Page 10 of All Our Almosts

The mirror is Dorian Gray’s portrait. With the weekend’s one-two punch of a dramatic breakup and consecutive late nights, I have certainly looked better. My hair is sleep-mussed, and yesterday’s mascara is a filthy fog over the top inch of my cheeks

But it’s not just that. It’s a mental game, my self-image. Some days I can convince myself I look pretty, and some days I can’t. Today is the latter, but it’s not my first rodeo. I pull on an outfit that requires no ironing, accessories, or confidence: plain black pants and a gray turtleneck. I run a comb through my hair, grab a Q-Tip to turn yesterday’s mascara into today’s eyeliner, and we’re ready to roll.

Yesterday passed in a daze. I kicked it off by sleeping until noon (who could blame me?) then proceeded to unpack the rest of the stuff Lia and Nolan brought over. When dinner rolled around, it felt like the least I could do to treat Andy to some takeout, especially because he refuses to let me pay rent. Yes, you heard that right. I am living rent-free right now. So yeah, I got us an absolute feast of takeout last night because he deserves it.

I told Andy it was because he’s “my savior” and he seemed to hate that, so I will be referring to him as my savior as often as possible from now on.

Then the two of us proceeded to stay up way too late, despite having done the same thing the night before with Nolan and Lia, leaving me in my current sorry state of fatigue.

All that goes to say, I’m feeling somewhat low this morning, and planning to basically brush my teeth and head straight to the train. However, the moment I open my bedroom door I’m seduced by the smell of bacon. I have several kryptonites, and bacon is one. (Andy’s two-dimple smile is another, as you know, but that one’s a secret.)

I walk into the kitchen and find Andy riffling through the cabinets with his back to me. He must have his earbuds in, because he doesn’t react to the creak of the bedroom door. And even though he works from home and almost never has phone calls let alone video calls, he’s wearing a light blue collared shirt, black pants, and a black leather belt—the embodiment of elective professionalism.

Here’s the other thing about Andy: he’s made up of pieces that shouldn’t fit together. He’s pretty tall—maybe 6’1”—but kind of all limbs. He has a nose that’s a little crooked and a little too big, dark hair that can’t quite decide if it’s straight or wavy, and eyes that are so dark brown they’re almost black. But altogether, it kind of works. And let me tell you, his interesting looks paired with an elusive attitude? Irresistible to the ladies.

The man gets around, that’s all I’m saying.

Only when Andy turns towards the fridge does he finally notice me. He takes out an earbud and runs his fingers through his hair—which he usually only does when he’s nervous, but I guess is just sometimes a reflex?—and says, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” I inch closer. “Whatchya got cooking there?”

“It’s uh—” He takes out the other earbud and sets both on the counter. “It’s nothing fancy, just bacon and eggs. Want some?”

I glance down at my phone, which says 8:04 AM, and decide I have time for the most important meal of the day. “Best friend, savior, and personal chef. You’re a man of many talents, Andy Walsh.”

“You have to stop,” he says, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. “I’m going to impose a tax every time I hear you say ‘savior’ in this house.”

“What kind of tax?” I ask, taking a seat at the long wooden table.

“Well…” He takes out two plates and begins to serve us both at the stovetop. “When my brother and I got in trouble for fighting as kids, our mom used to make us chop firewood until we made up.”

“You’re joking!”

“I’m really not. She said the physical exertion would give us mental clarity or something. I think she just needed chopped firewood.”

And I can’t help it—I’m laughing out loud. “Oh my god, that explains so much about you.”

“It does?”

“Yes! Like why you’re always going on long runs because it ‘helps you think’ like a Grade A masochist.”

“I thought I was your savior? Now I’m a masochist?” Andy puts a full plate, knife, and fork in front of each of us, then sits down opposite me. I immediately grab a piece of bacon with my fingers and take a bite.

“People can be two things, Andrew. Besides, I thought calling you my savior was a taxable offense.”

“It is. I hope you’re ready for manual labor.” He gestures vaguely about the apartment with his fork.

“Don’t worry, I’m very good with my hands.” I give him an intentionally teasing wink as I lick bacon grease off my fingers. He flicks a piece of egg at me which makes me shriek. And by the time I leave for the train, I have a feeling today is going to be alright.

It’s 8:58 AM when my butt makes contact with the office chair. I may not be Andy-level organized, but at least I’m punctual.

Have you ever been in the staff area for a museum? If not, let me describe it for you.

There’s usually not a special staff entrance or anything, you just come in through the front door and make your way through the exhibits until you get to a staircase that’s stanchioned off to the public. At the bottom of the stairs you scan your ID badge to enter a set of double doors, and then it’s a pretty standard office setup: a bullpen of cubicles in the middle, with executive offices and meeting rooms around the sides.

I’m not nearly fancy enough to have my own office, but I like my cubicle. It has a corkboard in it with pictures of NASA and my childhood cats and a few sticky notes for ongoing projects, plus a calendar of “Badass Women in STEM” that Lia bought me as a gag gift but I actually secretly like. February is Mae Jemison.

I log into my email to ease myself into the workday, but the top message already has me leaning towards my computer screen with a furrowed brow.