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He doesn’t even nod or acknowledge the end of our introduction as he makes his way back to his office. As he closes the door, though, he gives me a look so full of sin and promises that a shaky breath escapes my lungs when the door shuts.
I shake my head and walk to my desk, making myself comfortable.
Katherine eventually takes me two floors down to HR. I sign a ton of paperwork and consent forms I don’t read before I’m introduced to Julia, the executive director, and other colleagues.
Then Katherine trains me all morning. She shows me the phone system, talks about his meeting. We go through a few tasks that will come up on a weekly basis and upcoming dates to keep in mind for my boss.
By the time I know it, she insists I take my lunch. She shows me the lunchroom and tells me there’s the main cafeteria one floor down if I like crowded spaces.
I don’t, so I make myself comfortable.
I bring my purse with me, which has my lunch in it, and my eyes sweep across the lunchroom to make sure I’m alone. Then I call Harv.
He picks up on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Hey . . .”
“How’s your first day of work?” he asks.
“It’s good . . . it’s going . . . busy.”
“Good.”
Talking to Harv feels as if I’m trapped in a war zone and any action or word may lead to a blow up.
We’re so fragile—like the slightest crack of a broken vase.
“What are you up to?” I ask it nonchalantly, hoping not to sound like I’m checking up on him. I know it bugs him.
“Drawing.”
He says one word. But it means everything.
Because Harvey’s an artist, there was no Harv without art and vice versa. At least before the accident. He used to work at a tattoo parlor during his college semesters and worked with his dad’s construction business during summers.
He even drew the small rose on my bottom middle finger, giving me my first and only tattoo.
I’m so shocked by his answer, my throat is clogging up on me. I asked him if he’s been drawing once or twice since his injury, and the answer was always no—even with his ability to move his arms and hands. His hiatus had nothing to do with physicality but everything to do with his mental state.
I couldn’t blame him.
The fact that he’s drawing again and telling me sparks joy so deep within my core, suddenly I’m ready to take on the rest of the day.
“That’s great, Harv.”
We say our goodbyes as a twenty-something guy comes in with his lunch. He sits at my table without even asking to join me.
“Emon,” he says in greeting.
“I’m Gemma.”
“Yeah, the new girl.”
I guess so.“How long have you been working here?”
He shrugs. “A few years.”
Just as he takes out his sandwich with an apple from his brown bag, Marie comes in, this time sporting a Dr. Seuss T-shirt with khaki pants. She sits with us, and I’m starting to think I won’t be able to eat lunch alone unless I eat at my desk.
