“Sir, for the last time, I told you that Lieutenant Hayes is occupied right now. I can’t allow you to tour the facility, I can’t page him, I can’t give you his schedule, and I can’t tell you when he will be available. How many different ways do I have to say it?” My chest is heaving as I snap out the words, having grown totally fed up with everything. Monday. Fucking Monday.
“I’ll be back when you’re not so busy,” he says and turns on his heel, darting out the front door just as Chief Delgado approaches from the opposite end of the lobby.
“Lydia,” Chief Delgado says with a smile. He pushes through the swinging door and gives her a friendly hug. Well, that’s one person on this island who seems to like the woman. “Are you intimidating my new volunteer?”
Turning to me, he asks, “You’re not afraid of Lydia, are you?” His eyes are twinkling in a teasing manner.
“No,” I say quickly on a lie. “Of course I’m not afraid of Lydia. Sweet, darling Lydia. No reason to be afraid of her.” My lie spirals into an unintentional insult the way it flies out of my mouth. Of course I’m afraid of Lydia. I kind of, sort of kissed her boyfriend.
We’re in love with the same man.
Moving on.
“A guy came in looking for Jack. He demanded a house tour and Jack’s schedule. He just totally freaked me out. Yeah, he was scary.” I nod my head like it will make my story that much more believable. “He left when you came in.”
And I can’t shut up. Mom used to say she always knew when I was being evasive because I couldn’t stop myself from babbling incessantly more than I usually do. Claire, on the other hand, was great with the short and simple lies and rarely got caught.
“Well, he’s gone now. That all you need, Kincaid?”
“Melanie and I would like to go for a coffee. Would that be okay, Roger?”
My eyes widen as Lydia’s words register. I start moving the papers around my desk frantically, searching for a lifeline to not go anywhere with Lydia. If I were in her position, I’d have a pair of cement shoes for me to wear right into the Hudson.
“I have so much work to do here. You’re sweet—so sweet—to ask, but I don’t want to get behind. Civil service, lots of paperwork.” Again with the nodding and the not shutting up. Fuck. I wonder if I could clear the room before anyone stopped me if I were to just make a run for it?
“Kincaid, you need a break. You’re acting weird,” Chief Delgado says and pushes his way back through the swinging door. Up the steps and right behind me, he stands and shakes the chair I’m in.
I rise to my feet and turn to face him. With panicky eyes, I telepathically beg for him to spare me. But he doesn’t. Roger Delgado is a middle-aged man with no clue what I’m trying to say. Lydia understands the “get me the fuck out of this” eyeball lingo, I’m sure. She’s a woman. We know these things. And because she knows these things, she knows she has the upper hand and she knows that I’m about half a second from pissing my pants for a perceived slight against her that I haven’t even really made but really, really want to.
“Chief, I don’t have to go,” I say quietly with a tight jaw.
“You deserve a coffee break.” He pats me on the back and nearly pushes me out of the booth. I grab my purse on the way down the steps.
“I thought you liked me,” I hiss as I pass Lydia and head out the door.
The humidity immediately assaults my senses. The warm early afternoon sun feels glorious on my skin. I regret not bringing my sunglasses with me. Lydia steps beside me and turns to the left on the sidewalk and moves down the block. I follow quietly behind her, still trying to figure out why in the hell I’m doing this. Part of it must be this sick need to validate what’s going on between Jameson and me. Sometimes it feels like a stupid childish fantasy that I’ve made up in my head. I pull my hand away when I realize I’m touching my necklace again. I wonder how often I do that.
We walk in silence to the end of the block and make a left. At the next corner sits a tiny little coffee shop that I’ve never seen before. It has a green and yellow canopy above the tall windows, and inside are wicker chairs tucked under marble tabletops. The menu above the counter almost reads like another language entirely. It’s cute and unique but doesn’t look terribly trendy, and there are no hipsters in sight. And until this moment I thought I was reasonably cool because of my way complex order at Starbucks. Ugh. Jameson’s girlfriend wears cute sun dresses, can do a perfect bun in her hair, and favors quaint little coffee shops. I’m leveling up on pathetic. It’s one thing to want her boyfriend but another entirely to be jealous of her clothing, hair, and beverage choices.
We order our drinks—she knows the language and orders without issue, while I stumble over everything from the size to the type of milk I want—and we take a seat next to the window while we wait for them to bring our drinks to our table. Because apparently they do fancy shit like that here.