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“It’s best I don’t. What I have to tell you concerns Barclay. And you.” She pauses, and I know in an instant what she’s really referring to. I nod, unable to deny it. “I’ve never interfered with his personal life, but this time, I must. He’s been a ‘complete bear,’ those are Don Black’s words, since you left his office on Monday. I don’t need the specifics between you guys, but wanted to ask if you’d reach out to him. He needs a friend.”
“But the rules,” I declare.
“The rules don’t say you can’t be Barclay’s friend. It would be better than nothing. Don’t you agree?”
I can’t decide if she’s pushing us into dangerous waters or ones where Barclay and I can stay afloat, never crossing the lines.
“I appreciate you telling me this. I haven’t heard a thing from him since Monday, then he left the country.”
“The trip wasn’t really needed for business. I believe he wanted to escape the feelings he has for you. He landed back here around three this afternoon. Think about what I said, dear. I better go, or my husband will be in a sour mood.” She gives me a motherly hug, and I fight back tears.
After she leaves, I open the gift bag and take out a bottle of red wine. I don’t even know if I have a corkscrew in the kitchen, but I find one in short order and pour a glass. The wine tastes smooth on my tongue—and expensive. I sip it while I put away the few things I have in my suitcase, which doesn’t even fill-up one-fourth of the closet.
I have another glass of wine and sit on my couch, gazing at my phone. The text thread I’ve had with Barclay is displayed and my finger hovers over the screen. Finally, I decide to reach out to him, starting with a sincere thank you.
Hey. Thx for the help w/ my apartment. I <3 it. PINK
An hour passes without a reply from Barclay. I resort to viewing TV on my laptop, because the one in the apartment didn’t come with a dummy manual. I suck at technology.
I watch a couple episodes of Sex and the City, and for a good reason. If anyone knows about man trouble, especially in New York City, it’s these women. I’m drinking my third glass of wine without any food, so I eat some microwave popcorn: the dinner of lazy couch potatoes.
My phone pings, and I jump, spilling the popcorn all over the floor. At least the wine stayed upright.
My popcorn-greased fingers fumble with the phone. I peer at the preview screen and gasp.
It’s Barclay.
Can I call you?
Sure.
Oh my God.
38
Tessa
My phone rings, and Barclay’s name lights up the screen. I freak out and stare at it for a beat. Holding my hand to my chest, I accept the call. Before I speak, I hear the unmistakable wail of a baby crying in the background.
“Barclay? Is that you?”
“Oh, Jesus. Tessa. I’m babysitting my niece and can’t get her to stop crying.” He sounds frantic and distressed. “It’s been over an hour.”
He tries to quiet the baby with soothing shushes, but she continues to scream. Poor baby. Poor Barclay.
“Have you changed her diaper or tried feeding her?” I ask, listing off the basic baby needs.
“Yes, all of those. And more than once. I’m at my wit’s end on how to help her.”
“Her cries sound like she’s in pain. Maybe it’s gas? Have you tried burping her?”
“What do you mean?” he shoots back at me. Bless his heart. He has no clue. No wonder the sweet thing’s hurting.
“Babies take in too much air when eating—”
“I need help,” he groans. “I’m sending my driver to pick you up.”
“Until I get there, place her on your shoulder and lightly tap her back between her shoulder blades.”
“Will do,” he says, and the line goes dead.
I glance down at my Betty Boop PJ short set. Yeah, I need to change, especially since the no bra, half-my-boobs-hanging-out look isn’t appropriate with how things have changed between us.
I jump over the spilled popcorn on the floor and scurry to my closet. After slipping on a pair of jeans and a soft pink camisole, I thread my toes through my favorite flip-flops and race to meet his driver in front of the hotel. The sidewalk spins in my rush. I shouldn’t have started that third glass.
Ten minutes later, with instructions from his driver, I’m knocking on his sister’s apartment door in the Upper East Side. I press my ear against the door, listening for a baby’s cry, but hear nothing. It’s a good sign.
Barclay opens the door, and I hardly recognize him. His hair looks like a blender attacked it, a cloth diaper drapes over his shoulder, and his navy polo is covered in baby powder. He gazes at me with a look of surprised terror. He has babysitting PTSD.
