Page 37 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
I thought of what I’d said about Beck’s music. Your music is like my music shotgunned an energy drink . . .
More energy was what I needed. I typed Taylor Swift Rock Cover into the search bar and got a plethora of results. I clicked on the first option—a band called Battered Keys. I rolled my eyes at the dramatic name, but the song sounded like what Beck had in his Aftershock headphones. Rock covers powered me through that workflow for about thirty minutes until a voice sounded from behind me.
“Are you listening to Battered Keys?” I jumped a good foot out of my seat, whirling to find Beck smiling like a cat. “Looks as though you are gaining some musical taste after all.”
“Jesus Christ!” I fumbled to exit out of YouTube, cutting off the music. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Sorry,” he offered, “but I brought food.” I registered the bags of takeout in his arms, the spiced aroma of Indian food wafting into my cube. My mouth watered as Beck plopped one of the bags on my desk. “I hope chicken biriyani is okay.”
“Is this from the food truck down the street?” I opened my box and had to keep from full-on drooling at the sight of tender, seasoned chicken mixed in yellow rice.
Beck nodded. “The one that parks in front of the theater,” he confirmed, smiling as he dug out the utensils.
“This is my favorite.”
“I know.” He passed me a fork. “Anna told me.”
I tried not to read too hard into the fact that Beck had intentionally gotten me my favorite food and that I’d been a topic of conversation between him and Anna.
“What do I owe you?”
His smile lessened. “I know it’s been a long day for you. Please, let me do this one thing.”
“Okay . . . Thank you,” I said, cautious, almost as if I expected the real Beck to show up at any moment, the one I met on his first day at the office, the one who pulled me out of the waterway, then looked down at me as if I had two heads.
But this Beck, who was making himself quite comfortable in my cubicle again, seemed anything but that guy. I took in his change of clothes: jeans and a black T-shirt. The dark shirt made the red-inked flowers pop on his arm.
His fresh shower smell was more potent than usual, and his curls lazed on his head, heavy and still a little wet. I tried to guess what he could have scheduled every Thursday that would require going home to shower before coming back up here.
“Did you . . . go for a workout?”
Beck used his fork to bat around the rice. “Something like that.”
Something like that. The other action that was kind of like a workout that called for a shower after . . . Did Beck have some sort of weekly sex arrangement? My cheeks warmed at the picture: Beck sweaty, arms braced on either side of a lover.
I ducked my head, trying to appear very interested in my food. I decided I didn’t want to know what Beck did on Thursdays, and Beck didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. He chewed on a forkful of his biriyani.
His eyes rolled, and he moaned. “Okay,” he said after swallowing. “I get the hype.”
“Right?” I said, trying to enjoy my food more than the sound of Beck’s moan. “Well, I guess this is good. We can knock out this workflow while we eat.”
“Oh no,” Beck shook his head. “I am enjoying this.” He used his fork to point down at his food. “Way too much to let something like work ruin it.”
I laughed, but I understood. Besides, the last three hours of nonstop configuring workflows had fried my brain, so I relented. “Okay. No work.”
“So, when are you going to take that vacation?”
The question threw me off guard. “What?” I asked, mouth still full.
He gestured vaguely to the tropical elements of my cubicle. “The decorations, the canceled vacation with your sister, and then today you were on some website about Maui.”
My cheeks heated. Beck had been listening to me—noticing me. I took a sip of Coke, giving my scarlet cheeks a moment to fade before answering. “I didn’t realize you paid attention to what I Google.”
“Well, you are on company time.”
My lips pressed into a flat line. “It was during lunch.”
Beck shrugged. The ease gradually melted, and the intensity returned. He wanted an answer, and we both knew I was skating around it.
