As soon as I pull the blankets over me, though, Felix reaches out and pulls me closer until he’s molded around me, his soft breath ruffling my hair.
The next afternoon, the guys drop me off at work. I hug each of them goodbye in the parking lot and trail my suitcase behind me as I head inside.
The back of my neck prickles as I push the elevator call button. I can sense Brad approaching. I recognize the slap ofthose shoes and the whiff of arrogant cologne, but I refuse to turn around and acknowledge him.
I’m just stepping onto the elevator when Brad puts his hand between the doors to hold it for himself, stopping me from having this short ride in peace. His stupid face looks so smug as he follows me into the elevator, no hello or anything. Just the confidence that everyone will wait for him and everything will go his way.
I really don’t like him. Or the way he side-eyes my suitcase.
As soon as the doors open at our floor, I exit the elevator, forcing myself to walk calmly to my desk so as not to give Brad the satisfaction of knowing he unnerves me. I stow my little suitcase under my desk as I did last time, but tuck it even farther back. No one asked any questions about it before, but a second time might make people ask questions I’m not prepared to answer.
I log into the computer I use and pull up my email. Maybe today will finally be the day that something gets assigned to me. There’s only one email, which I open excitedly only to find it’s just a note from HR thanking all of us interns. It features quotes from a few of the different departments calling out how appreciative they are of us, and there’s a note at the bottom stating that we should be keeping an eye out for job openings so we could potentially continue on with this newspaper after graduation.
That’s my dream, but right now it feels like the biggest hurdle. It doesn’t escape my notice that my department is the only one without a quote from management. My professors all rave about the articles I’m writing for class, and if Carl just gave me a chance, I’m sure he’d see he should put me to better use than just brewing coffee and delivering paperwork.
But those are the only tasks I have for now, so I might as well get busy with them. I make sure my suitcase is completelyinvisible under my desk and log out of the computer before making my way over to the break room. The coffee currently warming on the burner smells rancid, so I pour it out and start brewing a fresh pot while I restock everything. I pile the creamer and sugar packets high in their baskets, so even if the journalists take some, by my end of my shift it shouldn’t be completely empty.
While that’s done, I run over to see if Ashley needs help with anything, but apparently it’s been a slow news day and there’s nothing that needs delivering. With nothing else to do, I decide it’s time to go get shot down by Carl again.
Obviously, I stop back by the break room on my way to his office and grab him a fresh coffee, fixing it just the way he likes it.
I knock on the half-open door as I enter. “Hi, Carl. I brought you some coffee, and was wondering if there’s anything I can do to help with the next print run.”
He glares up at me from his computer. For someone who is so renowned and good at what he does, he really is a complete grump. You’d think by now I’d stop wishing that he’d just once hint at offering me a smile, but it still disappoints me every time I’m greeted by that sour expression.
He leans over to peer past me. “Brad!” I recoil from the ferocity in his voice.
“Yeah, boss.” Brad leans in the doorway, not even acknowledging that I’m standing right there.
“I have an assignment for you,” says Carl, and my hopes soar before I realize he’s talking to Brad, who has pushed past me to casually seat himself in the chair opposite Carl’s desk. “You still have that contact down at the DOJ, right?”
“They fucking love me down there,” says Brad smugly.
“Good. I need you to look into some allegations. FOIAs obviously, but do it quiet, we don’t want them spooked,” saysCarl, leaning back in his chair and steepling his hands over his stomach.
Brad leans forward in his own chair, his interest piqued. “What kind of allegations?” They look like two gossiping old ladies. Brad leans forward in his own chair.
Carl stares at me. “What are you still doing in here?” he barks. “Respect confidentiality and go do something useful.”
I can’t argue against confidentiality, especially if the conversation involves allegations and FOIA reports, so I shuffle back to my desk. Everything Carl would deem me useful for is done, so I might as well do schoolwork. The guys and I did some earlier today at the house, but I haven’t had a chance yet to work on my next article for class. My professor has been loving my speedcubing series so far, and I want to put an even more community-focused spin on this next one after spending the weekend surrounded by cubers and their families. The way the guys found each other through cubing competitions, and their families have also become close, gives me a lot to work with. Found families are especially important for those who don’t always fit in with mainstream society, and ICF is meeting this need for a specific subset of the population in a way that’s not talked about nearly enough.
Once again, as soon as I walk into our dorm room, Ronnie sits up straighter on her bed and stares expectantly at me. There’s another sandwich and a bag of chips sitting in the center of my desk.
I roll my eyes at her continued blatant attempt to hold me hostage until I give her all the information she wants, but it’s also a little funny. All she’s missing is the interrogation spotlight, and I wouldn’t put it past her to make one out of one of our desk lamps.
Shoving my suitcase into the corner, I make sure the wheels aren’t touching anything else in the room and then plop down at my desk.
“Soooo,” she drawls, ‘‘“how was your romantic weekend away?”
“It wasn’t a romantic weekend away,” I remind her. “It was the national ICF competition.”
“It was a weekend away with your boyfriends, so it’s automatically romantic,” she says, waving off my explanation.
“They’re not my boyfriends.” How many times do I have to say it before she’ll believe me?
I grab the sanitizing wipes I’d bought earlier in the week from my desk drawer and wipe down the entire desk and my hands. Then I open the sandwich wrapper and smooth it out to create a small plate, pouring chips onto one half while the sandwich sits on the other.
I look up to see Ronnie staring at me like I’ve done something weird.
