Once we were stopped I got out. Mikey pulled the brake and met me in front of the car, where the engine clicked away like a sewing machine and the street was a pool of white. He engulfed me in a tight hug and said into my ear, "Take care of yourself while I'm gone, Chickadee."
"I will," I said. "Drive safely tomorrow."
The next day at work I burrowed underground, clawing through an exceptional amount of back work kicked around by lower-level staff. Though both Jennifer and Calvin voiced their appreciation, I was not inclined to accept credit for behavior derived from boredom and an appetite for distraction.
I wandered into the gym that evening and was approached near the end of my workout by a dark-eyed boy-a man, technically, but certainly younger-with a distinguished face and a solid, compact figure. He was beautiful, I figured, by a kind of objective and widely acceptable token, above which I did not suspend myself.
"You used to show up on my phone as nearby," he said. "You look just like your picture. I never got brave enough to text you, though. I don't see you on there anymore."
"Oh, sorry. I got rid of it," I said, referring to the location-based hookup app Marie had convinced me to download over the summer. "It wasn't really doing me any good."
"Aww, that's too bad," he said. "Well, if you're ever interested it would be fun to hang out sometime."
I spent little time processing a response. "I'm actually taken, but thanks. I'm flattered."
"Oh," he said, "good for you. Well, thanks anyway."
As I walked home, what had felt initially like a straightforward decision unfurled, inevitably, to reveal some problematic aspects. For example, although I had removed the app from my phone, I was customarily unlikely to spurn the brave, in-person advances of appealing men. Actually I was only further attracted by the audacity of a face-to-face proposition.
Another issue lay in the specificity of my response; the only other situations in which I had ever claimed to be taken occurred, in fact, when I was still with my ex-boyfriend (a time when I did not shoulder an air of availability and was rarely ever approached in the first place). I liked to believe I carried no illusions-I was no less single now than I'd been a week ago, or a year ago-and yet my behavior had plainly changed. I still held confidence in my resolve to see Mikey as no more than a friend with whom I had begun to share intimate moments, and now acknowledged the importance in conducting myself accordingly.
Wednesday morning I swayed in my seat at the back of the 40A, flicking idly through my work email, when Marie texted asking if I could meet her for lunch.
About five hours later I hurried down to the street and tore several blocks east to a sandwich shop halfway between our places of work. I was only allotted forty-five minutes and desired as much time as possible to sit and talk.
We collided in energetic embrace by the door. After each of us made our orders we sat down and I said, "Before we get into anything else, I need to tell you that Tandon and Dufresne wants me to move to Fern Hill next month. I'll lose my job if I don't."
"Excuse me?" she said. "You can't move. When did they tell you this?"
"Last week. Marie, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was trying to work it out in my mind, and I really just wanted to have fun last time we saw each other."
"It's fine," she said. "Sometimes you've got to process those things." She tore her napkin in two and stored one half in her coat pocket because, as she had once explained to me, she wouldn't need a whole napkin now, and nobody knew what disasters the future held. "How'd you let them down?" she asked.
I could tell she was only partially joking. "I haven't." I said. "I haven't yet."
"Well, those two statements are very different. You're saying this is a situation that can still be saved?"
"I'm not sure what I'm saying," I said. I explained how I was really inclined to go but that I had lingering doubts that were hard to pin down.
"I guess I'd be thinking the same thing if it were my job," she said. "I'll love you no matter what and I promise to visit all the time if you go. But I am too selfish to support the idea of you moving. Make no mistake, Wyatt-I want you here."
"Alright. Acknowledged."
She smiled. "Yeah, you better take that seriously."
"Of course. I'm not going to tell you and then ignore what you have to say about it."
"Thank you."
Our sandwiches were called and Marie jumped up to grab them, commanding me to rest.
"You keep me updated, okay?" she said as she set my food in front of me. "As for our next order of business, Sloan and I are going out tomorrow night and your presence is mandatory. Since it's a weeknight the lines will be shorter and cover will be cheaper. The intention is to get a little crazy."
Sloan served as the third pillar in our European undertaking, and I had not seen him in over a month. "That sounds so tempting," I said. "Aren't we all working on Friday, though?"
"Sloan and I are taking Friday off," she said, tearing gingerly at the red-and-white-checkered paper encasing her sub.
"I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to ditch work," I said. "Not on such short notice, anyway."
"Sloan and I were concerned you might say that. How about you take Friday off and use it as an indicator for whether or not you move to Fern Hill? If they fire you then your decision is made for you. Easy. If not, well, maybe you'll still move. Maybe."
I smirked at her. "That's a solid plan right there."
"Come on, Wyatt. You and I both know that the worst thing you'll face is a slap on the wrist. Besides, if you really are moving then you owe us a night out before you leave. Please let me shame you into doing this."
Her plea was not wasted on me and I felt my mind tilting steadily toward action. "Alright," I said. "But if I'm fired and can't pay my rent I'm moving in with you."
"Oh, lets's do that regardless," she said, placing her hand on mine.
That afternoon I approached my supervisor and requested Friday off. She reminded me about the obligatory week's advance notice of nonemergency absence, then granted it, emphasizing the special exception was making. "By the way," she said, "we're asking all relocation employees to give written confirmation by the end of next week-March 4th. You'll have an email about it soon."
Over the next twenty-four hours I gracefully cast aside any doubts concerning an appropriate reply to such an email. As a tireless Thursday afternoon faded to early-evening, I ditched the elevator for the stairwell and pinballed down six flights to the lobby. I was thankful for the four hours separating me from the planned beginning of our evening adventure, since I had made up my mind to transit home and change out of my work clothes.
I set my phone to wake me before I reached my first stop and slept somewhat well until then, repeating the process after boarding the second bus. I'd stayed up late reading the night before, and throughout the day, fatigue had dangled itself stealthily from my fingertips and eyelids.
I did not spend much time at home, changing and then loading a small backpack full of items for the evening, including workout clothes, overnight items, water and a can of beer that was set to expire soon. I texted my mom to ask if I could stop by after the gym.
About an hour later I treaded across the lawn to the front door, warm, sweating and still in my gym attire.
"You're going to catch a cold," said my mom, who met me as I stepped inside.
"I don't think so. It's so nice today."
"You'll want to shower, right? I got a towel out for you."
We shared a disdain for showering at the gym. "Thanks, Mom," I said.
"When we had that freeze I spent a lot of time there. But I've been running outside since the end of January."
"Good for you."
We continued to make small-talk for a couple of minutes and then I went to shower. Afterward I found her in the kitchen, where she asked me what I wanted to eat.
"I can help myself, Mom," I said. "You've been at work all day."
"So have you. How about you just let your mother cook you a nice meal?"
