The Husband Game
So, for the time being, we’re stuck sharing. We’re treated to frequent rants from the tech guys and gals sharing the office, about programming languages neither I nor Fiona understand two words about. And they’re stuck listening to us brainstorm story ideas on everything from the best OPI shade of nail polish to wear in protest of other nail polish companies’ animal testing, to which of the four Chris’s of the apocalypse is currently the hottest, and who we predict will get skipped over for the next Marvel movie casting call.
All in all, it always seemed like a fair trade to me. But I know Fiona is itching to have a private office, a space she can call her own.
Right now, as her eyes trail me back and forth across the open plan floor, I’m immensely grateful we don’t have that. If we did, she’d probably already be peppering me with questions.
Does she remember what I wore yesterday in the selfie I posted, after I’d gotten my painting supplies all set up outside the engineering offices? Will she notice or comment?
I can’t be sure. But I do know that by the time I finish making coffee, the extra caffeine only makes my heart race even faster, nervous about what’s coming.
As it turns out, I have every right to be. My ass barely touches the chair next to Fiona’s before she leans across the desk, her eyes bright and dancing with amusement.
“Are you walk of shaming right now, Lila?” she hisses, though her voice is still loud enough in the otherwise quiet space for two of the nearest tech bros to glance over. One of them rolls his eyes and immediately returns to his computer. The other continues staring, his eyes doing that once-over glance that I’m all too familiar with.
I narrow my eyes at him until he finally turns away, and then I turn my glare on Fiona. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your texts sooner.”
“I was so worried about you!” She swats my arm. “I thought that dating-these-days-sucks article of yours was going to turn into a way more intense one about kidnapping or murder or something.”
“So, just to be clear, if I was murdered on the job, you’d write an article about it?” I reply, lifting an eyebrow, only mostly joking.
“Duh.” She swats my arm again, a little less hard this time. “How else would I get the police interested enough to chase down your killer and get him arrested, girl?”
I snort, in spite of myself. “Fine. But you’d better make me sound good.”
“As good as you could sound while getting kidnapped. ‘Lila did everything right, but sometimes, you just can’t avoid the predators out there, ladies…’” For a moment, I think maybe I’ve gotten away with this. That her riffing about my potential murder last night has distracted her.
A second later, though, she hones back in on me, and I realize I have no such luck.
“So, if you weren’t being dismembered in some creep’s basement, thank god, what were you doing that had you so completely distracted last night?” Her gaze sweeps up and down my outfit. “I know you don’t have a huge wardrobe, but I’ve never seen you repeat an outfit almost exactly, two days in a row, either. So either you were so beat this morning you couldn’t even open your closet, or…”
“Okay, okay!” I blurt, my face turning bright red. I’ve never been one to withstand interrogation for long. What can I say? I crack easy. I clear my throat. “I may or may not have, um… Gone home with someone.”
Fiona’s eyes sparkle. The tech bro who gave me the once over earlier glances our way again, clearly eavesdropping. Now it’s Fi’s turn to glower at him. “Oi. Mind your own business, or the next time you come in here wearing your stained hoodies and oversized jeans, I’m taking a photo to run as the headline of a ‘how not to dress like an aging basement dweller’ article.”
The tech bro grimaces, but to Fiona’s credit, he does reach into a side drawer and pull out a pair of headphones, shooting us both a see, I don’t even care what you’re talking about eye-roll before he places them over his ears, blocking out the sound of our conversation.
Just in case, though, I lean closer to Fiona when I start talking again. “I set up the easel outside the engineering school, like we talked about. I was painting, and—”
“Oh, my god.” Fiona’s eyes light up, although I can’t tell whether it’s with approval, or a sort of frightened glee. “Please tell me you did not sleep with one of the students.”
“I didn’t know he was a student!” I hiss under my breath. God, my whole body must be blushing, now. I can feel the heat all the way down to my neck. My hands curl around my knees, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to react any more obviously.