“Fine. And you?”
2:20 p.m.
*
Location
: Break room.
*
Emotional State
: DEFCON 2. And I’m mad at myself about it.
*
Fumes
: Running on them.
HOT COFFEE OVERFLOWS THE CUP and pours across my fingers. After a delayed reaction, I hold them under cool water.
“Hey, Emma,” Mitchell says, leaning on the counter next to the sink. “Just got my orders. Looks like I’m headed back to the old stomping ground to work with you guys.”
“That’s great. Really, really great.” It’s nearly impossible not to smile around him.
“So…any progress?”
Glancing up at him, I can’t decide if he’s inquiring about the foreign accounts or ribbing me about Canon. I play it safe.
“Nothing definite.”
He turns the water off and hands me an ice cube. “Maybe you need a different approach.”
“I need more time.”
“How much longer is your trip?”
“Just a couple more days.” I hear myself sigh.
“Is it definitely a now-or-never kind of thing? Or will there be a chance when you go back?”
“It would be too late by then.”
“How are you going to handle it? Do you have a plan?”
Ha.
I shrug.
He cocks his head. “That doesn’t seem like the Emma I remember.”
Yeah, you’re telling me. I shrug. Again.
“It’s important…right?”
Yes. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” He leans with his back on the counter. “That is it? Just a ‘yeah’? Maybe…oh, never mind.”
I roll my eyes. I wish he would just get to the point already. Hypocritical, I know.
“Well, Mitchell, this has been…real. But I need to get back to him.”
He smiles. “Get back to whom?”
“What? Work. I have to get back to work.”
“You said ‘him.’”
“Well,” I say, pointedly avoiding eye contact and gathering up drinks, “I work for a ‘him.’”
“Emma,” he says, looking blankly at the empty microwave, “regret is a kind of cold forever.”
4:18 p.m.
“MS. BAKER?” The unfamiliar voice draws my attention away from my screen. A woman in a delivery service uniform stands in the office doorway.
“Yes?”
“Delivery for you. Signature required.” She hands a clipboard to me and exits only to return moments later with a wide, flat box and a far smaller one on top. She’s gone without notice.
It occurs to me—and I don’t like the feeling at all—that I have not been asked to pick this up myself. It seems he would rather place orders and make arrangements himself than interact with me. I know I have brought this on myself.
It’s a white box. No markings. No address. I look around the room, but can no longer find the smaller one anywhere. Opening the big box, I wonder if there’s been some sort of mistake. Perhaps a different, heretofore unknown, Ms. Baker works here. Perhaps it’s a present for Canon, from his family or something, and I’m expected to keep a secret from him until the official holiday. That should be handy and all, you know, since it’s roughly the size of a Jetta.
Inside, beneath a sapling’s worth of sugar-scented tissue paper, is a dusky rose evening gown. Halter neck, empire waist, no trim. Understated in every way, save the color. The color may not even be season-appropriate.
Not that I’m complaining; it is lovely and reminds me very much of my favorite lipstick shade, My Wish List.
I pull the dress out and a smaller, inner box tumbles out onto the floor. Inside is a pair of delicate chandelier earrings. Without thought, I slip one on and begin with the other only to stop and burrow frantically through the tissues in search of a card.
Tissues crinkling and earring tinkling near my ear—so different than the nothing I’ve heard all day. Or at least nothing I have wanted to hear, the one thing I have wanted to hear is conspicuously absent, I realize. I miss him.
I ache.
A small card, held between two long fingers, appears inches from my nose. I look up and meet Canon’s guarded eyes. There was a time when I would’ve taken this look to mean detached and aloof; now, I know this is actually observation and caution. Wary.
Without breaking our gaze, I take the card. Quick glance and flip. It’s blank on both sides.
I look to him again. “What is this?” I ask, smoothing the bodice against me.
His eyebrow quirks. Wordlessly, he sets something on the desk and leaves the room.
I stare at the spot where I last saw him until my eyes become unfocused. Only then do I look down. A pair of tickets sits on my desk. The Nutcracker. 8:00 p.m. Black tie.
6:30 p.m.
*
Location
: Hotel bathroom.
*
Hair
: Unruly. It is fuller and not at all flat. How is a landlocked state so humid?
INTERNAL DEBATE as to whether I wear lipstick that perfectly matches the dress or not rages on.
Which is better than the other things that beg for a turn in my obsessing. The delivery. The dress. The blank card. The earrings…they seem a bit more than I can attribute to needing me suitably attired.
The tickets. To the ballet. To The Nutcracker, of all things.
Of all the things that could simultaneously make me feel like it really was Christmas but also make me ache with longing, The Nutcracker would be the pinnacle.
My family was not big on tradition, or at least not any that were recognized as such at the time. Dressing up to see the ballet performed while my cousin played in the symphony was a memory I treasured. We didn’t do it every year. Just enough. Enough to make it our sole tradition.
I have never gone since my family quit going. Well, since I quit going with my family. Different directions.
They have their families. I have me. Just me.
I haven’t been in years.
Actually I’m not sure I’ve been since I got boobs.
Admittedly an odd segue.
But, right now, I’ve got boobs on the brain. I’m staring at the straps of my bra, and they are staring right back at me. Inches and inches of black straps. The dress is a halter. I don’t have a Y-back or a convertible bra with me.
One reason why men buying dresses for women is not always the slickest of ideas: they have no frame of reference for necessary undergarments.
With no other real options presenting themselves, I take off the bra à la Flashdance.
Matching lipstick wins out. No one is going to be looking at my lips. I can’t say as much for body parts that rhyme…
Final touches, and then I exit the bathroom. Canon is nowhere to be seen. Or heard. Still.
I slide on black pumps and catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. Panty lines.
Splendid.
Tonight, I will be wearing the matching panties to the no bra look.
His bedroom door opens, and I shove my underwear into the back of the sofa.
He’s in a tux.
A tux is not that much different than a suit. That will be my mantra. I chant it internally as I now force my body to do things like blink, breathe, and remain vertical.
It seems tuxedos affect the cerebrum.
“Is there anything I need to be doing?” I squeak. Anything besides proving the theory of spontaneous ovulation?
He hasn’t looked toward me yet. He shakes his head, opens the closet, pulls out my coat, and holds it up for me. Never once looks at me.
I slide into it, and he holds the door, silently ushering me out. When’s he going to talk to me again?
The drive to the theater is accompanied only by the sound of the tires moving through the snowy slush. We may be meeting others there. I’m not sure what’s expected of me anymore. I’m not sure of him or myself.