One Night Only by Catherine Walsh

17

“You look grumpier than usual,” Will says on Monday when I slink into our cubicle. “Did someone finally tell you that you shouldn’t wear yellow?”

I ignore him as I turn my computer back on, smoothing my ponytail down my back.

My chair feels lower. Did he adjust it? Or maybe he did something to my desk. I shoot him a look as I grab an emergency granola bar from my drawer, but his attention is back on his work.

As mine should be.

I am… thrown. Thrown is the right word. I feel like I’ve been missing a step ever since I woke up. I spent most of the weekend reimagining my standoff with Declan and my embarrassment about what happened with Matthias, making myself too angry to sleep in the process. As a result, I woke late, skipped breakfast and now everything is annoying me.

“Could you eat that any louder?” Will asks. I pause mid-crunch to glare at him.

“I’ll try my best.”

“If you’re going to be like this all week, you could at least give me a heads-up so I can call in sick.”

“Can you not today? I’m not in the mood.”

“Is this to do with Matthias?”

I glance at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He asked me if you were seeing anyone last week.”

“And what did you say?”

“No, but you sleep around.”

“Will!”

“What? You do.”

“But you don’t tell him that.”

“Why? Did he come on to you? What are you doing?” he adds, bewildered as I wheel my chair over to him.

“He asked me out,” I whisper.

“I don’t care,” he whispers back. “Go away.”

“You don’t think Matthias asking me out is interesting?”

“I think if he asked Harvey out, it would be interesting. Do I think one of the three good-looking guys in the office asking out one of four good-looking girls is? No.”

“You think I’m good-looking?”

“I think you have that striking thing going for you,” he says. “But your eyes are too far apart. And you need to start—”

I push myself away from his desk, knocking his pencil holder over as I go and open a new email to Annie.

Hope you’re feeling suitably rested and settling into the boredom of married life, I type. You’ll never guess who I bumped into last night. Can you do me a favor and ask Paul what Declan actually does? No hints this time. No secrecy. Because I was led to believe he ran a tourism business and now he tells me runs and owns a freaking bar.

I hesitate, rereading the email. I sound obsessive. I delete the draft and turn to Will who looks up warily.

“What now?”

“You ever get the feeling someone is following you around?”

“Like Death?”

“No,” I say. “Like an actual person.”

“Oh.” Will frowns. “Like a stalker?”

“No. Someone in your life who you see once and now you see everywhere. Like it’s too much to be a coincidence.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Is this person hot?”

“Would you guys please stop?” Ralph snaps from the other cubicle next to us. “It’s every damn day with you two.”

“You’re one to talk,” Will says. “We don’t need to hear your conversations with your wife every five minutes. Is it meatloaf again today? Or are you going to go wild and have pasta?”

He looks back at me, offended as Ralph goes quiet. Asshole, he mouths, shaking his head.

I sigh, dropping it. Just like I should have dropped Declan as soon as I left Ireland. If it wasn’t for him, things might have gone well with Matthias and I wouldn’t be sitting here with a queasy feeling in my stomach at the thought of seeing him.

I’m in such a bad mood for the rest of the morning that when I get an email from Harvey asking me to come to his office, I’m sure he’s firing me. I never used to be such a pessimist.

I walk slowly to my doom, thinking about what I’m going to do, about telling Will, about the pitying looks from the rest of the office. I’ll get severance, won’t I? And maybe a reference. It will cover a bit of my rent at least.

I knock on his door before I can run away.

“Sarah,” Harvey says without looking up from his email. “Come in. You can leave it open,” he adds when I go to close the door.

Oh, thank God.

I allow myself a moment of relief as I sit.

“I’ll keep this quick,” he says, checking his watch. “I’ve got a meeting in five. We’ve had someone ask for you.”

“Me?”

He smiles at my surprise. “A Ms. Mika Morris. She’s leasing out the floor below the TradCo team. They recommended you.”

I glance over the folder he hands me, barely able to take in the words.

“What do you think? Do you have time to—”

“Yes,” I say a little too quickly. “Yes, I have time. Thank you, Harvey.”

“Hey, this is all you. I just do what I’m told.”

I want to wave the folder over my head in triumph. See? I want to shout. I have work! I’m competent! I have ideas! Instead, I go for a wide smile as I hurry back to my desk. Will only gives me a confused look as he talks to a client on the phone, so I have to settle with texting Claire with the news when an instant message pops up in the corner of my computer screen. It’s from Matthias.

I’m sorry about how things ended the other night.

Oh God.

My eyes snap to Will who’s still on a call.

What do I say?

My fingers hover above the keyboard. Me too, I type before deleting it. Me too :(

Ugh. What? I delete it again and peek over the cubicle dividers to the far end of the office. When Matthias got the promotion, he moved to a desk with a corner window. I spy the receptionist, Margot, there now, the top of her head just visible.

I sit back down. He hasn’t sent anything else. He’s waiting for me.

Same, I type. Do youwant to…

What? Try again? Or maybe something smaller. A coffee?

Do I even want to?

“You’re talking to yourself again.”

“No, I’m not,” I say as Will puts the phone done.

“Muttering then.”

I stand again, trying to see him but Margot is still there.

“Is there an office game of whack-a-mole no one invited me to?”

I drop down in my chair, glancing at Will.

“Could you just…” I motion him over and he gives me a long-suffering look before pushing his chair over. “I went for a drink with Matthias on Saturday and he—”

“You and Matthias?”

“I told you this.”

“No, you told me he asked you out not that you said yes.”

“Well, I did. So? Harvey doesn’t care things like that.”

“I know but…” He looks at me strangely. “It’s Matthias.”

“Yes, Will. Your point?”

“He’s just so… nice.”

“Nice?”

“Too nice,” he clarifies. “Has-a-secret-agenda nice.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

“Is it? The man wakes up every morning, puts too much gel in his har and bribes people with bagels.”

“Because he’s—”

“Nice,” Will finishes. “He’s nice and harmless and one of the team until he takes your main client and your job right from under your nose.” His face scrunches up. “You didn’t sleep with him, did you?”

“No! Will!”

“All I’m saying is just because he wants to tap that doesn’t mean he’s—”

“Knock knock.”

We both jump as Matthias appears in the mouth of our cubicle, a folder in his hand.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Will says as I shake my head. I kick him under the desk.

“Do you have a moment, Sarah?”

“Of course.”

Matthias glances at Will, who barely conceals a sigh. “I’ll grab a coffee,” he says, shooting a pointed glance at his back as he walks past.

Matthias perches on the edge of Will’s desk, facing me. I feel like I’m a kid being kept after class by a teacher. An incredibly hot teacher, but still.

“So,” he begins.

“So,” I echo when he doesn’t continue.

He smiles slightly. “About Saturday night. I shouldn’t have run off like that.”

“Are you kidding?” I blurt out. “That was totally on me. I was so rude.”

“I get it. No one likes bumping into their ex.”

“My… He’s not my ex,” I say. “He was just someone I didn’t expect to see again.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, as if waiting for me to say more. “Well,” he says when I don’t, “I would like to see you again. Why don’t we start over? Try somewhere else this week? I believe I owe you a drink.”

I don’t answer immediately. It’s not that it didn’t occur to me that he might ask again. I just hadn’t figured out what I would say if he did.

I know what Dad and Soraya would want me to say. I know what I should say. I should say yes and go out with him again and give my full attention. I should be grateful he’s forgiven me for what happened and give him a chance. And it’s not about what Will said. Will, who likes to see drama wherever he turns.

It’s about the fact that I’m looking at him in the exact way I looked at him outside the bar and I still feel… nothing.

There’s no spark there. Not even the promise of one.

It wouldn’t be fair to him.

“I think it’s best if we just stay friends,” I finally say, my body heating in embarrassment.

“Oh.” Matthias doesn’t bother to hide his shock. I doubt he’s used to being rejected. “Sure,” he says. “If that’s how you feel.”

I nod. “I’m sorry,” I add as he straightens from the desk, standing so I have to look up at him.

“Don’t be.” But he sounds annoyed even if he’s trying not to show it. “Is it that guy from the bar? The non-ex?”

“It’s more that he’s recent history,” I say, trying to explain. “And this isn’t about him. It’s about me. I don’t date and it would be messy with work and… ” I stop talking, not knowing what to say. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

He watches me for a moment, and I sit nervously waiting.

“Okay. Thank you for your honesty.”

“Thank you for your… Thanks.”

I slump back in my chair, suddenly exhausted, as he leaves.

Will appears almost immediately, clearly lurking. “Well,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “I think that went well.”

* * *

“Why would he send me an email like that?”

“Claire—”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” she insists.

It’s 11 p.m. on an airless Friday night and we’re sitting on the fire escape outside her window, drinking an icy mojito mixture and talking about men. Or one man at least.

“Who sends nonurgent emails this late?” Claire continues, gesturing dangerously with her glass.

“You do. All the time. No,” I add as she clicks into her inbox. “You’ve already read it out to me.”

“Hi Claire,” she reads. “Thanks for those numbers. I hope Baranski isn’t driving you too crazy. We’re making good progress out here, but I’ve got to say I miss our all-nighters. Are you going to the Griffiths’ party this year? Be nice to see”—she looks up at me—“a friendly face.”

“Stop, I’m blushing.”

“He misses our all-nighters; he asks me if I’m going to the party. He wants to see me.”

“Yes,” I say, reaching for another tortilla chip.

“Why aren’t you more excited for me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter what he wants. You’re still not going to do anything.”

“This time I will,” she says, scanning the email again. “It’s different now. I’m going to wear my red dress.”

“The slutty one?”

“It’s backless not slutty.” She hesitates. “It’s a little slutty.”

“But in a high-class way.”

“Exactly.” she says, snapping her fingers at me. “And maybe with all the distance between us he’ll finally realize he’s in love with me.”

“I just don’t want you to pin all your hopes on an email.”

“I’m not. I am identifying an opportunity and seizing it.” She turns the laptop to face me, pointing to the email address. “It’s from his personal email. He sent my work email to his personal email and replied to me from there. Personal.”

“I get it.”

“I’m reading too much into this, aren’t I?”

“A little.”

She grimaces, closing the laptop. We’ve both been working all day. An hour ago, I knocked on her door with the alcohol, an oversized carton of dip and a lot of simple carbs. I feel like I’m back in college, the night before finals. Except now, I know I will look like death in the morning and my knees will probably hurt for some reason.

“I miss him,” she says.

“I know.”

“I miss him a lot,” she says, nibbling on a chip. “He’s started emailing me way more than he used to and I’m only hoping it’s because he misses me too.” She looks up at me and, for the millionth time, I’m amazed at how awake she looks. The woman seems to survive indefinitely on four hours of sleep a night.

“Or he’s just being friendly,” she says when I don’t respond.

“There’s plenty of time to figure something out between now and then. We’ll go over some key talking points, start a spreadsheet.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Because you deserve to be made fun of.”

“I know!” She drops her head to the wall, pouting childishly. “I can’t help it. I don’t know what to do.”

“You do what you can. You wear the slutty dress.”

She sighs, drumming her fingers against the laptop.

My phone vibrates against my hip and I pull it out to see Dad’s sent me a two-week-old meme of a cat watching a horror movie. Reminded me of you!

I respond quickly as my stomach knots with a different kind of worry. Haha :)

I spoke with him again this week, planning our belated camping trip for the fall. I’d been tempted to tell him about Matthias. Proof of why I shouldn’t date and how I’d just mess it up, but I know he’d only tell me to try again.

“I think I’m going to wear those gold earrings to the party,” Claire says, tugging absently on her earlobes. “You know the really heavy ones?”

“The heavy ones you always complain about it?”

“I can suck it up for one night.”

I lock my screen, twirling my phone against my thigh. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Do you think I’m a coward?”

The question sounds bizarre even to my ears, but her expression doesn’t change. “Elaborate.”

“Do you think I’m a coward because I shut myself off from potential relationships? Yes, I’m aware I sound like a woman’s magazine from the nineties.”

Claire smirks but seems to think about it. “Is this because your work date went badly?”

“No. But it’s got me thinking. I mean, I haven’t been with anyone seriously since Josh.”

“Josh the dick?”

“He’s not a dick.”

“You’re my friend and he broke your heart,” she says seriously. “Therefore he’s a dick.”

The whole thing with Josh went down before I met Claire. But I was still getting over him when we moved in together. Barely a week in she came home after work to find me ugly crying into a large bag of Cheetos on the kitchen floor because I spotted him in a CVS buying multivitamins.

“I’m the one who made him take them,” I’d sobbed while she sat beside me, getting orange cheese dust all over her Ralph Lauren dress.

“You don’t want to get hurt again,” she continues now. “I think that’s pretty understandable.”

“But what if that’s stopping me from finding someone?” I think about all my conversations with my dad. “Relationships are important.”

“They are. And you have lots of them. Work relationships, friend relationships. You get on great with our building manager and the guy at the deli always gives you extra hot sauce. They’re relationships.”

“Not romantic relationships.”

“You were just at your best friend’s wedding. Of course you’re going to feel confused. I dropped five k to freeze my eggs because one of our senior partners brought in her baby when I was ovulating. Hormones gonna hormone.”

“So you don’t think I’m coward?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being on your own because you want to.” She hesitates. “But,” she adds. “If you think you’re turning down something before it even starts just because you’re scared it might end badly then… yeah. I still wouldn’t call you a coward but definitely a pessimist.”

“How about emotionally damaged?”

“Who isn’t?” she scoffs. “Because of what your mom did?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe. I mean, of course I’ve thought about that. Seeing what my dad went through… What if the same thing happens to me?”

Or worse. What if I end up like my mom? What if I end up being the one who does the hurting?

Claire doesn’t speak for a long moment and I knock back the rest of my mojito.

“I think,” she says eventually, her words slow. “That in worrying so much about ending up like your dad that you’ve inadvertently become like him anyway.”

I pull out half a mint leaf from my mouth, staring at her.

“Too far?” she winces.

“No,” I say. “That’s… yeah, okay.”

“What I mean is not every second date leads to a third. And not every romantic relationship leads to love. It’s hard to make yourself vulnerable. And so… I don’t think you should do it just because you feel you have to. Just because that’s what your dad thinks is best or what society demands or whatever. I think you should do it because to you it feels right. Because you’re ready.”

“But how will I know when I’m ready?”

“That I can’t help you with,” she says. “But when you figure it out?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

Someone whistles at us from below and I give him the finger as Claire empties the last of the mojitos into our glasses.

“It will work out,” I say as Claire opens her emails again.

It has to.