Our cubicles are next to each other, the partition wall between us low enough so we can see each other. My cubicle is neat and tidy, while Stephanie’s side looks like a rainbow troll exploded with neon sticky notes stuck to everything and all the pens with fuzz balls and dangly bits on the lids.
I tell her about the coffee shop and the barista writing No-O on my coffee cup and finding out there’s a hashtag about it with my photo attached and everything. Then I tell her about the incident on the train and how Heath saved me. Our time in the dressing room and getting caught by the girl who worked there. And then the kiss that followed that felt so much more than just a kiss. Finally, I tell her about getting a room and the fancy hotel and all the magic that happened after, sparing no detail. By the time I’m done Stephanie’s mouth is hanging open and a bead of sweat rolls down the side of her temple.
“Jesus,” she says. “You just lived every fantasy I’ve ever had.” Then she looks at me skeptically. “So he just happened to be on the very same train you were on, in the very same car?”
“He was on his way into town to go shopping,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “In Brettsville? What did he buy?”
“Nothing. He told me he was here to shop, but I think he came to town to see a different girl.”
She takes a bite of something that had been sitting on her desk, but since we both just got to work I’m wondering how long it had been sitting there. “What makes you think that?” she says with her mouth full.
“Why else would he be here? Obviously not for the stores. Shopping is way better in San Pedro County where he lives.”
Stephanie wipes the crumbs off her shirt and turns her computer on, pretending to work. I do the same just in case our boss walks by. “So he came to town to see another girl but ended up spending time with you instead?” she says.
It does seem odd, but she might’ve stood him up or something, or maybe her plans changed and I ended up being a convenient plan B. Except I don’t remember him ever checking his phone other than to look on Twitter. I was with him the whole time. He didn’t even slip away to use the bathroom except after we had sex, and even then he left his phone next to mine on the nightstand.
“If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it,” I say.
“I got nothing. It’s a strange coincidence.” Her eyes grow wide. “Or maybe it’s fate. Maybe the two of you are soul mates and it’s the universe pushing you together.”
I roll my eyes. Stephanie always tends to venture into new age ideology. Every time she has anything in common with a new guy she blames it on fate, and look how those turned out. But I have to admit, the thought of Heath and me being made for each other is quite appealing. His is a face I wouldn’t mind looking at every day for the rest of my life. Unfortunately, I don’t share her same belief system. Everybody takes the train. It’s the fastest and cheapest way to get from one town to the next and not have to worry about traffic jams, rush hours, and ice on the road. It’s possible we’ve ridden in the same train car many times and it was only because of our conversation on Twitter that our crossing paths were finally revealed. Though I doubt I would forget a face like his. When I’m on the train, I keep my head down and try to get from point A to point B without anything weird happening like most people onboard. So it’s very possible I might’ve missed him before.
“Are you going to see him again?” she asks.
My shoulders wilt and there’s a tinge of sadness in my stomach that feels almost like a hunger pang. I want to see him again, of course, but chances are it won’t happen.
“I doubt it,” I say.
She doesn’t press me about it or try to convince me to try and talk to him again. We both know how one night stands work. No one wants to be that annoying person who lingers longer than they should.
I’m thankful when she drops the subject. We don’t talk about it again. We don’t talk about anything actually. It might be the most productive day at work that we’ve ever had.
5
That night after work I put on my flannel pajamas and throw my hair up into a messy bun. It’s not like I have anywhere to be on a Sunday night. Brettsville doesn’t have much in the way of nightlife anyway. Just one club and a couple of dive bars.
Stephanie and I went to the club once. The music was terrible and the people were worse. There was a fight that ended up with some prissy blonde’s weave being yanked off and the cops being called. After the cops arrived and started checking I.D.s, several minors were busted with fake licenses. The place was shut down a week later. That was six months ago and it only re-opened last week. Chances are, if I felt like going out, it would be packed. I’m not really in the mood to go wait in line during a near blizzard in the freezing cold wind. Once we finally made it inside, then we would have to wait even longer for a drink.
Why bother with all that drama and suffer through hours of tedious top forty remixes when I have a comfy bed and an iPod full of music I actually want to listen to here? I don’t have any alcohol, but that’s probably a good thing. I shouldn’t be drinking alone right now. It’s an especially bad idea when I can’t get Heath out of my mind. I know myself well enough that after a few drinks, the thought of trying to contact him would sound like a great idea.
Nope. I’m sticking to coffee.
Stephanie is on Instant Messenger. We talk about the upcoming Christmas party and what we’re going to wear; who she can take home after and not hate herself the next morning for it. The best she can come up with is the night janitor. He’s not too old, not married, and has a ton of prison tattoos. Right up her alley.
After an internal war about whether or not I should go on Twitter, I decide to just do it. It’s far too tempting to look on Heath’s feed and find out what he’s up to. I decide I might as well. What can it hurt?
But first I check on the No-O hashtag, see how that hot mess is holding up. Once I click on it I see that all the traffic has started to fizzle down and was slowly making its way down the trending list. That was until someone decided to breathe new life into the subject. There’s one tweet in particular that seems to be getting a lot of attention:
#O-Maker has healed the #No-O with his magic wand and everyone lived happily ever after.
My stomach sits in my throat. The tweet has six thousand shares and hundreds of replies. Heath and I are both tagged in it.
It’s followed up shortly by another tweet: The end. Now get over it and move on, p
eople
The person tweeting is none other than my best friend Stephanie. I’d be pissed if I weren’t so amused. There’s something liberating about everyone knowing that I was with Heath. I’m actually kind of proud of that fact. I would never announce it to the world, though. And if Stephanie would’ve told me she was planning on doing it, I would’ve made sure she didn’t. Which is obviously why she didn’t tell me in the first place.
Then a horrifying thought hits me, and instead of keeping it to myself, I message Stephanie.
Me: Why the hell did you post that? Heath was tagged by other people in that post. He’ll see it and know I told you about having sex with him last night.
Takes her only a few seconds to respond.
Stephanie: Who cares? Men love it when women talk them up to their friends. Roll with it, baby.
The only things rolling are my eyes. I can’t believe she did this—actually, who am I kidding? I can totally believe she did this.
I look through all the comments, and all the tags. Most of them are people saying congratulations. I put my hands over my face, wondering what Heath will think when he sees it. I should’ve left Twitter alone. Too late now.
And since I’m already here, I might as well check out Heath’s feed while I’m at it, right? It doesn’t take much convincing myself that, yes, it’s a good idea. I click on his name because I have no self-control. He’s posted several things since I left him this morning.
The first is: I’m on cloud 9.
Seeing those words, my heart hammers into action. He doesn’t say why he’s on cloud 9, but there are several replies asking him why. He hasn’t responded to any of them. I look at the time when he wrote it. 7:15 this morning. Right after I left the hotel room. Is this tweet about me?