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I’m too far away – too shy, suddenly – to say hello, but I catch his eye and give him a friendly smile. He waves back, so casual that I’m nowsurethat the tension last Friday must have all been in my head.
We’re not the only two getting out on the seventh floor for the canteen but somehow fall into step with each other nonetheless. The canteen is a wide, open space with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in enough light to make up for the fact the view is obscured by another building close behind; there are dozens of tables, although only a few are occupied. The counters selling hot meals and the sandwich bar have closed, but the coffee cart is open.
I join the queue, with Lloyd just behind me. Two men in front of us, from another company, are in a heated debate. A lady behind Lloyd is on the phone, nodding vigorously and saying, ‘Mm-hmm. Yep. Yuh-huh. Totally agree.’
I catch Lloyd’s eye, and he pulls a face, impersonating her. I smother a giggle with my hand. The queue shuffles forward, and this time, he’s standing nearer, closing the space between us, stealing a few inches from it that might as well be a mile.
And just like that, he resurrects that feeling ofprivacy – intimacy – that’s been present the nights we’ve spent together. I feel some of the day’s stress easing out of my shoulders and spine, finally relaxing out of being hunched at my desk for hours.
‘How was the rest of your weekend?’ Lloyd asks – casual, but somehow not; his voice is too low, like he’s aware of that bubble cutting us off from the rest of the world, too.
‘Quiet,’ I say. ‘How was yours?’
He shrugs, a full-body action. ‘Good. Spent some time with a friend on Friday night.’
Something mischievous gleams in his eyes. A secret that we’re both in on. I smile, then duck my head and face forward before I fall for that charm, and try to ignore the warmth blooming in my chest.
It’simpossibleto keep Lloyd at arm’s length.
The queue moves again, and this time, Lloyd stands close enough that I can feel the heat of his body at my back, almost inviting me to lean in, to rest my head against his shoulder …
Someone calls his name and shouts hello. I spot a man from Nadja’s team striding in, joining the back of the queue, and feel Lloyd shifting behind me to raise a hand in greeting.
As he moves, his other hand brushes against mine, sending a sharp electric shock dancing up my arm,making my breath hitch in my throat. I tense up, hoping Lloyd didn’t notice, knowing it was an accident – but he doesn’t move his hand away, and I feel his fingers ghosting against my skin. His fingertips trace so lightly down my index and middle fingers that it’s enough to set my heart skittering. His thumb hooks just underneath them, almost holding my hand but not quite.
My lips part and my breathing turns shallow, but before I can decide to do something – to call Lloyd out on it and ask him what he thinks he’s doing, or to respond to his touch the way I’d like to – there’s a barista barking at me, ‘Next, please!’ and I have no choice but to tear myself away from Lloyd, and do my best not to think about how cold I suddenly feel.
It takes every ounce of willpower not to steal a sidelong glance to see his reaction.
Why did he do that? That wasn’t just a friendly show of affection, and itdefinitelywasn’t an accident. Is he trying to mess with me on purpose, somehow entertained by trying to set me on edge or distract me?
I focus on the hiss of the machine as my iced coffee is made, and study the other people in the queue. A little way off, the lift pings, the doors sliding open – and my mouth turns dry when I see two of the interns step out: Verity is chatting away, looking stressedand distracted; Tasha nods along sympathetically, and notices me immediately. I spin around quickly, heart hammering, hoping she doesn’t see Lloyd and think we’re heretogether. It’s bad enough that I notice her staring at us from her desk whenever Lloyd comes by my team to ask about things. I don’t know if she’s jealous or suspicious, but whatever it is, I’m glad she wasn’t here to glimpse Lloyd’s hand on mine just now.
The other barista calls him up next and he stands beside me again. I clutch my purse with both hands, arms tucked tightly to my sides, and as far out of Lloyd’s way as possible.
‘How’s your afternoon looking?’ he asks, after ordering. ‘I saw you were in calls earlier, but I could really do with going over some stuff about Phoebus IV, and you’re –’
‘I’m busy,’ I say quickly – too quickly. His easy smile slips, my tone too sharp. I add, ‘Sorry,’ but even I can tell how insincere it sounds.
I can’t keep him at arm’s length – but I can’t keep letting him get this close, either. It’s too close. It’s too much. All-consuming in that dangerous way that it would be so easy to sink into, let it block out everything else.
He’s a risk I can’t take.
I suddenly imagine a reality where I come back in a couple of years to work full-time, andhe’sstill around, too. Maybe he’d even have a real position, instead of floating around and lording it over everybody; maybe I’d even have to report to him. I cringe at the idea.
When Lloyd and I were total strangers, I resolved not to let him interfere with my summer; this internship means too much to me. That shouldn’t change now, I know – but I’m not used to this. To feeling like this, or feeling somuchfor someone. I’ve never had close friends, and I was quick enough to prioritize my degree over my boyfriend last year after that failed midterm and the ensuing breakup. I’m used to feeling on the outside of things and a general, background-noise level of discomfort.
I don’t get that, around him.
This would be so much easier if he didn’t make me feel so …
Accepted. Liked.
Like myself.
Lloyd doesn’t try to call for me to wait up when I take my iced coffee and hurry off, making me think he got the message.
And the next day, when I see him coming my way around midday, no doubt purely to ask me whatever questions he has about the Phoebus IV car, I do mybest to pretend I don’t see him and jump up to chase after Tasha, Izzy and Monty on their way to lunch instead.
