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I almost laugh, as I think about last night.
Then I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and run a hand through my hair.
Out in the hall, I smell coffee and oatmeal. I can hear the soft murmur of her voice, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.
She must be on the phone.
When I reach the kitchen, I see her. She’s sitting on the edge of a barstool, her phone pinned to her ear. Her back’s to me, and she’s tapping a pen nervously against the counter.Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.
What’s got her so keyed up?
Her tone sounds stressed, too. “Oh, is that right?” she says, her voice so tight it’s like there are hands wrapped around her neck, rather than the cashmere scarf she’s wearing. “That’s great, Mortimer. I’m sure that’s going to be a fascinating talk. Good for you for doing all that prep work. Maybe we could meet up after you log a few hours of research, then…? Late afternoon is fine for me. I mean, that is, if it’s convenient for you and everything.”
Ugh. Mortimer. The boyfriend.
She hesitates, maybe listening to something he’s saying. Her shoulders look so tense, I want to walk right up to her and rub them.
That would definitely be out of bounds.
So instead I linger in the doorway. This conversation seems to be important, and maybe private, too. I don’t want to interrupt.
“Okay, great. Where are you staying?” she asks. There goes the pen again, drumming even faster now.
The girl should have been a percussionist.
“Oh, really? Neat. I didn’t realize there was a hotel right there. Okay, so I’ll see you Monday around three then.” When she hangs up, she pushes her laptop out of the way, and then rests her arms on the counter and plants her forehead down over her stacked palms.
I make my way to the side counter that has the coffee pot on it.
She must hear me, finally, because she picks her head up and fixes her scarf as she says, “Oh, hey. You’re up.”
“You doin’ okay?” I ask, as I pour coffee into a mug. The pot’s only a quarter full. Either she only brewed a half-pot, or she’s been up for quite a while.
Based on what I know about Gemma, it’s the latter. She never liked to sleep in.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly. “Why?”
Because people who are fine don’t usually do a face-plant after getting off the phone.
I wander toward the stove. “Just asking, that’s all.”
There’s a pot on the stove, and I lift the lid. Nice. Oatmeal. And she added raisins and cinnamon, and maybe some maple syrup, too, based on the smell. “Hey, can I have some of this?”
“Knock yourself out,” she says miserably.
That seals the deal. She’s really not fine. “You don’t have to keep stuff from me,” I tell her, as I shovel a heap of cooked oats into a bowl. “If there’s something wrong, you can tell me.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. “Good talk with Mortimer?”
“It was fine,” she grumbles.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. He’s fantastic, I’m fantastic. I’m going to see him tomorrow, late afternoon. He’s presenting a couple talks at a big conference center down in Broad Hollow this week and he’s super busy with research and writing….”
“Yeah, I heard you figuring out where he’s staying.”Which is weird, since he’s your boyfriend.
