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“I’m close enough.” I leave it at that, knowing I don’t have a right to more than she’s willing to give. “Does anybody call you Andy?”
Annnnd that comes out of left field. Entertained by how her mind works, I reply, “No.”
“Did they ever?”
“Sure, when I was young and played baseball. Andy Christiansen sounded like a much cooler name to me at the time. My grandparents also called me that.”
“When did it change?”
Each step I take has me slowing while searching for a thoughtful response until I stop. I glance at her. “You know, I don’t remember. It wasn’t something that I chose. It just sort of happened.”
Nodding, she takes in my answer for a long moment, and then she says, “Andrew’s a tricky name.”
I laugh. It feels good to be kept on my toes. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
Without missing a beat, she walks quicker, matching the pace of her words. “Andrew is so grown up, but Andy is more like a kid’s name. Where do you fall in the scheme of things? And what do you feel about that?”
“I guess I’m somewhere in between. And . . .” My name is currently the last of my concerns. Do I care? All I know is that I’m falling into bed alone. Where on earth did that thought come from? But right now, I’m not so lonely with her.
She says, “And?”
“And nothing.” She chuckles as I continue wondering how my name changed without me noticing.
“If you could have any nickname, what would you choose?”
“I thought nicknames were something other people gave you?”
“I like Drew. I mean, oddly enough, I like the formal name, too. It’s a win-win. Andrew is reliable, the guy you’d trust with not only your money but also your life. So, I think you’re golden with either name you choose.”
I’m drawn to the one she chose. “I like Drew.”
“Next question,” she announces with more pep to her step.
“Okay, shoot.”
“Why’d you want to be CEO?” A few people—my brother, an ex-girlfriend, and a disgruntled employee, to be precise—think I only like to talk about myself. That’s not accurate. I’m not a narcissist, but I am confident in who I am and what I have to offer. Although with Juni, the last thing I want to do is hear myself speak. I prefer to listen to her much more. “Why so many questions?”
“You ask a lot as well,” she replies with a quick pop of the shoulders. “So I figured you were down with the get-to-know-you-stage of our friendship.”
“I’m down with twenty questions, but all is fair—”
“This isn’t love, and it’s definitely not war.”
I revert to my comfort zone and do what I’m accused of. I ask, “Then what is it?”
“I’m not sure, actually.” She hooks her arm with mine, and we continue walking.
I could fill in the quiet air hanging around between us, but why? I like the sound of traffic and the bustling streets, when we talk and when neither feels the need. I like so much about her that she has me believing that eventually, I might like this city. Instead of doing anything else, I walk in the present with her on my arm.
We stop in front of my building, not close enough to have Gil jumping up, but where there’s plenty of light drifting onto the street. I ask, “You’re not going to let me walk you home?”
“No. How do I know if you’re a stalker or not?”
Chuckling, I reply, “Easily, but if you can’t tell, you’re just going to have to take the risk to find out.”
Stepping back, she crosses her arms and begins tapping her fingers. “Did you know there are only two plants in the entire office? And one’s an aloe, so officially, it doesn’t count since it’s a genus of flowering succulents.”
Her mind fascinates me. Her knowledge of plants is a very obscure party trick, or she’s really into gardening. She probably has a garden covering her balcony or a fire escape jam-packed with plants. “Aloe doesn’t count as a plant?”
“No, it definitely counts as a plant, but a succulent is—” She waves her hands, erasing the air. “Forget that. It doesn’t matter to the actual point I’m making.”
“Okay, what’s your point?”
“That the other one is a faux philodendron that was shoved on top of the refrigerator in the break room like that’s its natural habitat.” Leaning in and lowering her voice, she whispers, “I have a theory.”
“Do tell,” I say, playing along.
“I think someone actually discarded it.” I hear the offense in her voice when she covers her mouth, as if she can’t bear the thought of it. An unrecognizable emotion flashes through her expression as she looks at the night sky. “Probably that asshat Justin.” The conviction is gone, replaced by a quieter version of the woman I know.
