The Plan (33 page)

As I rant, the smile on his face grows wider. The man is on the verge of openly laughing at me.

“Oh, I’m not disappointed.” He folds his hands behind his head. “That will do nicely.”

I huff an imaginary hair away from my face.

Day of Employment:
388

8:15 a.m.

*
Location
: Terminal B, KCI.

*
Bags
: Holding my own.

*
Canon
: Holding his.

“S
O
Y
OU
A
RE
C
APABLE
of carrying your own things,” I begin and pull my suitcase along behind me. “Good to know.” Not that I’ve given much thought to such matters since throwing off the PA yolk. Canon has so very many great places to visit, but I don’t want to work there.

He keeps pace beside me as we near security. “I have no choice in the matter, as I find myself currently without staff.” He’s closer to business mode today, but his voice, with me anyway, is markedly softer.

“This process could not take any longer. It is as if we are all unwitting participants in a study for inefficiency.” He talks to no one in particular while we take off our shoes at the checkpoint. “Procedures implemented solely to instill a feeling of security in paying customers. There are too many reported accounts of items still being smuggled aboard to indicate that any of these measures are even the least bit effective. Has anything…” He continues to bemoan the sorry state of airport security while our bags are checked. One guard seems about to comment but sees something in the look Canon shoots him and thinks better of it.

I’ve decided to consider him “Canon” when we are doing anything remotely work-related.

I’ve decided transitioning back to business-as-usual at work may be tricky, but not impossible.

I’ve decided the only running I’m going to do might be to catch a connecting flight.

I’m the first of the two of us onto the plane. I toss my stuff overhead, and he does the same. He spends some time reestablishing the bond with his phone prior to takeoff.

As the plane climbs higher, I offer him gum. He smiles and takes it.

“So how did you know about me?” I try to sound casual. Inside, I’m salivating. “I mean, some of that would be in my HR file, but the pop? The bets?”

He looks to me for a moment, then to the turned down tray in front of him. “Rebecca keeps a chart. It’s right there in her cubicle for all to see. When I pieced together that you were always winning—you, the pretty girl I had spotted a while back—I became more curious. How would one person consistently win something like that? Luck? Strategy? A system of sorts?” He shifts in his seat, stretching as best anyone his height could in the small space.

“I was curious as to know how you knew. I became more aware of you. Where you were. What you were saying. By chance, I caught the ends of comments you’d made a few times. Complaining about popcorn the day a bag was burned in the break room, for example. The rest just cropped up when I made a conscious effort to pay attention.”

I think about how I gleaned all my tidbits about him. We had similar methods.

“Then,” he begins, “one day I realized I wasn’t paying attention anymore merely for curiosity’s sake. I considered going ahead and asking you out. I even walked up to you to do it. But I heard you talking about a man you were seeing, so I backed off.”

“Really?” Shock is an understatement. He was going to ask me out. On a date. You know, one of those things where guys buy food and pretend to listen to you in the hope they’ll get to see boobies. “You weren’t worried about working together?”

“Until this trip—when someone decided sending the most distracting thing possible along with me was a stellar idea—we didn’t work closely together.”

“What about the fraternization policy?” I try to remember if we even have one. He looks as though he believes it to be a non-issue. I’m not so sure.

A flash of recollection. How distressed, terrified I was for him when the deal closed.

“Do I seem like the sort who would let an arbitrary rule like that matter?” His look is a bit more serious than earlier. “I’ll go tell the appropriate people today, and they will just have to accept.”

“Alaric,” I say, still mentally stumbling a bit over the new level of intimacy in first names. “Maybe we…” I pause. My words sound like they are filtered through a long tunnel.

He leans over and folds me up in his arms, which won’t make it any easier to vocalize this new, acute concern. I shift away from him. His outstretched arms fall in his lap.

“Maybe we should be low-key.” I swallow around a swelling lump. This is not what I want, but it suddenly seems like the safest course of action. “Maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Tell myself it’s a prolonged blink.

When my damp eyes open, I am alone.

10:55 a.m.

*
Airplane
: Final descent.

*
Cabin
: Pressure.

*
Nuts
: Bags—Attendants handed out.

*
Nuts
: Me—Suggested time apart.

T
HE
S
EAT
N
EXT
T
O
M
INE
has remained empty since Alaric vacated it early in the flight.

I should be careful what I ask for. Might just get it.

To know that he’s onboard, yet not with me, is excruciating.

It’s now clear that the level of torture associated with working in the same office every day promises to be beyond comprehension.

We debark.

12:09 p.m.

*
Agenda
: Locate baggage on carousel.

*
Other Baggage
: The kind that puts me on the ol’ emotional merry-go-round. Must be examined posthaste.

M
Y
G
RAY
, S
WISS
A
RMY
S
UITCASE
sticks out among the ocean of black roller bags. As I reach for the handle, a familiar hand pulls it off the conveyor.

“Let me get that for you.” Just over my shoulder, Alaric’s voice is like warm cocoa along my throat. “I insist.”

The wheels
thunk
over the tiles, and I smile and, in spite of everything, find myself walking beside him toward a smaller alcove. He spins the cases to a stop. His eyes move down to where we nearly touch. The fingers of his hand flex and pull back fractionally. “I was already on my way back.”

He takes a deep breath. Seems to steady himself. “Emma, I know you have suggested that we don’t see each other for a while. It would make professional sense. But I won’t be willing to give you my word.” His hand brushes against mine. “Because I have no intention of ever breaking my word to you.”

Shoving aside all the familiar protective layers of doubt and fear, some frighteningly real and others even more terrifying because I’m finally forced to admit they are walls of my own construction, I move my hand to entwine with his.

His mouth opens fractionally, and I noticed his chest rise as he sucks in a long breath. Then, keeping our hands and forearms together, he raises our mutual clasp up, and slowly, individually, brings each of my knuckles to his lips.

He pulls our hands to his chest, and I look up in happy disbelief. He leans over to lay his forehead against mine. “If you still think we shouldn’t see each other, then we’d better close our eyes. I’m not going anywhere.”

1:30 p.m.

T
HE
M
AJORITY
O
F
M
Y
C
OGNITIVE
E
FFORT
is devoted to not testing the tensile strength of Alaric’s pants or christening the backseat during our ride from the airport.

Snow covers the land. It’s even thicker here at home. Drifts and shoveled piles dot the roadways. Just looking at it all sends a shiver through me. Instinctively, I begin to reach for my sweater. Then stop.

Instead, I bend and drape myself across him and rest my temple against his shoulder. On one level, it feels unfamiliar and somewhat juvenile. On all the other levels, it is simply
divine
. My face against his chest, rising and falling along with each breath, our hands, fingers still laced between us. The arm he had around me alternates between pressing us in an embrace and his hand tracing light circles on my lower back.

My head is tucked safely away under his chin for most of the time we ride, until the car pulls up outside my home. Undisturbed, the car idles for a few moments. Alaric’s fingers comb softly through my hair.

When he finally speaks, the deep cadence of his words echoes around inside my chest, soft tremors along my ribs. “We should probably get going.”

1:37 p.m.

I S
IT
U
P
. Smooth my skirt. I wonder what he considers “we,” what he labels “us.”

“What will you tell them?”

“We are together. That is all they need to know, if they truly even need to know that.”

Suddenly, I recall his earlier comment about me seeing someone.

“By the way, I’m not sure what you overheard, but I think you heard wrongly. I haven’t had more than an occasional, casual date in at least a year.”

He looks uncomfortable. Like he doesn’t particularly enjoy discussing other men. Big yay for him that for the last year I have embarked upon a self-imposed penis boycott.

“It sounded serious and long term.” He shifts again, clears his throat. “Some guy named Abe.”

3:15 p.m.

*
Clothes
: Unpacked. Sorted. Ready for cleaners.

*
Boxed
: Taupe shoes. Receipt included & ready to return.

*
Roommate
: Inquisitive.

*
Withdrawal
: Already.

D
IFFERENT
. Home feels different somehow.

Little knickknacks Clara has had out forever now seem different and new. I have not taken notice in a while.

Commonplace.

I had watched the driver pull away after dropping me off at home a little while ago. Alaric had muted his call with our company’s owner and kissed my temple as I opened the car door.

Unlike the last one, this driver actually helped me with my bags.

Through the windows in my living room, I saw Alaric tap the front seat once, and they sped away.

Everything gets unloaded on autopilot. Shoes. Toiletries. Cosmetics.

Clara helps put away all the miscellaneous crap we packed.

Tea.

Glue.

Needle and thread.

Duct tape and bailing twine.

“So tell me again, why did you quit? I thought the idea was to endure this and get a bonus or something,” Clara says as she stretches to put Q-tips away.

I dump my hair-clips into their basket. “It was a raise, and it’s complicated.” I cringe as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “Complicated” invites clarifying questions.

Clara is quiet as we continue to unpack. Unusually quiet.

I sort through a stack of papers and tickets, and Clara dumps out the contents of the Late Night Emergencies bag. Then she eyes me.

“Emma, where are they?”

“Hmmm?” I keep sorting.

“The condoms. The pack of condoms I put in there as a joke. You know, since you were going on a trip with Corporal Asshole.”

“Major Asshole.”

“Whichever.” She waves me off. Glares at me. “Oh, my God, with him? Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Nude up.”

“Fine. Yes,” I huff and look skyward. I had every intention of sharing this with her, but at a point of my choosing. This will have to do. “I did. I used them. We used them. We barely left bed yesterday. I will be soaking in the tub tonight until I am indistinguishable from a shar-pei.”