“Do you need us to bring you some soup and rub your tummy?” Blaine can barely contain his laughter as the barbs continue rolling. “I might have some saltine crackers in my desk.”
“Shut up, asshole.”
Only—he’s not really being an asshole, because I know damn well he would bring me soup and crackers and whatever else I needed. Blaine Shepard might be a douchebag sometimes, but he’s a great friend.
All I’d need to do is ask and he’d be here.
I’ve known these jackasses since we were in high school; we parted ways in college, each taking our own individual paths, attending different universities. Somehow, though, we all ended up in Chicago. Close enough to downtown that we can meet a few times a month—or week—for drinks, cigars, and trash talk. Talk about work. Our families. Love lives.
Lack thereof…
Women.
And now, with the inception of the Bastard Bachelor Society—or the BBS, as we’ve begun calling it—we have more reason to get together than we did before.
“Seriously though, dude. If you need anything…” Brooks laments thoughtfully, his tone changing, more serious. I can hear the clicking of a pen in the background, imagining his thumb pressing down on it over and over and over while we talk, to keep his hands occupied.
Suddenly, I feel better. Not so butthurt. “I’ll be fine. I’m not actually sick.”
“But you could get food poisoning, dipshit. You should go get checked out.”
“I’m not going to the doctor, Mom. I won’t get food poisoning.” And I can’t afford to get it, either. The last thing I want is to visit the doctor, ain’t no one got time, even if it comes with a free prostate exam. “I’ll be fine.”
Blaine isn’t convinced. “If you say so.” Then, “Should we have a meeting this week or skip it until you’re your old self again?”
There is a silence on the line as they wait for my verdict. “Let’s have a meeting.” I need one.
I’m being kicked out of my own office all week.
I need to vent, and I need a drink.
3
Spencer
Tuesday morning and already they’ve managed to squeeze another desk inside my office.
Clearly an act of God, this new interloper has managed to be crushed in—by what forces I may never know since I wasn’t here when they brought the desk in—all the unnecessary furniture temporarily removed and stacked outside my door.
Two chairs and a plant stand. One thin, three-tiered book shelf.
Whose stupid idea was this? Why not just leave the desks out in the common areas?
Deciding a man must have made this decision—no offense to any men out there, but come on now—I narrow my eyes, assessing the situation with palpable irritation. Coming face-to-face with a mega-desk is not how I wanted to begin my Tuesday morning.
Or any morning for that matter.
Still.
Dubbing it the mega-desk will at least be amusing for me, since that’s what it looks like. A monolith of wood taking up space I simply do not have in this office.
An office I do not want to share.
Call me selfish, or territorial, but…
I don’t.
Regardless, I have no choice.
I stare at the two desks, scooting my way around them, into the cramped space, moving the door to see whether it can be shut or not. I may be giving up privacy for the next few days, but it would be nice to have a closed door considering we’ll have twice as many people on this side of the floor during the renovations.
I test it, giving a definitive nod when the door barely misses the extra desk, then continue toward my chair.
Of course, this new arrangement also means this week I’ll have an officemate from the opposite end of the building—the south side. The construction side. A person—probably a man—I pray will not chatter, will not distract me during the days they’re invading my space.
And it is mine.
Mine, mine, mine.
I relish it. I busted my ass for it. I loves it.
Mine.
Dumping my purse on the marble windowsill, I pull my chair out and survey the landscape with my hands on my hips; it’s a gorgeous day. The sun is shining through the windows, and though it’s cold, there are birds in the trees. The bright beams hit my computer screen in such a way that I can see it’s been wiped clean by cleaning staff.
Keyboard, too.
I power everything up with a content hum in my throat and a pep in my step. Plug in my phone charger. Shuffle and rearrange my pens and highlighters, busying myself with mundane tasks while I wait.
I wonder who my roomie is going to be, what department they’re in. The memo only stated that “the south side of the complex will be getting new carpeting first, then when that is complete, the north side will get an overhaul. Please excuse our mess during the renovation.”
I had to visit the company website for a map to see which departments were on the south side of this expansive floor—male-dominated departments like equipment, development, estimating, and contracts. The project managers and superintendents have offices on that side of the floor, too.
Why am I fidgeting? This is my office—I’m not the gatecrasher who has to squat in someone else’s space for the week.
Granted, it’s not my choice, but still—show some respect!
I sigh, sweeping the hair out of my eyes, glancing out the window at the street below. Listen to the sounds of traffic and the train and the honking—noise pollution I used to hate with a passion but have grown to love.
A city girl at heart, I always knew I would stay here. Born and bred with a subway card in her back pocket and a chip on her shoulder where tourists are concerned, it seems fitting I would end up working in an industry where, as a female, I have to hold my own. Have to stiffen my spine and stand my ground when I believe in something strongly.
I watch the sidewalk as pedestrians come and go, heads bent, hurried. On their way to work, or to grab coffee, or take their kids to school. Late for the subway, late for a meeting, early. On time. People, people, everywhere.
Speaking of coffee, I wish I had some now.
I didn’t want to trickle in this morning, assuming I would find someone in the other desk when I arrived. There’s nothing I love more than playing hostess in my apartment—it’s another thing entirely to be sharing my office. Even so, I was up bright and early, showered and out the door an entire hour ahead of schedule.
So unlike me.
I did, however, draw the line at grabbing breakfast for the new half of this temporary duo—God forbid I make them feel too welcome or too comfortable. Get them in and get them out; that will be my motto for the duration of the week.
The clock ticks.
Car horns blare.
The train car on the next block screeches on its rusted rails.
Tick.
Tock.
“Well. I suppose I could get some work done,” I say to no one in particular, giving my wireless speaker a longing look. I love listening while I work, preferring talk radio or stand-up comedy to get the creative juices flowing. Would it be rude to have the speaker playing when this person finally arrives?
Tick.
Tock.
I quite literally twiddle my thumbs. Move the mouse for my computer around to pass the time when I should be working. Instead, I’m hemming and hawing waiting on this person. This stranger. Let’s face it—I don’t socialize with the construction side much, so the chances that I’m going to be familiar with my officemate? Slim to none.