My phone buzzes with a text message from the food delivery service, notifying me that my food will arrive in approximately twenty-one minutes.
Dragging the excess polish off the brush, I begin to paint my left big toe when my phone vibrates again.
WHAT ARE YOU DOING SATURDAY?
I don’t recognize the number, but it’s a 212 area code and seeing how I’m in New York, I should probably investigate.
WHO IS THIS? I type back.
A blue bubble with three dots fills the screen.
IT’S CALDER. WHAT ARE YOU DOING TOMORROW?
I sit up, nearly choking on my spit as I yank my foot off the table. Unable to take my eyes off that audacious message filling my screen, I attempt to recap my polish using only my peripheral vision … only in my distracted state I knock the entire bottle on its side, pink polish pooling on the unsealed wood.
Shit, shit, shit.
Shooting up, I sprint to the kitchen, grab a handful of paper towels and the first household cleaner I can find under the sink (Windex), and dab at the gaudy stain seeping into the furniture.
“No, no, nooooo.” I exhale, refusing to give up. Grabbing my phone, I pull up Google, only before I have a chance to find out whether acetone is safe on unfinished surfaces, my screen lights with another message from Calder.
???
Three question marks? Seriously? I fire off a response: KIND OF IN THE MIDDLE OF SOMETHING RIGHT NOW. SORRY.
He responds a minute later, after I’ve finished my query: ARE YOU AVAILABLE TOMORROW? YES OR NO?
God, he’s thirsty. If he thinks I’m going to be his booty call, he needs to think again.
I TOLD YOU, IT WAS A ONE-TIME THING, I write, placing my phone aside and running to the bathroom to grab my travel-sized nail polish remover and some cotton balls. When I return, I already have a message waiting.
A LITTLE PRESUMPTIVE ON YOUR PART, KEANE, he writes. Followed by: I WAS GOING TO HEAD INTO THE OFFICE FOR A FEW HOURS IN THE MORNING. YOUR SERVICES WOULD BE APPRECIATED.
Clapping my hand over my forehead, I slump down to my knees. I’ve almost managed to get the stain out, and according to the Google search I performed a few minutes ago, the acetone should evaporate and the spot should be good as new.
But there’s no saving this.
Here I thought he was being an ass, but instead that ass was me.
SEE YOU AT EIGHT? he writes.
I text him back with a “yes.”
I’M WORKING FROM MY father’s office this morning, but only for logistical reasons. All his files are here, and I don’t feel like schlepping back and forth all morning.
“You’re late, Keane,” I say when she finds me. I swear she almost drops the coffees in her hands as she strides into the office Saturday morning. “I’m messing with you.”
She’s actually early, as people like her typically tend to be. But I wanted a reaction out of her.
Sitting two cups in front of me, one hot and one cold, she says, “I wasn’t sure what you drink, so I got one of—”
“I don’t drink coffee.” I reach for my bottled water. It’s bad enough that I’m working in some skyrise corner office, forced to dress up during the week. I’m not going to be that executive subsisting off eight cups a coffee, Cuban cigars, and three martini lunches. “But thank you.”
“I’m sorry I misunderstood your text message last night.” She speaks so fast, it’s almost as if the issue had been bothering her all this time.
It was an honest mistake. A hilarious one too. And likely extremely humiliating for a self-aware perfectionist like her.
“Didn’t think twice about it,” I lie. I thought about it all night. And I thought about her all day yesterday, actually. I was going to talk to her Friday, make sure she was okay, but my father commandeered my schedule to the point that I barely had time to take a piss. I slide a stack of reports across the desk, pushing them toward her. “Here’s a new batch for you to summarize. Do as many as you can today. I’ve put the important ones on top.”
Turning my attention toward the computer monitor, I watch her linger and squirm, her hands fidgeting as she wrestles the tall stack of bound and stapled reports.
Monday is the monthly board meeting, where the change in guard will officially be announced. Today I wanted to do a little research on the members. I had Marta pull their files late yesterday afternoon, but I hadn’t had a chance to go through them all.
This place is a fucking zoo most of the time. Constant interruptions. Phones ringing. Emails pinging. And yet everyone acts like they’re the luckiest sons of bitches in the world to be employed at WellesTech.
Then again, it could all be a front. They know I’m about to become their boss. It’s in their best interest to look happy and productive.