to the mouthwatering aroma of the sandwich under my nose and take a bite. “Thank you.” Giving thanks should never feel forced. These past two weeks with her, it has. The words feel disloyal somehow and get stuck in my throat. “For the sandwich,” I clarify. “Now, tell me what it is you want.” I know she wants something. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.

“You used to be nice, Seamus.”

“I used to be blissfully unaware. That played well into being nice. There’s a difference. You f*cked me over, that changed me.”

“Time changed you. MS changed you. It wasn’t just me.”

She’s right. But I won’t let on. “What do you want?” I repeat the question.

“Fine,” she says. “I need to use you as a reference.”

My mind is confounded by her, and partially by the magnificence of my sandwich because it’s so damn good. I consider her request and find that an explanation is needed. “A reference for what?”

She looks down at the empty sandwich wrapper in front of her on my desk. It’s the first time she’s looked away the whole time she’s been sitting here. It screams mortification. “A job.”

I laugh. It’s not humorous, and it’s not degrading, I don’t know what it is, but I don’t know what else to do. “You want to use me as a reference?”

She nods, eyes still downcast.

“Why don’t use past employers or colleagues?”

Her eyes draw up to mine, and she smirks. “Does the term ‘burned bridges’ mean anything?”

The same laugh escapes my lips for the second time in twenty seconds. “Are you seriously asking me that, Miranda?”

She just stares at me. She’s seriously asking me that. Sometimes I think she assumes that because I loved her once, she can do whatever she wants to me and there are no consequences. Love negates or counteracts bad behavior, it’s a screwed up scale. She piles up shit on one side, and I’m supposed to balance it with unconditional love on the other. It doesn’t work that way. Not anymore.

“So, burning bridges professionally means you have the dignity to acknowledge wrongdoing on your part and not ask them for favors because that would be in poor taste?”

She shrugs. “Pretty much. I overstepped my bounds. The business world is cutthroat. They take pleasure in exacting revenge.”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t?” As I ask it, I realize I wouldn’t do it. As much as I don’t like her, I wouldn’t sabotage her. I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.

She looks me in the eye and doesn’t hesitate. “Because, you’re a saint, Seamus.”

I shake my head to disagree. “Saints don’t have hateful thoughts like I do.”

“Will you do it? Be my reference?” She’s all but begging.

“Yes. But only because you need a job, and I need you out of my apartment,” I add.

She stands to leave and gathers her trash, satisfied that she got what she came here for.

“What’s the job you’re applying for?”

“It’s a director position.” Her answer is vague.

“What’s the company?”

She sighs. “It’s not important.” The sigh tells me it is important.

“Why won’t you tell me?” I press.

She turns at the door and says, “Because you’ll judge me.”