Catarina

Tuesday afternoon. Two thirty. My eyelids are heavy and a case of “the slumps” has plagued the entire office. There’s no sign of anyone bustling about. Likely everyone is at their respective desks riding out the sleepy afternoon hours over a mug of super strong coffee.

Barrett’s cubicle is empty. He came in yesterday so I don’t expect him today.

I open a new page on my web browser and rest my fingers on the keyboard. My index finger hovers over the B. I indecisively tap the A key with my pinky’s fingernail. I’m tempted to look up Barrett Fox beyond the video he’s infamous for—but not for his past accolades as Miami’s lineman. I’m curious about his parents. Specifically, how they died.

Morbid, right?

I can’t help it. I’m a journalist. I’m hungry for facts. The problem with the Internet is that you can’t know for sure if what you’re reading is fact. Plus if we were actually dating, looking up his parents online would be an invasion of privacy.

But we’re not actually dating.

I shut my laptop and rest my hands on the lid. I’m not doing it. Saturday felt a lot like a date. We had drinks. Food. I went back to his place. He held my hand. Complimented me.

All factoids I plan on feeding into my column. It’s important to remember that Fox is focused on gaining public favor. He knows I’m going to be writing about my experience. The better he treats me, the better he’ll be perceived. As far as I know, he could be orchestrating each and every moment of our dates with public reaction in mind.

I quirk my lips to one side, doubting my jaded prognosis. If Barrett Fox is anything, he’s genuine. Genuinely a horse’s ass at times, sure, but he’s also the real deal.

When I first met North, I was taken by the air of propriety surrounding him. By the regal way he held himself. The way the wind on the golf course lifted his thick brown hair. On paper, he was perfect. He was attractive. He had direction. He liked me. He was romantic when we started dating. I recall the delivered roses and expensive dinners less fondly than I used to. Did I really like all that pomp and circumstance? Lately I’ve had more fun with Barrett.

At least if Barrett became bored with me he’d tell me. North was bored for several months yet kept it to himself. He could’ve said something and saved me—hell, saved us both—a lot of wasted time.

I open my laptop again as an email from Mia comes in. Attached is the column for Barrett’s and my first date. I peruse her comments and type a quick reply asking to see his side. I press SEND and drum my fingers while waiting for a reply. It comes sixty seconds later.

Sorry, Cat. That’s between the NFL hottie and me! Great work as usual. Keep ’em coming.

Drat.

I’m about to type out my stern argument in reply when a paper coffee cup appears by my right arm. My eyes travel past the cup, over the masculine hand, and up a bare forearm to the rolled sleeve of a white button-down shirt. It takes more than a little control to withhold my excitement.

For the coffee, of course.

“Have you been outside today, Kitty Cat?” Barrett’s attractive mouth quirks on one side.

“Sure. I was outside before I walked through the front door this morning.”

“Uh-huh.” He takes my coffee and starts walking away from me.

“Wait!” Desperate for caffeine I deplete my energy reserves catching up to his long-legged gait. He keeps walking, forcing me to follow him to the elevator.

He doesn’t turn over my Pike Place until we’re sitting on a shaded bench at the grassy area across the street from headquarters. It’s gorgeous today. Sunny and, compared to the frigid, air-conditioned office, incredibly hot. But there’s a breeze on the air that warms my bare legs beneath the knee-length white-with-flowers dress I wore today.

After a heavenly sip of my beverage, I hum and lean heavily on Barrett’s shoulder. “I love you.”

He chuckles, low and rumbly. “Does that mean I’m getting closer to a kiss?”

“Not on your life.”

“Tough crowd.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” I sit up. “I figured you’d take the day off.”

“Mia sent edits for my column.”

I brighten. “Can I help?”

“Dying to see it, aren’t you?”

“No.” I’m a liar. I’m dying to see it.

“I have a lot of work to do on it and I couldn’t do it at home. Or in the car. Or at the park.” He offers me a wan smile.

“Are they that bad?”

“She’s right” is all he says.

“She usually is. They can’t be that bad.”

“Stop fishing. If I need a bailout I will come to you first. Okay?”

“Okay.” I sag, defeated. “What are we doing out here if you have a bunch of work to do?”

“Procrastinating.”

“Where’s your coffee?”

“I drank it on the way to the office.”

We hold each other’s gazes and I find myself liking him like this. He’s slightly vulnerable and carefully honest. And he delivered a gift of coffee when I needed it the most. My favorite coffee.

“Thanks, Fox.”

He leans back on the bench, resting his arms wide. When I lean back with him he curls a hand around my shoulder.

“All part of the plan to get in your pants.”

I grunt in good humor rather than kicking him in the shin. This, I’m learning, is the part of him he can’t help. The part labeled the “bad boy” by the public but in actuality is Barrett being Barrett.

“I’m immune to you,” I tell him. But when his fingers trail along the side of my neck, goosebumps lift on the surface of my skin. Electric tingles dance over my arms when he tunnels those fingers into my hair.

“Soft as I thought,” he says, his voice low, bordering seductive. Then he pulls his hand from my hair and stands so abruptly I’m left sliding down the bench without a strong, firm torso to lean against. “Ready to go to work, Kitty Cat?”

He takes my hand to help me up and then drops it.

We’re not going to talk about the bizarro flash of disappointment that occurs when we walk not hand in hand back to the office.

---

By five thirty, I finish my edits and shoot them back to Mia. I hadn’t planned on finishing them today, but I was on a roll.

I stretch my arms overhead and crack my neck, my attention going over my laptop screen to Barrett. He’s hunched over his own laptop, leaning close like he’s attempting to crack an uncrackable code. The office is dark, everyone having left to tend to their assignments or clocked out for the day. There’s always someone here working late on a deadline. I guess today that someone is Barrett.

I shut down my laptop, tidy my desk for tomorrow, and walk over. He doesn’t flinch, his wrists frozen at the edge of his desk.

“How’s it going?”

He jerks to attention, glassy eyes blinking.

“Hey, Kitty Cat.” His voice is slightly craggy. He must notice because he reaches for his water bottle and drains the scant few ounces left. “You outta here?”

“I’m done with the edits Mia gave me and jotted down a bunch of notes for the Hole in One date.” I shrug. “I’m ahead. I’ll start writing that column tomorrow.”

“Good. That’s good.” His eyes return to the screen, his shoulders returning to their hunchback position. I feel sorry for him. He’s obviously struggling. I glance at the screen and spot several corrections within the text, and a few comment bubbles from Mia off to the side.

“You know, sometimes it’s good to walk away for a while so that everything looks fresh when you come back.”

“Nah, I’m good.” He says this without moving a muscle.

“At least sit up straight in your chair.” I put a hand on his back and push his spine. He recoils, sending me a glare. I snatch my hand back and reach for his water bottle. “I’ll refill this for you.”

The bottle is ripped from my hand and he’s on his feet so fast I’m craning my neck to look up at him a millisecond later. “I’ve got this, Kitty Cat. Go home.”

His eyebrows are a pair of angry slashes, his mouth pulled into a frown.

“Fine. Be stubborn.”

He says nothing as I turn and huff to my desk, aware that I’m huffing and wishing I could stop. Once my bag is over my shoulder and I’m tromping through the dark office, I call over my shoulder “Enjoy your suffering!”

He doesn’t reply to that, either.

I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks or how hard he has to work but it niggles me on the drive home, while I shower, when I pull on a casual pair of drawstring shorts and a baggy tee sans bra, even while I’m chopping lettuce for a late dinner salad, and when I uncork a bottle of pinot grigio.

“No wonder he doesn’t have any friends,” I grumble around a mouthful of spring mix lettuces. “Or a girlfriend,” I add haughtily, sipping my wine.

As if on cue, my cellphone rings. I let it ring three full rings while deciding what to do about the caller. Curiosity wins.

“This is a surprise.”

“Catarina. How are you.” North’s inflection is flat. This isn’t a question but an extension of his greeting. Since he didn’t ask, I don’t answer.

“What can I do for you?” I feel a vague, but no less present hurt radiate through me. Not surprising, I suppose. We didn’t break up that long ago though it feels like ages. My lingering anger is more muted than it should be. Why’d I stay? is my favorite question to ask myself lately.

“I wanted to check in.” His voice loses its edgy abruptness. “To see if you needed anything.”

“Like what? A gallon of milk? Loaf of bread?” I shovel the last bite of salad into my mouth and chew like a bored cow.

“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s displeasing.”

“It displeases you,” I say as I walk my salad bowl to the sink. “Oh, dear.”

“Are you in need of…companionship?”

I shut off the faucet. “Companionship?”

“Friendship?”

“Friendship?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“No.”

He’s silent for a few breaths.

“I’m unsure why you care if I’m companioned or friended,” I admit.

“Because…Because I didn’t do a very good job of…things.”

“Of ending things?”

“Right.”

“North, are you feeling guilty?”

“No. I wouldn’t change the outcome, but I wish I’d have handled the breakup better.”

Ouch.

“Well, I’m fine and no longer yours to look after.” My heart sags at the word yours. I used to belong with him and now I don’t. Everything has changed. A season has ended. That could be where the hurt is coming from. Endings are usually sad. I notice that the sad part isn’t necessarily because I miss North, but because I’m home alone. I often ate dinner alone wondering when he would return from work or if he’d call or stop by. Now I eat alone and don’t wonder where he is because it doesn’t matter. That’s sad no matter which way you cut it. I liked having someone to wonder and worry about.

“We’re friends though,” he says.

“We are?” I can’t help blurting. “I generally like my friends.”

“Catarina. No need to be cruel.”

“I’m not being cruel. I’m stating a fact. I don’t want to hang out with you. We ended. We’re done. You moved on.”

He says nothing.

“Haven’t you? The pretty blonde from work?”

“I told you she’s married.”

“That doesn’t matter to a lot of people.”

“It matters to me.” His stern voice is laced with a ridge of pain. Enough that a sliver of guilt creeps along the back of my neck. “I was thinking we could grab a bite to eat sometime this—”

A series of hard knocks on my front door interrupts.

“Who could that be at this hour?” I mutter.

“Catarina?” North asks as I check the peephole. “Is everything all right? Who is it?”

“It’s Barrett Fox,” I tell him as I unlock the deadbolt.

“A little late for work, isn’t it?” North growls.

“Not in your handbook.”

I end the call, delighting in the zing of satisfaction at hanging up on him. When I pull open the door, Barrett’s face looks like North’s voice. Hard and unyielding.

“Should I ask how you found my address?”

“12C.” He points at the number and letter on my door as if I don’t know they’re there. “You mentioned it.”

“No, I didn’t. I met you out front when you picked me up.”

He blows out a sigh of defeat. “I sweet-talked it out of Nanci.”

“She wasn’t at the office when I left.” I narrow my eyes.

“I called her.”

Before I can ask why he has Nanci’s number, my cellphone buzzes in my hand. North’s name is displayed on the screen.

Barrett’s face is a predictable mask of disappointment. But I’m my own woman, so I answer it anyway.

“Hi, North.” I step aside and sweep an arm inward to invite Fox into my humble abode.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay.”

Barrett walks into my apartment, big and burly and out of place in here. His laptop is under his arm, his hand raking through his reddish hair and then down over the scruff on his face. He studies the floral rug at his feet and the many birds adorning my living room. There are metal ones in mid-flight hanging over an antique sidebar. The encaged statuette of a canary, beak frozen open in song sits on my coffee table. The pillows on my dark brown leather sofa are turquoise and lime green with black bird-shaped silhouettes.

“…or if he’s not treating you well, say the word and I’ll be right over,” North is grumbling.

“Barrett, do you intend to treat me well?” I ask Fox. “If not, North says he’ll be right over.”

The intensity fades from Barrett’s face as a confidently sexy smile takes its place. I grin at the exasperated sound coming from my phone.

“Talk to you later,” I promise North, ending the call.

“What’s he going to do, challenge me to a duel?” Barrett asks drily.

“Chess, most likely.”

“He’d win.”

We hold each other’s gazes comfortably.

“May I offer you something to drink?” I ask.

“Am I staying?”

I gesture to the laptop. “At least long enough to show me what’s on that hard drive.”

“I saved it in the cloud.”

“Cloud drive,” I correct.

“Beer,” he requests.

That I can do.