Hate Notes

I picked up the phone and called her extension.

She answered on the second ring, “Bonjour, Monsieur Eastwood. Je peux vous aider?”

What the . . . “Charlotte?”

“Oui.”

Then it dawned on me. When I’d stalked her Fuck-It List online the other day, Learn French had been added. I’d seen her in the break room earlier, eating her lunch with earbuds in while mumbling to herself. Now it made sense. Well, sense for Charlotte Darling. She’d been listening to phrases and practicing speaking them.

Luckily, I’d taken some French myself. “Ne tenez-vous pas la langue anglaise assez?” Translation: Don’t you butcher the English language enough? I covered the phone and chuckled, because I had no fucking clue if my own translation was even correct.

She responded, “Umm. Huh?”

I chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m still learning.”

“I never would’ve guessed . . .”

“Shut up. Did you call for a reason, or did you just get the urge to poke fun at someone so you automatically dialed my extension?”

“Actually, I called for a reason. You just make it so easy to poke fun.”

“What did you want?”

“There’s an appointment on my calendar for Wednesday at seven. It’s labeled SFBGITS. Do you know what that is?”

“Of course. SFBGITS—‘Sing for big guy in the sky.’ I wrote it in code so no one would figure it out except us.”

I shook my head. “Except you, you mean.”

“Whatever. Are you excited? Have you been practicing?”

“I’m not auditioning, Charlotte.” Even if I’d decided to do it, there was no way I’d have let her know about it. I hadn’t sung in years, and the people at those tryouts were really good. I doubted I could even make the cut. Besides, if by some long shot I did make it through tryouts, I envisioned her sitting in the first row of every performance. She’d probably invite the entire office staff and a few janitors I’ve never met from the building, too.

I could imagine the pout on her face when she spoke. “Why not?”

“Just because I made the list doesn’t mean I’m planning on attacking it like it’s a race.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment. Then again said, “Why not?”

“Just take the appointment off my calendar, Charlotte.”

“Fine.”

After I hung up, I felt slightly bad about being a dick toward her. So I opened up her calendar, called up all her appointments and reminders for the next week, and began to translate them all from English to French for her to work through.

One appointment read “Iris flight landing at 5pm. Call to confirm at 4.” So I translated it to: Le vol d’Iris atterrit à 17h. Appelez pour confirmer à 16h. Then I decided to add a few tasks of my own for her to do:

Prendre rendez-vous avec rétrécis. Translation: Make appointment with shrink. At least that’s what I attempted to write.

Another reminder she had read “Victoria’s Secret sale ends. Order new unmentionables after getting paycheck!” I laughed out loud at that one. Charlotte was definitely the only twentysomething-year-old I knew who would use the word “unmentionables.” I gave her a good translation for that.

Commandez des pantalons et des soutiens-gorge. Order granny panties and support bras.

I was enjoying myself, getting into screwing with her, until I came to the next appointment. “Blind Date at 9.”

An unexpected anger bubbled up inside of me. Even though I had no right to feel that way, it didn’t cool the burn in my throat. Some asshole was going to take full advantage of Goldilocks. I wasn’t jealous—I was . . . protective. Deep down, buried underneath all that crazy, was a woman who believed in fairy tales. Her asshole fiancé had been dipping his pen in the company ink at the place she worked, and Charlotte still posted shit on Facebook like Just keep swimming and Create your own happiness. Some people never learn. She wouldn’t see that her knight in shining armor was an asshole wrapped in tinfoil until after he screwed her over. And it pissed me off that she was so blind. That feeling became immeasurably worse when I realized that her little Victoria’s Secret shopping spree likely directly correlated to her big blind date.“Leave it on my desk,” I bit out without looking up. I’d smelled her walk into my office. And that only served to irritate me even more—that I knew her scent. That I liked the way she fucking smelled.

Charlotte placed the report she’d been working on for me down and turned around to walk out. Only she stopped in the doorway. “Did I do something wrong, Reed?”

I’d been giving her an attitude for a few days—since the afternoon I’d made the mistake of opening her calendar. “Nope. Just busy.”

“Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“Nope.” I motioned to the door without looking up from editing the brochure I was working on. “But you can shut my door on your way out.”