The McColton Brothers. The name had a nice ring to it.
Maggie spent another night diligently researching her new client, though this time she was alone, with no weed or wine, and no Bachelor. This was a more serious endeavor. She was now on Google, trying to find any extra information she could about Sean that she could use to her advantage. To any average person on the street, this may seem like stalking, but she is a professional who has a job to do. She is simply making sure that she has the right tools to keep her company in business. But that didn't mean she didn't enjoy looking at him.
All she could find at first were highlight reels and player profiles from a few years back. Apparently Sean was a goalie for lacrosse in his high school and college days. He went to Dartmouth University where he studied Economics and played on the men's lacrosse team for four years. He was a pretty successful guy, she was beginning to discover. Suddenly she felt her degree in Fashion and Design from Penn State was useless in comparison. This man was big league. Big Ivy League.
Her phone buzzed rhythmically next to her, and the sound of a marimba played in her ears. The name "Hanna Banana" glowed on her screen. She answered her call and put it on speaker, turning her attention back to her laptop. "Yo."
"How's it going? Find any juicy goss?" Hanna asked her, also sounding distracted on the other line.
"Not really. But get this — you'll laugh at how predictable he is," Maggie smiled to herself, in awe of what she had read so far. Hanna crooned gleefully in anticipation. "This dude went to Dartmouth—"
"Of course."
"—where he studied Economics—"
"Granted."
"—and played lacrosse."
"Holy shit. Was he in a frat?" Hanna asked her, knowing full well that she was going to enjoy the answer. Maggie mused in agreement. Hanna let out a deep, sly laugh. "Come on, give it to me. What was he?"
"Our boy was a — drumroll please," Maggie responded, and Hanna made a noise with her mouth imitating a marching band. Maggie exhaled quickly, "Sigma Chi."
"Oh, no," Hanna groaned and fell into fits of laughter, "not a Sigma Chi! At least make him a Delt!"
Maggie could not contain her laughter. There was nothing particularly funny about Sigma Chi to the two of them, and they didn't really know anything at all about the Dartmouth Greek Life, but they persistently stuck to this joke and would not let it go. They began acting like Brads and Chads and starting calling each other "bro" and asking where their Juul was.
Maggie prayed that if she and Sean ever got to talking about their college experiences, she wouldn't laugh in his face.
*
She just missed the elevator. It was 8:59 a.m. and she missed the elevator. She even called out to the man she made eye contact with as the doors were closing to hold it for her. Maybe he didn't hear her, because he let the doors shut just as she was about to catch them. She frantically pressed the button to no avail. "Shit," she hissed, checking her phone.
Realistically she knew it wouldn't be terrible if she walked in at 9:05, but she had never been late before in her whole two years of working there. In fact, Cheryl often liked to make a quip about how she's always perfectly on time. Now, when she walked in late, who knew what Cheryl would say to her.
Suddenly, she felt a presence hurry next to her. He hit the already glowing button a few times, maybe in an attempt to make it come back down quicker, a pet peeve of Maggie's. She was about to grimace unamused at him when he turned around to stand next to her. Her breath hitched in her throat and a deep crimson blush flooded her cheeks. Cute Boy from 26 was in the flesh, a foot away from her, smelling like love and roses and candy and the color yellow.
Her palms were clammy, her legs tingled, and her shoulders tensed. She tried to hide behind the single strand of blonde hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. She couldn't look at him, because if she did, she'd collapse right where she stood.
"I always catch it right before it closes," he said from beside her, and she gasped slyly, just quiet enough so he wouldn't hear, having to stop her hand from covering her mouth. He had never spoken to her before but now that he had, she noticed a key detail about him that she never would have guessed: he had an English accent.
At least that's what she presumed. It could have been from anywhere. She wasn't great with accents, but she pinned it down to English. It wasn't a typical posh English accent you would hear in movies; it sounded more rough and almost dirty, like someone trying to imitate an English accent but putting an unnecessary spin on it. It wasn't uncommon, either, in New York City to hear someone with an accent from another country. Yet she couldn't help her shock.
She should respond, she thought. "I know," was all she could say.
She could feel his whole body turn towards her and she desperately tried to keep her eyes on the elevator. But this was Cute Boy from 26, and not looking at him just seemed like a crime against humanity.
"I know you," he spoke again, and then tightly shut his eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. That sounded weird."
She smiled. His nickname she had given to him really held up. He was very cute when he gets sheepish and red. "We ride the elevator together. I'm on 27."
"Oh, we're office neighbors," he grinned warmly, and she almost wanted to grab onto him to steady herself. He glanced at his watch on his wrist. "Shit," he muttered. He faced her once more with a hint of playfulness in his eyes. "You fancy taking the stairs?"
She chuckled dubiously as her eyes scanned the room for the door leading to the stairwell. "Walking. Up twenty seven floors."
"I mean, you're certainly wearing the proper shoes for it," he smirked, referencing her white sneakers on her feet. She blushed and looked down at them, not a scuff to be seen. At least they were clean.
"Usually I change out of these while I wait for the elevator." She stared at her shoes to avoid him. It just dawned on her that she would have to change her perceptions of him in her mind now that she actually spoke to him. In her fantasies, he had a deep, silky voice with a hint of a New York accent. She was dead wrong, and she'd have to deal with the repercussions.
"Guess we were both off our game today," he said in a cool way, like they were apart of some secret inside joke. Just as she was about to improvise a witty, flirtatious response, the elevator dinged and the doors flew open. No one else was waiting so it would just be the two of them in there. Maybe if she was more bold she'd make a move and act out her deepest fantasy, but that might end in her on a registry with a restraining order, so she abstained. They walked onto the elevator, and he hit both of their buttons. Butterflies erupted and danced in her stomach at the fact that he knew her floor, even though she had just told him that a minute ago.
"To be honest," he said to her as the doors shut and the elevator began to make its way to his floor, an almost flirtatious, boyish grin on his lips. "I wasn't really keen on taking the stairs. I just suggested it so I could talk to you."
Inside her head, Maggie was already planning their wedding. She wanted to dance and grab his face and take a photograph of it, hang it on her wall above her head so she could stare at it before she went to sleep. She tightly gripped the railing on the wall and leaned against it, fully aware that she would topple over onto her face if she let go. She pulled herself together to respond to him but couldn't prevent the goofy smirk that she was emoting. "That's okay. Neither was I. At least we have our daily elevator rides."
"At the very least," he chuckled. "Our thirty second trips together."
When he said those words, her mind roamed to unholy places. She imagined them in a bathtub, naked and intertwined, in Italy, drinking champagne and feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries as their feet tickled each other's bare skin, and their hands found new, undiscovered areas on the other's body. Bliss.
Thirty seconds came and went in a flash. The door to his floor opened, and her entire body felt empty. Soon he would be gone, and she would have to wait another 24 hours before she could see him again.
He turned to her just before he walked out. "Have a good day at work, neighbor."
She suppressed the girliest, high pitched giggle that threatened to escape her lips by pursing them and gave him a single nod of her head, "You too, neighbor." His smile grew and he turned back around, briefcase in hand, heading down the hallway.
When the doors shut again, she finally allowed herself to release the tension in her shoulders, her face, her legs. After a deep exhale, she let out a scream of excitement, unaware that he could probably hear it. "Oh, my God, oh, my God," she kept repeating.
She loved this new nickname for him, neighbor, but it would never beat Cute Boy from 26.
She almost danced off the elevator, a new spring in her step. She no longer cared that she was late for work. She walked into her office and cheerfully greeted Cheryl as she passed her desk. Cheryl was too stunned by her chirpy attitude to even comment on how she was late.
Dante, one of the men who sat in her quad of desks, raised an eyebrow as she plopped into her seat. "Nice shoes," he mocked with a devious smirk, amused by his disorderly coworker. Embarrassed, she glanced down at her feet to see her sneakers still tied tightly. She bent down and untied them and put them away, switching them out for her black leather heels, letting out an awkward cough.
"Shut up," she quipped without looking at him.
*
"But you didn't get his name," Hanna stated when Maggie told her about her encounter with Cute Boy from 26.
"Well, no—did you hear what I said? He goes, 'I suggested it so I could talk to you.' I mean, how hot is that? I will be repeating those words tonight in the tub," Maggie swooned, her chin resting in her hand as she caressed her ham and cheese croissant with her other hand's fingers. "The next guy I fuck, I'm gonna make him say those words to me."
Hanna exhaled a chuckle through her nose, sipping a piping hot espresso. She swallowed hard. "Hopefully it'll be Cute Boy from 26."
"A girl can only dream." Maggie wanted to sing. "I imagine it's something sexy, like Dean, or Sal."
"Or maybe it's something bland, like Matt," Hanna laughed, teasing her. Maggie shot her a quick lighthearted glare and shook her head.
"His name could be fuckin' Cardboard and all I would want is to be Mrs. Maggie Cardboard."
"You've got it bad, sister," Hanna took a piece of Maggie's ham and cheese croissant. She was too busy daydreaming to even notice.
"Dude," Maggie breathed. "I've been in love with this guy for a year now. This is a win for me, even if I don't know his name. I'm gonna have to do some stalking when I get back to the office."
"Ask around," Hanna shrugged, then briefly touched her friend's hand. "I'm proud of you, kid."
"You know what? I'm proud of me too. Tomorrow I'm gonna ask his name."
"That's the spirit!" Hanna beamed. "And tomorrow at lunch we can devote our time to Mr. Cardboard, just like we did today."
"Don't call him that," she bit back. "Henceforth, until the moment I learn his name, he will remain as Cute Boy from 26. Or you can call him my husband."
"Dork," she replied, gathering her trash and empty cup with a goofy smile. "I've gotta get back, but please promise you'll tell me all about your wet dream of him tomorrow."
"Gotcha, babe."
*
Later that evening, Maggie sat out on her fire escape, looking out at the cityfolk underneath her. She always enjoyed people watching, even when she was a kid. At the mall with her siblings, she would watch the different groups of children that walked with their parents, or the teenage girls who met up outside Limited Too and Delia's. At amusement parks, she would always take note of how people passed their time while they waited for rides. She believed you could tell a lot about a person who does nothing while standing in line for an hour just to sit in a metal cart for two and a half minutes.
She wanted to go inside but found herself drawn to the bright orange sky that lit the world around her. The sun was setting and was transforming from one color to another and to another. It was beginning to get chilly, but she always loved that moment the sky turned royal blue and the moon began to shine. So she waited, listening to the couple below her laugh about an inside joke, and the group of friends who laughed at each other when they sheepishly coughed their marijuana smoke into the atmosphere.
She tried to call Hanna but when she didn't answer she realized she might be preoccupied with Hank. It was a Wednesday night, but Maggie knew that wasn't holding Hanna back. She wanted to be fully disgusted, and she partially was because Hank was Hank, but she had to give it to her. She was getting it, and Maggie definitely wasn't.
It had been a while since she last had sex — seven months, in fact. She wasn't one to sleep around or have one night stands, mainly because the Brooklyn locals are such a mixed bag of people and she never knew what she could catch from one of them. She wasn't prudish or one to slut-shame anyone, but she had some reservations about who she would let see her body. Her last boyfriend, Andy, was a gem, and she really loved him. So when he broke up with her out of nowhere because he suddenly "couldn't see a future with her" and then two weeks later started dating his beautiful coworker, she had just about given up on love. She was wondering when she'd hear about their engagement because something told her it was coming soon. His social media would certainly suggest so.
Sometimes, when she's a bit cross-faded, she'll write out a paragraph-length text about how much she misses him and loves him but she never sends it. She knows how pathetic that is. She knows Andy is happy, and because she once really loved him, she doesn't want to jeopardize their relationship out of her own selfishness.
She knew, deep down, she would find her One.
In secret, she hoped it would be Cute Boy from 26, but maybe he's seeing someone, or talking to someone, or maybe he's engaged and she would never know it. She can already picture his fiancé: she's a tall, beautiful brunette who can out-wit anyone, full of charm and elegance. Her name is probably something really smart and regal, too, like Vivian or Margot or Eleanor. She would also be British, and they probably had this wonderful love story where they were childhood best friends and were always in love with each other but one of them moved to New York to pursue their dreams and the other was left heartbroken. Then they see each other in Brooklyn randomly and reconnect and fall back in love with each other.
She was so jealous of this woman. Who knows if she actually exists.
*
Maggie tried to get to work extra early to avoid her last mistake of showing up late. She had already switched out her shoes and the clock on her phone said 8:54 a.m. She almost showed up late just so she could have another innocent encounter with her office neighbor until she remembered Cheryl's officious, patronizing comments she liked to make. She couldn't do with another smirk and a raspy "Right on time". So she was going to get there early to really stick it to her.
The elevator dinged and the doors swung open. Her heart fell at the thought that she wouldn't be able to speak to Cute Boy from 26, but fate always found its way. He walked onto the elevator, uncharacteristically before the doors were closing, and stood next to her, giving her a winning smile.
"You're early," she said to him, fighting back a goofy grin. They spoke quietly, so as to not disturb the other riders.
"So are you," was all he said.
"But you always — with the briefcase —"
"Well, I guess I wanted to see what shoes you wear besides your trainers," he shrugged, and looked ahead at his reflection in the metal doors as the elevator ascended. She let out a brief chuckle. He looked down at her shoes and nodded approvingly. "Oh, yes. They're very fitting for a stylist. Much more than your Nikes. You look professional."
Professional. That definitely was not the word she wanted to hear him describe her as.
"How did you know I'm a stylist?" she asked him, her eyebrows drawing in closer in curiosity. Her heart leapt a bit. Had he done his research?
He mirrored her look, slightly confused by her question, unable to tell if she was joking or not. "You work on the floor above me. Of course I know."
Her cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet as she stumbled over her words. Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Right, no, totally. I...don't know why I asked. Of course you knew that."
His smile faltered into a devilish smirk, his eyes narrowing only slightly while his head cocked a centimeter to the side. "You don't know what my job is."
"No, I mean—" She was struggling, stuttering like an idiot who couldn't even remember their first name. It was as if someone had hit her as hard as they could over the head with a frying pan and told her to name the capitals to all fifty states.
"That's okay, I don't mind. I suppose I wouldn't really know if we didn't do the...insurance...for your company," he leaned towards her a bit when he said the word 'insurance' and she could smell his aftershave. He smelled like mahogany teakwood and campfire smoke, much different from his almost fruity, airy scent she smelled yesterday.
Her smile grew. "That was my first guess." It wasn't true and they both knew it.
"I'm sure," he nodded, joking.
She looked down at her feet. Was it time to switch her leather heels with some strappy, sexier, open-toed shoes? Something less professional? Is that even allowed? No. She likes her heels as much as they hurt the balls of her feet and every single one of her toes. They were cute, and they were a gift. She would wear them until someone gifted her a new pair of shoes.
The elevator stopped on 24 and a few people got out. It was just him, another man, and her on the elevator. She suddenly felt a surge of bravery. She didn't want him to think she was awkward or uninterested, so she turned back to him and looked him right in the eye.
"I know your floor and I know your profession. But I don't know your name," she said to him, trying to be as flirtatious as possible with another person in the compact space standing two feet away from her.
"Paul," he said, and when he said it, it was like it was covered in a cloud of blue, peaceful smoke. Sure, it wasn't what she was expecting, but she liked it. Like the Beatle.
She smiled brightly and extended her hand. "Maggie."
When she said that it was like he took a second to process it in his head. He looked around a little bit and nodded slowly, humming a pleased, "Hmm."
There wasn't much else to say besides an exchanged "Nice to meet you" before the elevator stopped on his floor. He turned back to her when he exited and nodded his head, "Have a good day, Maggie."
"You too, Paul."
*
When she entered the office, she had the same pep in her step as she did the day before, greeting the receptionist and every person she passed cheerfully. Cheryl looked up from her computer that was beginning to start up and squinted at her. "You're early."
"Am I? Whoops!" Maggie only gave a sarcastic tone to her as she shrugged carelessly, making a goofy face.
"Oh, Margaret! You're early," Jim had commented as she walked past his office, turning her head to smile at him. He was speaking to Clooney, the intern, in his doorway and spoke over Clooney's shoulder. "Perfect. I need to speak with you."
Clooney hurriedly turned around and nearly sprinted past her, murmuring a quick and nervous hello.
She walked into Jim's office and sat in the black chair. "What's up?" she asked him nonchalantly, unusually casual. All of her newfound confidence seemingly had caused her to forget her office etiquette. She immediately straightened out her posture and inclined her body more upward. Jim didn't comment on it.
"I was originally going to have you meet with Mr. McColton on Friday, as you remember, but Friday is no longer available for him, so he'll be coming in at lunch today." He dropped the bomb on her as if it wasn't a big deal. She felt an anxious chill in her legs as they began to tremble and beads of sweat slowly formed on her face.
"Today? I—I'm not ready, I—"
"You haven't prepped?" he asked her, squinting in shock and confusion.
"No. I mean, yes, I've prepped, but—" she tried to explain herself but he cut her off again.
"Margaret," he said in a stern, firm kind of way like a father would speak to his daughter when scolding her, "I hope you're not going to lose your first opportunity to have a client on your own."
"No," she shook her head, still scanning the room for something for her eyes to focus on. She could almost feel her vision going blurry. "No, sir. I just—I wish I could have had a...warning."
"Well, you know the rich," he smiled, completely shifting moods. "Everything is unplanned. It's always very 'in the moment' with them."
She looked down at her hands and didn't even notice that she had literally been twiddling her thumbs. A few moments passed of silence with a thick feeling of tension in the air.
"You are going to do wonderful." His voice was much more soothing, more supportive and calm than the tone he had used on her thirty seconds ago. After the father scolds the daughter, he gives her a heartwarming talk, teaching her a lesson, Full House style. "I have nothing but faith in you."
The only question was...did she have faith in herself?