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I can hear the roll of her eyes through the phone. “I only found out the other day. I know you; you would have run. You always run when something good comes your way," She recounts, the accusation in her tone as clear as if she were standing right in front of me.
“I do not.”
“Do too,” she exhales.
Okay, maybe she is right. When something bad happened to me, I froze. Again and again. I wish I could have run then.
The sound of cars and honking horns fills the background as I imagine her strolling down the streets of Paris, treating them as her own personal runway.
"You run because you're scared. You can't run now. You have to face it. So, your boss is your neighbor, and you happened to kiss him. Happens all the time."
“To whom?” I snap, stomping my foot like a child, only for it to land directly on a clean piece of toilet paper. Great, now it's stuck to my shoe. I perform an awkward foot-tapping dance to shake it off. Just then, I hear someone enter the restroom. Great, now I'm going to look like the insecure lady hiding in the stall.
“To multiple women,” Harper replies, “just trust me.”
“Trusting you gets me into bad situations,” I whisper. I flush the toilet, so it looks like I was actually using it.
“But I always get you out of them. Remember when we snuck into the boys’ locker room and found Carter Peters stuffing his underwear with socks.” She giggles, “There was no way he was that large.”
“And we almost got caught by Coach Jackson.” I remind her.
“‘Almost’ is the key word,” she protests. I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just trust me. This is exactly what you need: a little danger, lots of sexual tension.”
"He's my boss," I hiss.
The toilet next to me flushes. Glancing in the mirror, horror strikes me—my cheeks are so red, it looks like I've used an entire bottle of liquid blush on my face. Just call me Bozo the Clown.
I groan and close my eyes. I keep a small tube of concealer in my bag just for cases like this, but I'll need to use the whole tube to cover these red patches.
“Are you still in the bathroom? Poppy, the office is going to think you have IBS. Get out there. Stake a claim or find a new man. Have fun and live. Remember, I’m doing this all for you, so when we are old but still fabulous in a nursing home, we'll have things to laugh about. Really, you should be thanking me.”
“You’re unbelievable and no help at all. I’m hanging up now.”
I end the call, her laughter echoing through the speaker. She texts me right away.
Harper: I love you, and I just want what’s best for you. Sometimes, we don’t see what we need, but others do. I think he is what you need—a little drama and a lot of spice.
***
I skip lunch. If I put food in my stomach, I worry it might reappear on Julian’s shirt. When I'm nervous, I get nauseous. The mere aroma of the cafeteria's offerings sends a queasy shiver down my spine.
Instead of a meal, I clutch a vanilla latte, its warmth seeping into my trembling hands. The rich, sweet scent of vanilla battles against the roiling unease in my belly. The bitter tang of the extra espresso shot stings my tongue with each sip, a harsh reminder of my frayed nerves.
A wave of light-headedness washes over me as I realize, too late, that caffeine on an empty stomach is a grievous mistake.
“Nervous?” the woman in the elevator asks, her eyes trailing my shaking finger that just pressed level 10.
"First-day jitters," I confess, not mentioning the part where I accidentally kissed my boss, ended up living next door to him, and somehow segued into discussing STDs, pumpkin pussies, and a buffet of other cringe-worthy topics. You know, just typical neighborly chit-chat.
"It only goes uphill from here. I'm Jasmine," she says, extending her hand.
"I'm Poppy," I reply as I shake her hand.
"Nice to meet you. Working at a weapons company as a female is like being a vegan at a barbecue. Not easy, but," she taps her temple, "most of the challenges are all up here." She winks. "We’re our own worst critics. I work with all men. I'm the lone hen in the fox house. But," she leans closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "most of the engineers were so flustered by the sight of a woman that I couldn't stop snorting with laughter all week. It was like they saw a unicorn. Now, I'm just one of the guys, albeit one with better hair."
I can't help but grin. "Thanks. I needed that." Not that it solved my issues, but it helps to know that I'm not the only woman who overthinks everything.
The elevator dings and halts on her floor. "Catch you later, Poppy." She flashes a smile that's one part Miss Universe, two parts girl-next-door, then strides out on floor three, leaving me to ponder my next move in the sitcom that is apparently my life.
