Waiting For Ethan (7 page)

T
rouble is brewing at work on Monday. I can tell by the way Jamie and Luci are huddled over a spreadsheet when I arrive just before nine o'clock. Jamie is wearing a white button-down shirt and tie instead of his usual golf shirt, and Luci looks fabulous in a pin-striped skirt and matching jacket. “What's going on?” I ask.

Neither one of them looks away from the spreadsheet they're studying. “We've been summoned by the 9:07,” Jamie answers.

The 9:07 is a meeting of TechVisions's executive team that occurs every Monday at seven past nine. Apparently most of the company's vice presidents can't get to work on time. Occasionally Jamie and Luci are requested to attend this meeting to review our department's statistics. Sadly, the data has nothing to do with how many errors Luci and I find. Instead it measures how long it takes us to edit each report.

“How do the numbers look?” I ask as I hang my ski jacket on the back of the door over Luci's long wool coat.

“They look like we could use a few more editors,” Luci says.

Jamie pats her shoulder. “Not going to happen.”

“Maybe if I can dazzle them with my brilliance it will.” Luci retrieves a clip from her purse, gathers her long auburn hair, and arranges it into a twisted bun. She then opens her desk drawer and removes a pair of glasses. The lenses have no prescription. “I look smart glasses, hair up?” She says this in her fake Chinese accent while she fingers the diamond cross pendant around her neck that reveals her true Irish-Catholic heritage.

“Don't start,” Jamie warns, but he's smiling. He may be the only one in the company who still gets a kick out of Luci's impersonations.

Jamie's BlackBerry buzzes, and he and Luci hustle out of our office.

Great. Now I'm going to have to wait at least another hour before telling her about my date with Ethan. I called several times yesterday and left a few messages, but she never got back to me. What fun is a first date if you can't rehash it with your best friend? I fire up my computer. Before checking my work messages, I log in to my personal e-mail, hoping for a message from Neesha. Instead there is an e-mail from my mother.

That's her entire message. Honest to God.

Should I tell her about Ethan? No, it's too soon. I hit Reply and write a two-word response in all caps:
NO THANKS!

I imagine the warm day in May when my parents return to Westham. I'll visit them with Ethan in tow. I can see the look of shock on my mother's face as she shakes his hand. “Did she say your name is Ethan?” she'll ask, not able to believe it. Then she'll glance out the living room window toward the Patels' old house and feel sorry she ever doubted Ajee.

I close my Yahoo! account and open my work e-mail. Twenty-two unread messages. Welcome to the workweek. I click on a message from Jamie. Gail Germain, Luci's and my least favorite analyst, submitted a report last Tuesday, and neither Luci nor I have started it. Jamie's message tells me I must do it today. I sigh loudly, wondering how Luci always manages to avoid the worst assignments. I open Gail's thirty-page document on cloud computing in the health-care industry and read the first sentence. “
A recent survey of major health care organizations in Western Europe, Techvision reveals that IT budget allocation for cloud computing is generally not a priority for Western European healthcare providers.”
When an analyst can't even get the name of our company right, I have very little faith the rest of the information in their report is correct. I reread the sentence, turn on redlining, and change the sentence to what I think it should say:
A recent TechVisions survey of major health-care organizations in Western Europe reveals that IT budget allocation for cloud computing is not a priority.

An hour later I am only on page four, and each sentence I have read so far is marked up heavily. Gail Germain should not be allowed to write. I decide I need a caffeine IV to get me through this report and head to the café for the next best thing, a cup of coffee.

I am just returning when Luci storms into the office. “They think we're taking too long editing.” She picks up the stack of reports in our in-box and flips through them. “Twenty reports by twenty different analysts,” she says. “It's so obvious that we're understaffed, but instead of hiring more editors, they want us to come up with a plan of how we're going to speed things up.”

“How about we sign up the analysts for writing classes?” I suggest.

Luci plops down on the corner of my desk and helps herself to a sip of my coffee. “Well, the executives decided there needs to be a committee to brainstorm for solutions and you are on that committee.”

“No!”

She picks a piece of lint off her sleeve. “It's a committee of two. You and Cooper Allen.” She winks. “I was going to volunteer but he asked for you.” She looks me directly in the eye when she says this, and she keeps her face straight. Luci is a very good liar.

“Being on a committee will take time away from editing, and our numbers will get even worse.”

Luci shrugs and stands. As she retreats to her desk I receive a meeting invite from Cooper. I groan as I read it. “Well, I guess I don't have to worry about the committee taking time away from editing because Cooper wants to meet at five thirty tonight.”

“Did you expect anything else?” Luci asks. She takes a sip of coffee, and I realize that she hijacked my cup. “You and Cooper alone after hours. I like it.”

I glare at her as she pulls four packets of Sweet'N Low from her drawer and dumps them into my coffee. Why is she joking about Cooper and not even asking about my date with Ethan? I begrudgingly accept Cooper's meeting invite and go back to editing Gail's report.

A few minutes later, Peter from the mailroom bounds into our office carrying a vase of pink roses. He's so big that he completely fills the space separating my area from Luci's. At the sight of Peter with flowers, Luci stacks the papers spread over the middle of her desk into a neat pile to clear space. “Hey, Corrigan.” Peter always calls Luci by her maiden name. “Relax. These are for Gina.”

“Really?” I'm as surprised as Luci.

Peter sets the vase on the corner of my desk where Luci usually sits. She leaps up from her chair and takes two quick steps across the room. “I am so sorry. I forgot all about your date. It must have gone well.”

I ignore her because I am opening the card that came with the flowers. I read it silently and smile. “Well?” Luci asks. Before I can answer, she swipes the card out of my hand and reads out loud. “
Thanks for a great time Saturday night. Looking forward to getting to know you better. Ethan.”

“A great time. We know what that means,” Peter says.

Luci hands me the card. “So you slept with him.”

“Of course not. It was only the first date.”

Luci laughs at the outrage in my voice.

Peter slips his thumbs into his empty belt loops and yanks up his jeans. “It's good to know some women still have morals.” He looks pointedly at Luci, and this time they both laugh.

After Peter leaves, I recount my first date with Ethan. “He didn't want to come in?” she repeats, making me feel worse about it. I imagine no guy has ever left Luci at the door.

“I think maybe it had something to do with Leah,” I say. It's the only thing I can come up with.

Luci was looking at her monitor, but now she turns her head so that she's looking at me. “Who's Leah?”

“Ethan's wife. Ethan's ex-wife, well, his soon-to-be ex-wife,” I stutter.

This grabs Luci's attention, and she's back sitting on the corner of my desk before I get all the words out. “He's married? You never told me that.”

“He's divorced,” I say and then quickly correct. “Soon-to-be divorced.”

Luci picks up the flowers and smells them. “Oh Gina, you can't start a serious relationship with a man in the middle of a divorce.”

“It's one date. Hardly a serious relationship.”

“Come on, Gina.”

I lean back in my chair. Part of me knows Luci is right.

She stands. “I don't like this at all,” she says. “Be careful.”

 

By 5:10 Luci has left for the day and I am alone in the office still editing Gail's report. I hear someone clear their throat and jump in my seat. I look up. Cooper Allen is standing in front of my desk dressed like he's about to commit a crime in a black pea coat, heavy black gloves, and a black ski hat. “I didn't mean to startle you,” he says.

“You look like you're about to rob a bank or something,” I say, willing my heart to stop beating so fast. Cooper studies me without speaking. “Because you're dressed all in black,” I clarify.

He holds my gaze. “I'm going to get dinner, not to rob a bank. I was wondering if I can get you anything?”

He continues staring directly in my eyes. I squirm in my seat and look down. “No thanks.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

I look up. His arms are folded across his chest, and his eyes are scanning my desk. “A salad.”

“Then you must be starving.” The truth is, I am hungry, but how weird is it that Mr. Senior Vice President Cooper Allen is offering to fetch my dinner? “What do you like on your pizza?” he asks.

“Peppers, please.”

He returns thirty minutes later carrying a large pizza box with a bag resting on top of it. He moves my flowers to Luci's desk and places the pizza in their old spot. He then reaches into the bag and pulls out paper plates and napkins. Next he hands me an Arizona iced tea with ginseng, my favorite. “How did you know I like this?”

He points to my recycling bin, which is filled with empty bottles. He takes off his coat, hat, and gloves and throws them on Luci's desk, almost knocking over the vase.

While I open the pizza box, he wheels her chair around her desk and positions it so that we're sitting across from each other at my desk. For a moment we both just look at the pizza, breathing in the scent of melting mozzarella and tomato sauce.

“Please,” Cooper says, gesturing with his hand toward the pizza.

I take a piece. A string of cheese stretches from the box to my plate. I try to break it with my fork but don't succeed. Cooper lifts his hands and breaks the string of cheese with a karate chop. “
En garde
,” he shouts.

His movement and scream are so unexpected that I giggle. He laughs, too. It's the first time I have ever heard him laugh. Unlike his speech, which is usually slow and deliberate, his laughter is an unrestrained boisterous roar. It makes me realize that Cooper Allen has an entire other life away from TechVisions.

“People say
en garde
when they're sword fighting—not doing martial arts,” I say.

“You want to edit my speech now, too,” Cooper says, but he's smiling, and the dimples that appear in his cheeks transform his entire face.

 

For the next three hours, I explain the editing process to Cooper in excruciating detail while he furiously pecks at the keyboard of his phone. Every now and then, he interrupts me by raising his hand like a police officer stopping traffic and asks for more details. I swear my voice is hoarse from talking so much.

Just before nine, the phone that he is typing into sings. I know the voice is Frank Sinatra, but I don't recognize the song. Cooper apologizes, spins in his chair so that his back is to me, and takes the call. He listens for a minute or two and then says, “I'll call you later.” A few seconds later, his voice is more urgent. “Monique, I said ... Monique, I'm still at the office. I'll call you later.”

Figures Cooper has a girlfriend with an exotic name. Monique. I bet she's very fancy.

He rotates the seat of the chair so that he's facing me again. “Sorry, I didn't realize it was so late. We should schedule another meeting.” He scrolls through his phone to look at his calendar, and we plan to meet at three o'clock on Friday.

Cooper and I walk to the parking lot together. Biting cold air blasts us as soon as we step out of the building. I zip up my jacket higher and quicken my steps. Cooper keeps pace. He is silent until we reach my car. “As soon as I get home, I'm going to make a huge mug of hot cocoa,” he says, rubbing his gloved hands together.

I open my door. “With whipped cream?”

“Fluff,” he says.

“That sounds delicious.” I slide into my car. “Good night.”

“Drive safe,” Cooper says.

“Safely,” I correct as he pushes my door shut.

He fakes a look of exasperation as I drive away.

Mr. Senior Vice President of Mobile Devices, TechVisions's golden boy, drinks hot chocolate with Marshmallow Fluff. Who would have ever thought?

I
lean against Ethan's chest. He wraps his long muscular legs around my waist. His arms circle my torso, and he pulls me back even closer toward him. He moves his head forward and rests his chin on my shoulder so that the sides of our faces touch. His stubble scratches my cheek. I don't know if it's because of his proximity or because I'm cold, but I shiver.

“Relax,” he whispers. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

Standing behind us, a college-aged boy with a runny nose gives our tube a push, and soon we are careening down a snow-covered hill. “Woohoo!” Ethan shouts as the sled accelerates. It veers to the right and climbs halfway up the icy wall separating our lane from the one next to it before centering itself again. A large bump looms a few feet in front of us. Ethan must see it, too, because he squeezes his thighs, trying to hold me in place. We hit the bump. The tube soars into the air and lands with a
thump
. Miraculously, we manage to hang on and continue the ride to the bottom of the hill.

Ethan untangles himself from me, stands, and pulls me to my feet. “You all right?” he asks.

I reach down for the tube. “Again,” I yell, racing off to the rope tow that will drag us back to the top of the hill.

Ethan catches up to me and pulls me into an embrace. “You're fearless. I love it.” The entire way up the hill, all I'm thinking is
I love it
. Just one word away from the sentence I've been dreaming about him saying to me since middle school.

When we get to the top, Ethan picks a lane at the end that is called the Speed Bump. He climbs into the back of the tube and stretches his legs out over the front. The only way for me to fit in there with him is to sit on his lap, so I do. It's impossible not to notice that he is rock-solid under his ski pants. He positions his arms around my waist and rests his gloved hands on my outer thighs. As we wait for the attendant to push us, Ethan slides his fingers back and forth on my inner thigh. He presses his cold, wet mouth against my exposed earlobe. “I think when we're done with this, I'll be ready to collect on last week's bet.”

He's so hard to figure out. When we're out in a crowd, he acts like he can't wait to be alone with me, but when it's only the two of us at my place, he can't wait to get out of there. Just an hour ago when he picked me up, he gave me a chaste kiss on the lips. “Do you want to sit down, have something to eat or drink?” I asked.

He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “I think we should go. Don't want to run out of daylight.” It was just a little after one.

Now he leans closer, his breath hot against the icy cold side of my face. “If you do a good job, I might even return the favor.” His fingers slide higher. All the way through my ski bib and jeans, I can feel my skin tingling. Ever since he touched me at the diner, I have been craving more. I finally understand the meaning of crazy with desire.

“Ready?” the attendant asks.

Ethan's fingers stop moving. The sled takes off at a breakneck speed. Beneath me, Ethan's hips rise and fall over each bump as I shriek with excitement. At the steepest part of the hill we hit a bump and lose control. Ethan and I are thrown overboard while the tube soars high into the air. I land facedown in a pile of snow while Ethan ends up on his backside. “You hurt?” he asks, rushing to my side.

“I'm fine.”

“We don't have to do this anymore,” he says helping me to my feet.

“Of course we do.”

“No,” he says. “You've been a good sport long enough.” He walks toward an attendant to return our tube.

I quickly make a few snowballs and toss them at his butt, but my aim is so bad that two connect with the back of his head. “What the—” He turns around just as another snowball whizzes by his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“We can't let a hill beat us. Don't you dare return that tube.” I'm already armed with another snowball, and I cock my arm.

He drops the tube and holds up his arms. “I surrender.”

Ninety minutes and twelve runs later, I can no longer feel my toes or fingers. Ethan's lips are blue and the tip of his nose is bright red. “Had enough?” he asks.

I nod, and we head inside the ski lodge, where we strip ourselves of our hats, gloves, ski pants, and jackets. I settle into a seat by the fire while Ethan goes to the bar to order us hot chocolates with butterscotch schnapps. A few minutes later, he makes his way across the crowded floor balancing two steaming hot beverages and a bowl of popcorn.

“Thank you,” he says, sliding a mug topped with whipped cream in front of me. “I've been wanting to do that for so long, but Leah would never go.” He pulls his cup closer and blows on it.

I try to imagine Leah, but all I can see is a big ball of boringness loafing on the couch.

“What is Leah like?” I ask, suddenly desperate to get a clear image of her.

Ethan sips his drink. “She's . . . I don't know.” He shrugs. “Hey, let's not talk about Leah.” He leans across the table and reaches for my hand. “I'd much rather hear about you.”

 

We return to my apartment at six thirty. Ethan holds my hand tightly and leads me around the walkway in the dark. When we get to the top of the stairs, he takes the keys from me and unlocks the door. I enter, and he follows closely behind. I turn on the light in the kitchen, and we remove our jackets and gloves. I take a few steps toward the living room, expecting Ethan to follow. Instead he grabs my arm and spins me toward him. He eases me against the wall between the living room and the kitchen and kisses me. He keeps his hands on my shoulders, pinning me in place with my arms around his waist. We stand like this for a few minutes. He uses his tongue to separate my lips. Inside my mouth, his tongue gently explores while his hands begin to travel down my body. Slowly, he begins to thrust his tongue in and out of my mouth, and soon he is moving his hips against me in the same rhythm. I mimic his every motion.

It's crazy: We're both fully dressed, yet every inch of my body is buzzing with energy. I don't remember ever feeling this way before. We remain lost like this for several minutes. He grabs the bottom of my sweater and yanks it over my head. I unzip his sweatshirt, and he shrugs out of it while unsnapping my jeans. “Let's move to the bedroom, babe.” He begins to walk, but I remain rooted against the wall, not sure I want things to move so quickly. “Please, babe.”

He takes my hand in his and gently pulls me. We make it halfway down the hallway when Ethan's phone rings. It's not a normal ringtone. It's a woman voice saying, “Pick up, honey. Pick up.”

Honey?
I pull my hand from his. He freezes and then slowly turns so he is facing me. His phone continues squealing, “Pick up, honey. Pick up.”

“Leah,” he says. The ringing finally stops. “I didn't change the ringtone.”

“Why not?”

He stiffens his shoulders and slowly exhales. “I just didn't think of it. She never calls.” As if to prove him a liar, the phone starts speaking again. Ethan pulls it from his pocket. “Must be important,” he says while retreating to the kitchen.

I remain standing in the hallway. “This isn't a good time,” I hear him say. Then, “What happened? Leah?” A few seconds later. “Calm down, babe. He's going to be fine.”

Babe.
Why is the soon-to-be ex-wife “babe”? I thought
I
was “babe.” My stomach contorts and I rush into the bathroom. I come out a few minutes later to find him sitting at the kitchen table staring at his lap. I slip back into my sweater and position myself in the seat across from him. Ethan looks up at me. “Brady's missing,” he says.

“The dog?”

He nods. “She left him in the backyard while she was out. Came home, the gate was open. Brady's gone.” He rubs the stubble on his chin. “Not sure what she expects me to do. Takes over three hours to get there.” He glances at his watch.

“Has this happened before?”

He shakes his head. “But she can't latch the gate. I always have to do it.” He stands and grabs his jacket. “Gotta go.”

“Are you driving there?”

“I'm gonna make some calls. Get some friends in the area to search.” He embraces me quickly and rushes out the door.

As I turn the lock, I wonder if Leah's inability to work a latch will open the door for a reconciliation.