Page 99 of In The Weeds
We just keep missing each other. Every time we collide, something is slightly off. We smack into each other and go ricocheting back into space, a million miles between us. One of those meteors.
A misalignment, maybe?
A missed opportunity, certainly.
Hopefully I can fix that.
Josie taps her fingers along at the open bottle of liquor and keeps her gaze on me. She looks like she’s considering another taste, previous experience be damned.
“Either way,” she tells me. “I’m here for it.”
“I’ll finishout whatever contract work I’m on the hook for, but after that I’ll be exploring other opportunities.”
I stare out at a conference room full of blank faces. For some inexplicable reason, they called the entire organization in here for this meeting. I see Kirstyn in the corner, openly weeping with her face hidden in a patterned handkerchief. She has a tiny glass of espresso at her elbow and a miniature cucumber sandwich. There’s no bass coming from the speaker in the center of the room this time, thank god.
Though I bet Josie is dying to break out a tiny violin.
“I’m so appreciative of everything your team has done for me,” I tack on lamely when I get no response. “I’ve, uh, I’ve really enjoyed working with all of you.”
Josie snorts and I drive the heel of my boot into her Converse beneath the table.
I wonder what Beckett is doing right now. If he’s out in the fields or at the bakehouse, stealing snacks from the front case when he thinks Layla isn’t looking. He doesn’t know it, but she puts the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies in the bottom right just for him, half-hidden behind the lemon bars so he has a chance to grab one after his morning list is done.
I picture him there, leaning up against the counter. Flannel rolled to his elbows and hat backwards. The slightest curl to the ends of his hair behind his ears.
This time, Josie has to step on my foot.
I glance down at her and she raises both eyebrows expectantly.
Ah, that’s right. A room full of people.
I glance sheepishly at Leon, sitting at the head of the table with both palms flat against the wood. He looks lost and a little desperate, his dark brown eyes resigned behind his horn-rimmed glasses.
“What was that?”
“I asked if there is anything we can do to convince you to stay on?”
“Not unless you grow some scruff, adopt one hundred cats, get full sleeve tattoos and develop a six pack,” Josie mutters under her breath. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing.
“I don’t think so.” I gather the small stack of papers laid out in front of me. Notes from Josie with tiny, handwritten scribbles at the bottom telling me to STAY STRONG and DO THE DAMN THING. Oddly motivational, when it came down to it. “Thank you again, for everything.”
Now I just want empanadas.
And a plane ride back to Maryland.
We all file out of the room in a slow slog, hindered by two people at the front too busy on their phones to watch where they’re going. I’m surrounded by people with hunched shoulders and drawn faces, actively avoiding eye contact. One guy wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand. Someone wanders into the kitchen and turns off the pink neon light above the refrigerator.There’s no place like Swaystutters and then blinks out, the kitchen oddly cold without the fluorescent, glowing light.
It all seems a bit much.
Josie leans into me as we walk towards the elevator. “That was nicely done.”
I glance back over my shoulder at Kirstyn, sitting at the edge of the long table in the center of the room, her forehead flat against the surface. I frown. “It didn’t feel very nice.”
Josie shrugs and jams the elevator button. She does it again when it doesn’t light up right away. They’re going to have to replace the damn thing when she’s through with it. “Sometimes the right thing for one person isn’t the nice thing for someone else.” She turns to me and gives me a grin. “Hey, do we have any pizza leftover from last night?”
We do. Barely. I’d much rather walk across the street and devour the entire menu of empanadas. The elevator finally arrives and Josie storms the doors, muttering something about pizza with croquetas on top while digging for her phone in her bag. I follow in behind her and pivot on my foot, trace my eyes over the ferns on the wallpaper. Beckett would hate it.Too green, he would say.The coloring is all wrong.I can practically hear his voice in my ear, telling me the difference between vascular plants and … non-vascular plants. What kind of sunlight they need. The perfect soil consistency.
I’m so lost in my little Beckett bubble that I almost don’t notice it.
