Barrett

Kitty Cat’s been ignoring me for the better part of this week. I thought by midweek she’d be over my bad-boy restaurant antics. The silent treatment is petty, even for her.

Besides, I paid for the bill out of my own pocket, and assured her that even though I secured the hostess’s phone number, I deleted it from my phone the next day.

I think she believed me.

On Sunday she emailed me a few articles of hers as a sample of how long my portion of the column should be. I didn’t get them until Monday. What kind of a masochist works on the weekend? Some boyfriend she has. He should be lounging around with her reading the paper. Refilling her coffee. Stripping her shower-warmed body out of a skimpy silk robe and…

Anyway.

I’ve studied her articles until my head ached. I’ve pecked out my own words until my eyes crossed inward. She’s good. Really good. Better than me. My goal is to return to the limelight. I want my field reporter position back and for that to happen, I need some attention. You may not believe that my behaving like an imbecile in public is a smart route back, but think it through. Mia loved that stunt. She clapped me on the back—hard, I might add. She’s as strong as she looks. She praised my attention-grabbing ability. So don’t go worrying about something crazy like our precious Kitty Cat losing her job. She’s aces with the boss.

While I’m not looking to win a Pulitzer with this article, I would like my writing to be at least complementary to my cohort’s rather than hers shining for the world to see and mine reading like it was written by a bag of hair with a laptop.

The bar’s high, not for my sake but for Cat’s. She takes her job seriously and I take her seriously.

The other notable change on Monday was that she moved her desk to face my cubicle again. Either she was tired of having her back to the rest of the office or it threw off her feng shui. Hard to tell. I helpfully concluded that she missed looking at my face, to which she offered a droll, “Sure, Fox, that’s it” without looking up from her computer screen.

I push away from the desk to stretch my arms overhead. I’m not cut out for office work. I’ve come in here three days out of five this week and it’s been torture. I can’t take it any longer.

Unfortunately, my writing is as slow as molasses. On a turtle. In a deep freeze.

I’ve been given an extension through the weekend though Mia made it clear I’ll have to step up my game for the future articles. They’re running ads online as teasers—the banners are animated and feature one of my shirtless calendar photos and a professional, arms-folded-over-her-chest, no-nonsense shot of Catarina with the tagline “A Summer Treat with Blistering Heat.”

Lame, right?

The lengths I’ll go to for a job back in front of a camera.

I wave to Mills when I exit my cubicle and then to Nanci, whose reaction to me has tamed some. No longer does she fiddle and blush when she sees me, but she does offer an excited wave and smile so I haven’t completely lost her yet. I prefer when they stay impressed. It’s easier for me.

I walk the short distance to Catarina’s desk. She doesn’t look up, but she knows I’m here. I cleared my throat twice on the walk over. Her, I’ve never impressed. At this rate I may never impress her.

“What do you want, Fox?” Her fingers don’t so much as slow over the keyboard.

“Let’s get out of here. Take a walk. I’m going crazy. How do you sit in here all day?”

She glances up at me, a study of impatience and slow blinks.

“Are you seriously still angry about the cigar thing? I have to tell you, it’s immature.”

She stands, shuts her laptop, and rounds the desk. I watch, startled not because she’s walking away from me, but because she’s doing it in flip-flops. A black pair with rhinestone straps. She turns and pegs me with an impatient gesture. “Well. Where do you want to walk?”

“That worked? All I had to do was ask you to go for a walk?” I jog to catch up.

“Don’t push your luck. Where to?”

“Outside. I beg of you. I’ll buy you a hot dog.”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Coffee, then. A bagel. A gram of cocaine. I’m not picky as long as we can do it outside.”

We step into the elevator and she pokes the ground floor button.

After a few seconds, I have to ask. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” she clips.

“Come on, Kitty Cat. Something’s up. I can tell because your hair’s not as bouncy as usual. Your outfits have been a carbon copy of each other. White blouse. Black skirt. Either you’re taking after Einstein and wearing the same thing every day or else it’s a cry for help.”

She gestures to me in the empty-except-for-us elevator. “You wear a version of black pants and white shirt every day. Why can’t I?”

“You can. It’s just not like you.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

Between you and me, I don’t think she’s thankful I noticed.

She strolls past the security desk and out the revolving door. I follow, wedged behind a panel of glass for a few seconds before we emerge on the street. Not the best day for a walk. It’s cloudy and the sidewalk is damp from a recent soaking.

“I’ll buy you coffee and you can tell me about it.” I gesture at the Starbucks on our block. There’s a line forming, so we’d better hurry.

“I’m not telling you anything.”

“Ah-ha! So there is something. What if I throw in a donut? Or one of those cake pop things?” I pace my steps to match her quick stride. “Breakfast sandwich and I’ll make your coffee a Venti and throw in an extra shot. That’s my final offer.”

She takes a big breath that lifts her shoulders before sliding me a derisive, but capitulating glare. “Fine.”

I open the door for her and we step into line. The guy in front of us does a double-take as he recognizes me.

“Holy shit,” he says quietly. “You’re Barrett Fox.”

“How ya doin’?” I ask, inconvenienced because he’s interrupting my attempt to line-chat with Catarina.

“That touchdown at the championship game a few years back when you played for OSU.” He shakes his head reverently. “Was amazing. That game replayed on ESPN the other day.”

“Thanks.” It was a great play. I was in the pocket and my current pal, former tight end Dax Vaughn, and I coordinated like we were synchronized swimmers. Touchdown for the win of the championship game. Gorgeous, beautiful play. The best in my college career. Just as a ribbon of pride threads my chest, it snaps when the guy in front of me speaks again.

“That bitch of a ref though. Man. What a tough break. I was stoked that you were reporting on the field, too. Are they going to let you come back?”

Catarina jerks her face in my direction. Like it’s my fault Mr. Doesn’t Know When to STFU is in front of us in line?

I offer a “yeah” to our new best friend and turn my back on him.

“Saw you on Twitter, too. Smoking a cigar in a fancy-ass restaurant.” He lets out a loud laugh that draws the attention of a few patrons and the woman ahead of him in line. I’m not bashful, but Catarina is reaching her limits with this dude. What he says next pushes her over the edge. “Sweet little piece you were with at the restaurant, too. Did you hit that?”

Catarina’s arms drop and she turns on the guy, fists balled at her sides. “Fucking morons. All of you!”

She directs that to line guy and me simultaneously before she turns and stomps out the door.

“Was that her?” The guy asks, having the decency to wince.

I don’t answer, instead turning to watch as she flips and flops up the sidewalk toward the office as it starts to rain.

“So did you—”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you stop talking to me,” I tell the guy.

“Fuck you, asshole. I was trying to be conversational.”

“Seriously?” I straighten and face the guy, jaw set. “You insult my girl, make her leave, and now you’re pissed because I offered to buy your coffee?”

“If she’s your girl why didn’t you chase after her?” The woman in front of the guy in line asks me as we shuffle forward.

“I promised her a coffee and that’s what I’m bringing back to the office.” I notice more eyes are on me and they’re not on me in the “I love Barrett Fox” way.

“You work in an office?” Some of the hero worship bleeds from my biggest fan’s eyes.

“Haven’t you seen one of the bajillion ads about him dating one of their journalists?” the woman asks him. “They’re going on a series of dates I’m guessing as a publicity stunt for him. I wonder what that poor woman did to earn that punishment.”

Hello? Have they forgotten I’m here?

“How about because I’m a celebrity and the city needs the publicity?”

“You’re a clown.” She scoffs. “They need the entertainment.”

The guy in front of me extends a hand to her. “Thad.”

“Jane.”

They forget about me and make small talk with each other. She orders her drink, he orders his and pays for both, and then they move away to chat with each other.

I reach the barista, a young hipster who helpfully points out that he shared a gif of me smoking a cigar in a “rigid eating establishment” on his social media. He gloats that it was his most shared post of the week. I groan.

“Anything else, Mr. Fox?” he asks after he reviews my order.

“Yeah.” I reconsider as I pull money from my wallet. “You’d better add a donut, cake pop, and a breakfast sandwich to that order.”