Look at You

Chapter 53

53

I fall into a sad pattern the next week.

I wake up, check my phone. I have no expectations, but I also have them all. I know he won't call but every piece of me still wants him to. I want him to prove me wrong.

I shower, shave, toss on a ball cap and go to work. On Tuesday, we end up in the elevator together on the way in.

I have to jog to catch it. One of the older employees from accounting holds the elevator door open for me. Breathless, I step inside next to him. "Thank you, Mr. Yearling." He's north of seventy, TechNet's oldest employee by far, and has never told any of us his first name.

He nods. "Good morning, Cameron. Good day?"

I lean over to press the button for the 7th floor (our new HQ), and it's then that I see Simon on his other side. He's trying to blend into Yearling's shadow, but we lock eyes for a moment. I step back.

"Should be a good day, yes," I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. "How are you liking the eighth floor?" Accounting and finance have been moved to the empty desk across from Simon as we start work on their first-floor domain.

"Oh, it's nice as can be," Yearling says. "Lots of young, bright people up there," he pauses, nudges Simon with an elbow. "Eh, Love?"

Simon chuckles, but it's incredibly forced. I'm saved by the speed of this elevator—we're already at floor seven.

"Well, have a good one," I say, tucking a pencil behind my ear. I don't look at him again.

__

Finn calls me on Wednesday night right in the middle of my depressing after-work routine. I've found myself too tired to cook for the past two weeks, so I've been surviving off microwave lasagna and canned chili.

When Finn calls, I'm staring down at the black plastic dish of pasta in front of me with nothing but a deafening, lonely silence in the background.

"Hey man," I speak a few seconds after I answer, trying my best to summon cheery. "How have you been?" I'm suddenly overtaken by guilt. I've been so damn obsessed with myself and my own second-rate problems that I've completely forgotten to check in with him.

"Great," he says, and he sounds like he means it. "I mean it. I'm working out, focusing on eating right—" I stare down again at my plastic-infused macaroni. "And I don't know man, I just feel like it's different this time."

With us, it's never been a competition. So when I say, "Wow. That's awesome, Finn," I mean it.

"I know. Well anyway, I wanted to see if I could have your help with something." His voice starts to speed up, and the words begin to run together. I know this sound—it's excitement.

"Anything."

"I've got a gig. At O'Malley's."

I fall back against the worn kitchen table chair. "No way."

"Yes way. Thursday night."

"This Thursday? Like tomorrow, Thursday?"

"Yes."

I'm in shock number 1, because Finn is a country singer and O'Malley's is an Irish sports bar. And number 2, O'Malley's books weeks in advance for live talent. The schedule is always posted the first of the month on the front door in Craig's signature scrawl. It may be written in pen on a piece of computer paper, but it may as well be written in stone. They never change their schedule, and I certainly would have known if Finn was going to be on it.