I’m out in the hall and inside Caroline’s office. The small space smells like cinnamon and jasmine, the scent of the candle she always had lit on her desk, and I take a moment to breathe her in. I sit down in her chair and close my eyes, resting both hands on her desk, feeling her energy. Such a missed opportunity, such a stupid girl. We could have been so great together.
I open my eyes and stare at the framed photo next to the candle. It’s Caroline with her arms wrapped around the waist of a jock. He’s blond, at least six-four and an idiot, I can tell. He’s wearing his football jersey from their college team. College sweethearts, how lovely. But she told me she was single, didn’t she? Yes, I’m sure she did. And when I was still here, there was no Chad on her desk. That I would have noticed, of course. I am the first one to respect a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. So here we are, Chad, Caroline and me. What could I possibly gift to the happy couple that they don’t already have? A potted plant perhaps? Well, unfortunately, we’re fresh out of those at Thompson Payne. I do need to leave her with something, some way for her to know I was here, and that she picked the wrong guy.
I grab the frame and pop the photo out. On the back, in Caroline’s writing: “C&C forever.” I fight the urge to rip up the ridiculous photo but instead I pull out my new pen, scribble out the C&C nonsense and replace it with P&C forever, adding a little heart. I smile as I place the photo back in its frame and position it perfectly next to the candle.
All she had to do was tell me she had a boyfriend, the slut.
I swivel around to her computer and it is on. I click on a file on her desktop, CC, and voilà, it’s all Chad and Caroline all the time: hundreds of photos of the happy couple. I open her email and search my name. At least fifty emails load. I scan through them. Some are account-related, to me or from me. Some are not. I refine the search to Paul and Chad.
“There’s a guy here, older, named Paul. He scares me. He’s always watching me, pretending to bump into me. Creepy.” Caroline typed this to Chad. I scare her? I wanted to make love to her. Bitch.
I exit out of her email and open her web browser. She must be lonely without Chad. He lives in Virginia, and although they’ve discussed marriage, he wants to finish law school before he proposes. How sweet. This should keep her busy in the meantime. I watch as my chosen site loads, and as I keep clicking, like a nasty virus porn explodes across her screen.
And I open more sites, and the debauchery keeps loading. I don’t know how much her computer can take but I’ll keep giving it to her until she can’t handle any more. I smile as I hear the computer running hard. I want to be sure she shares her secret sex perversion with everyone. I create an email, you know, between her and Chad. I attach some of the most interesting photos to her love note. And then for fun, I blind copy everyone in the office. Oops, Caroline.
I schedule the message to send Monday, early afternoon.
HR has a strict no-porn rule. Everyone might understand, I suppose, that poor Caroline was alone, her boyfriend two states away. What was a girl to do? But still, a rule is a rule, even for perfect Caroline. Rebecca, still grieving the loss of her plant babies, will be forced to fire her. I can almost imagine the scene, the rent-a-cop’s arm on Caroline’s shoulder, ushering her out the door as her tears fall on the dark green stain on Rebecca’s rug.
I check my watch. It’s time to go. I step into the elevator one last time and ride to the first floor. I am at peace with this place now. Perhaps I’ll even send a postcard to the team once I’m settled in Florida, or maybe not. I reset the alarm and stroll out into the still-black night. It’s truly amazing how much one can accomplish in a day when one is committed to tying up loose ends, when one has a plan.
Gretchen will be happy to see me. Sure, she’s confused—thanks to fucking Buck—but once she sees me, she’ll realize who she can trust, who she can believe in. Fortunately, her apartment is a block from my office, and I am in front of her building in less than two minutes. I hop out of my car and hurry up the familiar walkway. Gretchen’s building is one of a series of old brick brownstones, charming and decaying at the same time. Gretchen has planted pink geraniums in the window box next to her front door. Her next-door neighbor, an elderly woman I’ve said hello to a couple of times, has chosen to plant red ones. The look is homey, very Americana.
I wish Gretchen had given me a key. She keeps forgetting to ask her landlord, she says. She also says she’ll remember when I remember to divorce my wife. Cute, huh? A little bit of a power play going on with her, I realize, and feel my fists clench. I take a deep breath, calming myself. I need to hurry.
I knock softly on the thick front door, imagining Gretchen sleeping in a soft silk nightie. I don’t want to frighten her, but I need her to wake up already. I resist the urge to bang my fist on the door, deciding to go around back. I walk between the carports, my feet crunching on the gravel driveway. Her window is sheltered by a large pine tree that she likes for privacy, but it scratches my face as I push my way inside its branches. She doesn’t even have a curtain on her window, relying on the pine tree to shield her from prying eyes. I need to tell her that isn’t safe; I mean, all it takes is breaking a few branches off and you have a clear view.
I tap on her window a couple of times, harder with each tap, and watch as she stirs. She sits up in bed, looking toward the window but not seeing me. I knock again. I’m here, my love. She turns on her bedside table lamp, her eyes squinting in the bright light. She’s disoriented, poor thing. She picks up her phone, perhaps checking the time. It is late, or early, depending on your perspective, almost four thirty in the morning. I myself have been fighting waves of exhaustion whenever my adrenaline rush fades.
I knock again, three times, and then wave a hand so she’ll know it is me, a friend, a lover, not a Peeping Tom or some other creep. She stands up, her short nightie revealing her gorgeous legs. Gretchen has her phone gripped in both hands in front of her. Too late I realize she may be dialing 9-1-1.
“Gretchen, it’s me, love. It’s okay, no need to call the police,” I yell through the glass. Fortunately it’s the old leaded glass, beautiful but thin. No storm windows, of course, since her landlord is cheap.
She leans forward and then takes a step toward the window, trying to see me in the dark, phone still positioned defensively.
“Paul? What are you doing here?”
“Hey, yes, it’s me,” I say, relief flooding over me. “I came to whisk you away to the happiest place in the world, my love.” Even to me that sounded a bit corny, but women love this sort of thing.
“I asked you to leave me alone, to let me think.” Gretchen steps back. “You need to go now, Paul.”