Thankfully, it’s not full since it’s a Saturday. I figured my best chance to catch West at home would be on a weekend. It’s the only hand I have to play largely because I have no idea where his office is located. Plus, it felt a little stalkerish to show up at his place of work, even if I could find it. Anyway, that’s the plan––to ambush him at home and convince him to give me the job he’s probably already given to someone else.
It’s a long shot, but the only one I’ve got.
The doors of the subway train close and bodies move about, getting comfortable for the ride. An older man steps aside, offering me a direct view of the sliding doors. Someone has covered the safety sign that should read Do Not Lean On Door with one that reads Do Not Fall In Love.
I’m way ahead of you, buddy.
No chance of that happening. I’ve never been in love before and I don’t see the need to start now. My mother loved my father desperately and see where that got her? That’s right, forever broken. Going through the motions of life without living.
I once read that love requires sacrifice. If what is meant by that is sacrificing my dignity and the capacity to function as a normal human being, then the cost of love is something I can’t afford. I figure if I could resit the temptation of falling in love with Tommy, my saviour, when we were teenagers, I’m pretty much love proof.
By the time I reach West’s building on 5th Ave, I look like I jogged here. My hairline has a nasty coating of sweat, my hair is getting poofy, and Veronica’s silky shirt is sealed to my body in an unseemly fashion. Definitely not-safe-for-work. But whatever, here I am. It’s now or never. Plucking it away from my chest, I cautiously approach the front desk and clear my throat.
“Hi, I’m here to see Jordan West.”
The snobby doorman does not recognize me because I get an actual smile. “Is he expecting you, miss?”
“Not today,” is my well crafted reply. Which is technically true.
He picks up the phone and calls up. Someone answers. “There’s a young lady here to see you Mr. West. A…”
“Riley James,” I say, forcing myself to speak. I’m getting the same feeling right now that I did the first time I kissed my one and only boyfriend, Jimmy Gates. And the feeling is, this might turn out okay or I may regret it for the rest of my life. The kiss turned out okay. Which means my odds are not looking good this time around. Law of averages and all that.
“A Miss Riley James…hmm.”
After a few moments of silence, the doorman hangs up. “Penthouse. The elevator is on its way for you.”
Gain access: check. Step one accomplished.
Like clockwork, the elevator arrives and transports me to the top floor. On the way up, a new round of the stomach willies kicks up and I send a silent prayer of gratitude that I took the second Pepto. Because nothing says you should hire me like getting a nasty case of the runs at a prospective new boss’s house.
Before I get a chance to ring the doorbell, as I’m in the middle of pulling myself together, plucking the shirt away from my boobs, the front door abruptly swings open.
How to describe the scene…
In the threshold stands a man… a disheveled man in jeans and a black T-shirt holding a baby girl… an Asian baby girl who’s wearing a small… baby helmet. A disheveled man holding a baby girl––around two years old is my best guess––who is crying her eyes out while wearing a baby helmet.
Huh.
What follows is a good few seconds of staring at each other while West bounces the baby on his hip. It’s impossible not to stare. West has one of those shockingly beautiful male faces that make most people stupid. Then he opens his mouth and the fascination dies an explicable sudden death.
Back to right now, though. Right now the expression of pure exasperation on his face tells me everything I need to know about him––dude is in way over his head with this baby. On the inside, I’m pleasantly smiling. What a delightful balm to my exhausted nerves and unreliable stomach.
“Come in,” he says and walks away.
He doesn’t even look surprised to see me. Which is strange. Then again, strange seems to be our thing. I assume I’m meant to follow, so I do, down the hallway, walking in big strides just to keep up with him.
In daylight his home is even grander and more intimidating than it is at night. The ceilings are very high, giving the place an almost church-like feeling compelling one to speak in hushed tones. The austere contemporary furniture in shades of gray and brown looks too expensive to touch. I’m getting depressed just walking through the place.