I power-walk across the floor, taking the long way that doesn’t go by Erica’s glass-walled office, and slip through the door to the stairs, settling in on the cool concrete.
I’m scanning theComplete Guide’s index for anything about haunted IT infrastructure when there’s noise from below—doors slamming shut, rowdy voices bouncing off the walls. I try to focus on the words in front of me, but the sound of men’s voices gets closer and closer.
Some of the accountants come into view, all in workout clothes, traveling in a pack. They must be heading for the gym on the twelfth floor.
One of them sees me tragically huddled over my salad and laughs. “You okay there?”
“You hiding from someone?” another chimes in.
“Didn’t realize this was the library.”
Some of them snicker, and I scoot over as far as I can to one side while they file past. I’m trying to ignore them, but I can’t help noticing Greg.
He slows down and stops, standing on the stair beside me.
“What are you reading?” he asks softly. There’s something like a door cracked open in his tone.
I peer up at him, snapping the book shut and hiding the cover. “Probably not your taste.”
Greg stares at me. “What’s my taste?”
Shit. I’m dangerously close to giving away how interested I’ve been in his life over the past decade, when we were living on separate coasts and I would take screenshots of his Instagram story, make them bigger to see the books on his nightstand.
I just wanted to know what he was thinking about, even though I wasn’t in his life anymore. I’d pinch in and see some hefty title likeKeynes vs. HayekandHow Will Capitalism End?and think,Yeah, he’s still the same.
Greg’s always read a lot—obsessively, late into the night, like he was searching for answers to something—but when it came to school, he’d blow off the readings and fail his tests. Mom would say,That boy has no ambition. He’s not going anywhere.
I look away and hide the book under my arms. “You’re right, I wouldn’t know.”
Greg draws a long, slow breath in, like he would if he’d stubbed his toe and wanted to keep it low-key. But the moment passes quickly, a faint ripple in his usual calm.
He nods, says, “Enjoy your lunch,” and jogs up the stairs to where the other accountants are waiting for him on the landing above.
“Bro, who was that?” one of them asks.
Their footsteps get fainter, and I try to go back to reading. But then some new ones are coming closer, down from above.
“Hey, look who it is!” Mark Winterson says. He’s wearing a crisp gray suit this time, and I feel like I’m hallucinating as Iwatch him undo his jacket button and sit down next to me. “My favoriteForbesreader.”
A breathless laugh bursts out of me, and I’m overtaken by this helium-headed feeling—cringing at the reference but also weirdly flattered he remembered.
“Oh.” I slide the book underneath my Tupperware. “Hi.”
Mark Winterson is so close to me, our knees almost touch. I can smell his cologne—something sophisticated and masculine that I can’t quite name.
I’m staring at his feet on the step below us, because his face is kind of overwhelming, and recent events have left me structurally unsound as it is. And it strikes me for the first time how funny men’s dress shoes are. They’re soshinyandnarrow.His trousers have hiked up, sitting like this, revealing ribbed maroon dress socks.They really hug his ankles!
“You, um…you take the stairs often?” I ask.
“Yes, actually.” He rests his elbows on his knees, hands clasped between them. An expensive-looking watch flashes on his wrist. “Don’t judge, but I have this fear of elevators.”
“Oh?”
“The cable.” He shakes his head. “Can’t trust it.”
I press my lips tightly together to keep from laughing. We did walk down the stairs to get lunch, but I assumed he wanted the exercise.
“You get your steps in,” I say. “Win-win.” One of Mom’s favorite phrases.
