One Night Only by Catherine Walsh

1

There’s someone in my bed.

I stare at the head of dark hair beside me, trying to recall his face. Trying to recall anything really. I have vague memories of sitting at a bar, an empty shot glass in front of me and the weight of warm hands on my hips. But everything else is a blur.

That, of course, can be explained by the mounting ache behind my eyes and the fact that my mouth feels like I coughed up a furball.

I lie back against the pillows, annoyed with myself. On a work night as well. I’m usually more disciplined than this.

There’s a sharp buzz beside me and I reach for my phone on the nightstand. Seven a.m. A calendar notification reminds me what I’m supposed to be doing right now and I text Claire, my roommate, my reason to cancel.

I can hear her outside my door, moving around the kitchen before she suddenly goes quiet. Her response comes a moment later.

Why do you always sleep with someone when you’re supposed to go for a run with me?

I can’t help nighttime Sarah,I message back. She hates daytime Sarah.

Claire doesn’t answer, so I ease myself into a sitting position and pull the charger from my phone, letting the cable drop noisily to the floor.

The man beside me doesn’t so much as flinch.

I hate the heavy sleepers.

“Hey there.” I poke his bare shoulder as I swing my feet to the floorboards. His skin is warm under my touch, the only indication he’s even alive. I clear my throat.

Nothing.

Fine.

Butt-naked, I dart the few steps to my bedroom door and grab my robe, wrapping it around me. I need a shower. My hair sticks to the back of my neck, sweaty from a hot summer’s night and whatever else I did. We did. I don’t need to look in a mirror to know my makeup is probably smeared all over my face.

I pry the door open and then, with a warning glance at Claire who’s waiting curiously in the hall, slam it shut again.

The man wakes with a start, almost falling to the floor as he jerks upright.

“I’m so sorry,” I croon, approaching the bed. I don’t touch it. That would imply I’m getting back in. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he lies, his voice gruff with sleep. He twists to look at me and the sheet falls, revealing his chest. I keep my eyes on his face. His bleary, handsome face. Blue eyes peer out beneath thick eyebrows, now drawn together in confusion. My friend Soraya would say he has a superhero jaw. I think I may have licked it.

“I’m sorry it’s so early,” I say. “But I’ve got to get to work.” I smile my usual smile, polite and encouraging, a little apologetic.

He blinks at me. It’s like I’m watching his mind wake up in real time. “You’re kicking me out?” His Irish accent grows stronger as he speaks, the same one that had me melting last night.

“I’m going to work. Don’t you have to go to work?”

“Not really, no.”

I force back a sigh. Usually, they’re halfway around the block by now. “Okay. I do. So… up.” I grab his T-shirt from the floor, which feels less personal than the boxer shorts next to it and toss it to him. It lands somewhere where I think his knees are.

He makes no move to put it on.

“Do you want to get some breakfast?” he asks.

Breakfast? My headache intensifies.

“I’m sorry if you misunderstood. But I need you to leave so I can leave.”

“Why can’t I stay?”

“Because you might steal something if I leave you by yourself.”

“Why can’t you stay with me?”

“Because I—” I break off at the smile on his face. He’s teasing me. I relax a bit. I can take teasing. I’m chill. “Because I have to go to work,” I finish.

He grabs the T-shirt and pulls it on over his head. Finally. I tie my robe tighter around me and try to remember what I need to do today. Pack. Dry cleaning. Pedicure.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Tonight?” I’m momentarily distracted by the muscles in his arms. “I’m busy.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m busy all nights,” I say, trying to communicate the obvious thing that is happening between us. This time at least he seems to get it.

He scratches the side of his face and the hint of stubble there. He almost looks surprised. “I don’t usually sleep with someone an hour after I meet them.”

“Well…” I spread my hands out, losing patience. “I do.”

There’s a beat as he stares at me. Then he grins. “Fair enough.” And with that he flips the sheet off his body and stands, naked from the waist down.

Okaaay.

I mutter something about giving him privacy and slip out of my bedroom.

Claire waits in the kitchen, dressed in her expensive running clothes.

“Did he go?” she asks, confused.

“He’s getting dressed.” I smooth the crow’s nest that is my hair. “Then he’s going. I promise.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining. This is the closest thing I get to sex these days.”

“Funny.” But true. With her fancy, long-hours job Claire often says she needs to live through me.

“You got mail by the way. I left it out for you last night but, obviously, you were distracted.” She passes me an envelope from the counter. “I think it’s your passport. Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”

I rip it open, ignoring her. I am cutting it close. But that’s because with all my planning for my upcoming trip, I completely forgot about the most obvious thing I would need. Thankfully, it is indeed my passport, a leathery blue booklet that looks very official in my hands.

“That’s not a bad photo,” she says, peering over my shoulder.

“I should have worn my hair down. I look like an alien.”

“I look like a serial killer in mine.”

We both fall silent as the bedroom door opens. My one-night stand enters the room, thankfully fully dressed.

“Good morning,” Claire calls sweetly, twirling one of her braids over her shoulder. “Coffee?”

The man smiles gratefully. “Coffee would be great.”

“No,” I say. “He can’t have coffee. He’s leaving.”

Claire stares unabashedly as I shepherd him out, pushing him with two fingers toward the door.

“Are you this pushy with all your conquests?” he asks. He doesn’t sound annoyed. Only amused.

“I don’t usually have to be.”

I feel his silent laughter under my hand. I stop touching him and open the door.

He steps out into the hall, turning to face me. God, he’s good-looking. I’m shallow, I know. But a part of me is very pleased I managed to snag him.

“I had a great time last night,” he says.

“I’m glad. Me too.”

“A lot of chemistry.”

“A lot of tequila,” I correct.

He nods, looking serious. “Also, true. Now, it might just be me, but it feels like you’re trying to stop whatever’s happening here.”

“Nothing’s happening. I’m kicking you out of my apartment.”

“I get that. Or you could—”

“Goodbye,” I say firmly and shut the door in his face.

Done.

I turn triumphantly back to the room but Claire only frowns. “I have never been more disappointed in you.”

“What?”

“What?” she mimics. “Did you seehim? Better yet, did you hear him?”

“I saw him. I heard him. And now I’m taking a shower.”

“For someone so smart, you can be extremely dumb sometimes,” she calls after me. “And you owe me a run!”

* * *

It’s a beautiful summer’s morning in New York. Blue-skies, green-trees, glittering-skyscrapers beautiful. The weather app on my phone says it’s sixty-five degrees and I barely last five minutes outside before I’m shrugging off my jacket. In a few hours the temperature and humidity will creep up but for now it’s perfect and I hurry through the city, the soothing tones of an NPR podcast murmuring in my ears as I join the throngs of people on their way to work.

It’s a twenty-minute walk from my apartment in the East Village to the offices of Baxter & Sons Architects, located just off Union Square. Offices might be the wrong word. We take up half a floor of a midsized, glass-walled building that sits above a Chipotle and a nail salon that never seems to be open. And it’s not so much Baxter & Sons as it is just Baxter. Harvey’s kids left years ago to start their own firms but he kept the name so he wouldn’t have to change all our branding.

Despite the delay to my morning, I arrive a good thirty minutes before I’m supposed to, only slightly out of breath. The place is mostly empty but my cubicle buddy, Will, is already there, halfway through a fruit cup. Not a morning person, he barely gives me a grunt as I sweep in. Normally, I wouldn’t say a word to him for at least another hour, but as I tug out my earphones, I spy a large takeout coffee next to my keyboard.

“What’s this?”

“A latte,” Will says, spearing a strawberry with a small plastic fork.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason to get my co-worker a coffee in the morning?”

I dump my purse on my desk. “What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Harvey came by.”

Ah. So that’s what the coffee is for. Not a bribe but a commiseration.

I pick up the tall cardboard cup and take a sip.

“Maybe because he picked the wrong person,” I say lightly.

“Glad to hear you’re over that.”

I make a face.

It’s been three weeks since I lost out on a promotion. Three weeks since Harvey gave the job to Matthias. Hard-working, good-looking Matthias who always brings in snacks and always says hello. He organized the office to get flowers for my birthday and has twice loaned me his large man umbrella when it was raining because I’d forgotten mine.

That’s how annoying this whole thing is. He’s not even my enemy, so I can’t even hate him. I’m happy for him.

And miserable for me.

All the articles online say that when something like this happens you should start looking for a new job. But getting a new job is stressful. It means secrets and sneaking off to interviews and evenings lost to prep work.

It’s making an effort when I don’t particularly want to.

Unless I’m forced to.

I turn on my computer, dread settling in.

“Aren’t you going to go see Harvey?” Will asks, a little too innocently.

“I’m going to wait until after your ten o’clock with Yasmin so you two have nothing to talk about.”

He scowls, finally looking at me. “Spoilsport.”

“Gossip.”

“If he fires you, I’m taking your desk.”

He dodges the pencil I throw at him and goes back to his breakfast.

But he’s right. I should go see Harvey, bite the bullet before the rest of the office gets in. But my thoughts instantly change track when I log in and see an email from Annie.

Annie’s been my best friend for over ten years since we shared a room at NYU. I was studying architecture. She hopped around before settling on art history but then got a job in HR straight after graduation and, in her words, never looked at a painting again. She’s great at trivia nights though.

Last year, she and her fiancé Paul moved to London for his job, completely disregarding the drunken promise we made at nineteen to always be there for each other. It broke my heart to see her go but they’re coming back to New York this winter and we’ve spent the last few months making plans for all the things we would do.

But first comes the wedding.

And not just any wedding. An Irish wedding.

Paul is from a small village on the east coast of Ireland and it didn’t take much persuasion to get Annie to agree to a summer ceremony in the Irish countryside. It took even less persuasion to get me to come too.

I am the maid of honor and have never been more excited about anything in my life.

What better reason to splash a good chunk of your savings than for the happiest day of your best friend’s existence?

And judging by the high-priority-marked email she’s sent me, the happiest day of mine too.

Only one more sleep until you’re here!she writes. Paul checked out the hotel yesterday to see the final plans. Everything is DONE and it looks BEAUTIFUL and I am only hyperventilating two times a day now.

I click through the attached photos, marveling at each one. The hotel is the reason for the long engagement. Paul was adamant he wanted to get married there but a lengthy waiting list coupled with a not-so-small price tag meant this was the earliest they could get.

My new passport arrived this morning!I email back. We are officially all systems go. I can’t wait to see you.

“Sarah?”

Harvey, my boss, stands beside the cubicle, his glasses pushed into his gray hair. “Do you have time for a quick chat?”

No. “Of course!” I hit send and grab the latte.

Will gives me a pitying look as I follow him. At least no one else is in to see this.

“It’s about your plan for the Grayson Group,” he says as we enter his office.

He shuts the door and my mood drops. Harvey’s door is always open. Always. He only ever shuts it for serious moments. HR moments. Bad-news moments.

I sit in the worn leather armchair in front of his desk, trying to steel myself for what’s to come.

At least I can always rely on him to be straight and to the point.

“They want to move in a different direction.”

Of course, a little easing in wouldn’t be too bad either.

“Oh.” I muster up a smile. “Did they say why?”

“They did. They felt it was uninspired.”

“Right.” I can feel myself growing defensive, but I can’t help it. “I’m following the brief.”

“I know you are.” A pause. “I also know you’ve got your vacation coming up.”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll give them a call. Take a look at things before I go.”

“I’m going to give them to Matthias.”

Any attempt at professionalism drops. It’s impossible to hide how disappointed I feel.

Harvey sighs, sitting back in his chair. “You’ve got a week off. I want you to enjoy that time. Take a break. You’ve been working hard the past few months; don’t think I haven’t noticed. But I need you fresh. I need you at your best when you get back.”

I force back my annoyance at his words. Best for what? Grayson was supposed to be my focus for the next few months. And now it was Matthias’s. Just like that.

“You okay?” Harvey asks when I don’t say anything.

“Yes.” I try to brush it off. Try not to let it hurt me as much as it is. “I’ll take a break. I promise. And in the meantime, I will get to work.”

“Thanks, Sarah.”

I smile brightly as I leave the office. It drops as soon as I’m in the corridor. Working hard the last few months and nothing to show for it. Not only am I not moving forward here, I appear to be moving backward.

“Watch it,” I snap on instinct as I almost walk into someone rounding the corner.

It’s Matthias, carrying a croissant in his hand.

“Sorry,” I mumble at the shock on his face. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“I thought you were a morning person.” He smiles. “You’re in even earlier than me these days.”

Is that a dig? One look at his face tells me it’s not. Of course it’s not. He’s being friendly. Because he’s Matthias and that’s who he is. Mr. Friendly guy. Mr. Talented, super nice—

“I left breakfast in the kitchen if you want some.”

“Sounds great, thank you.”

He opens his mouth to say something else but I’m already walking away, forgoing the chat and the pastries to go back to my tiny, cloistered cubicle where I belong.