"What I mean," my mother was saying as I poured her a Diet Coke, putting it next to her sandwich, "is that because I am inviting seventy-five people, and because this is a most important event, I'd like to have a bit more of a concrete idea of what we'll be eating."
I folded a napkin, sliding it under the edge of her paper plate, then nudged both closer to her elbow. Only when they bumped it did she look up at me, mouthing a thank-you. But then she only took a sip of the Diet Coke, ignoring the sandwich altogether.
"Yes, I understand there will be lamb," she said, rolling her eyes. Lately it seemed like my mother was battling with everyone. "But lamb does not a full menu make… It means, I need more details." There was a pause. "I understand that you're an artiste, Rathka. But I am a businesswoman. And I need some idea of what I'm paying for."
I went back to my desk and sat down, swiveling in my chair, and punched a few keys, calling up my own email account. While working for my mother kept me busier than the info desk ever had, there was the occasional bit of downtime. It was then that I always seemed to find myself staring at another email from Jason.
The night I'd seen Wes, I'd come home to find Jason's message still on my screen. While my first thought was to just delete and ignore it, I reconsidered. So I sat down, my fingers poised over the keyboard. Being pushed back to this life was one thing. Now at least I felt like I was choosing it. And it wasn't like I had other options, anyway.
I wrote to Jason that I hated the info desk, that I just felt like it wasn't the job for me, and I probably should have quit right away instead of staying. I told him how his other email, announcing our break, had hurt me, and how I wasn't sure how I felt about us getting back together at the end of the summer, or ever. But I also told him I was sorry about his grandmother, and that if he needed to talk, I was here. It was the least I could do, I figured. I wasn't going to turn my back on someone in their moment of weakness.
So now we were in contact, if you could call it that. Our emails were short and to the point: he talked about Brain Camp, how it was stimulating but a lot of work, and I wrote about my mother and how stressed out she was. I didn't worry so much about what he thought of what I wrote, what he might read between the lines. I didn't race to answer him either, sometimes letting a day or two go before I replied, letting the words come at their own pace. When they did, I'd just type them up and hit Send, trying not to overthink. He always wrote back faster than I did, and had even started hinting about us seeing each other the day he got back, the seventh, which was also the day of the gala. The more I pulled back, the more he seemed to move forward. I wondered if it was really because he cared about me, or if now I was just another challenge.
I still thought about Wes a lot. It had been about two weeks now, and we hadn't talked. The first few days afterwards he tried to call me on my cell phone, but when I saw his number pop up on the screen I just slid it aside, letting it ring, and eventually turned it off entirely. I knew what he'd think: we'd just been friends, after all, and we'd always talked about Becky and Jason before, so why not now? I didn't know the answer to this, just as I didn't know why it had bothered me so much to see him with Becky. She'd come back to him, just like Jason had come back to me, and I knew he was probably happy about that. I should have been happy, too, but I just wasn't.
Occasionally I heard from Kristy, who had in this interim gone from smitten with Baxter to positively lovesick. "Oh, Macy," she'd sigh in my ear, sounding so wistful and happy I could have hated her, if I hadn't thought she so deserved it. "He's just extraordinary. Truly extraordinary."
I kept waiting for her to bring up Becky, and her and Wes being back together, but she never did, knowing, probably, that it was a sore subject. She did, however, say that Wes had been asking about me, and she wondered if something had happened between us. "Is that what he said?" I asked her.
"No," she'd replied, switching the phone to her other ear. "It's Wes. He never says anything."
Once he had, I thought. Once he'd said a lot, to me. "It's nothing," I told her. "We just, you know, don't have that much in common." And maybe this was true, after all.
It was a Friday, which was supposed to be a good thing. For me, though, and the concrete guy in my mother's office, things were just going from bad to worse.
"… and I will not be paying any overtime for a job that was guaranteed to be done over a week ago!" I could hear my mother say. This was the fourth meeting she'd had with a subcontractor today, and they'd all gone pretty much the same way. As in, not well.
"The weather," the concrete guy inside said, "was—"
"The weather," my mother shot back, interrupting him, "is something that you, as a professional who deals with it as a factor in all jobs, should take into consideration when submitting a bid for work. This is summer. It rains!"