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“I’M TELLING YOU, THERE was definitely something weird about it,” I said. “I think he’s on to us.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Tom said. “You worry too much.”
“And you—don’t worry enough.”
With a quiet chuckle, he whipped me around and set me on top of his desk.
“I don’t want to spoil your rant or anything,” he continued, “but talking about my brother is not exactly a turn on for me.”
I giggled and wrapped my hands behind his neck, pulling us still closer. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t want to distract you.”
“I told you, Miss Harks,” one hand wrapped around my thigh and lifted my leg even higher into the air, “I’m a bit of a perfectionist.” With a devilish gleam, he turned his face and bit my neck—sending me into squirming peals of laughter.
A second later, there was a knock on the door.
I went tumbling over the back of the desk as Tom stood. “Bonnie, it’s not really a good time.”
There was a pause, during which we both froze—terrified—waiting.
“It’s not your secretary. It’s Michael.”
WHAT?!
Tom looked at me in panic while I tried to figure out where to hide.
“Oh, Mike,” he spoke slowly, stalling for time, “uh—just a minute. I’m just...finishing up a call.”
Another pause where Tom motioned me to get under his desk. I glanced at the dark hole before glaring up sarcastically, “Really?” He made a furious gesture and mouthed ‘Now!’ With a look of the utmost loathing, I curled up into a little ball and shimmied under the desk. A moment later, Tom sat down and pulled his legs in as close to me as they would go.
“Come on in, Mike.”
I sucked in a silent breath, happy that the wood paneling on Tom’s desk went all the way down to the floor. The door opened, and I heard a pair of feet softly padding my way. There was a muffled sigh, and Michael sank onto the sofa against the far wall.
When he didn’t say anything, Tom spoke again. “What, uh...what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing...” The voice sounded wistful, full of self-righteous pity. After another tortured sigh, Michael continued, “I’m just...thinking about yesterday, you know?”
Tom’s legs stiffened below the desk. “What about yesterday?”
“The lunch. Don’t tell me you already forgot that vicious tongue-lashing I got from Jenna’s friend from PR.”
“Oh.” Tom seemed to relax a little. “Well...she was just doing her job, you know? She’s our first line of defense against the press—that’s why she needs to know everything.” He lowered his voice. “Even if she was a little jerk about it...”
I elbowed down on his toes, and he jerked back.
“No, I know it’s her job, it just got me thinking... Maybe she’s right.”
Tom shifted impatiently again. While he’d clearly move heaven and earth for his little brother, these sorts of existential talks weren’t their usual method of communication, and needless to say, this one couldn’t have been more terribly timed.
“Right about what?” His voice was clipped, but Michael remained oblivious, prattling on in a languid, almost nostalgic tone.
“Right about everything. My life, my choices, my past. I mean—who flies to Belgrade just to watch The Notebook for the seventh time with Katerina Bognadovic? I don’t care if she was a twin...”
I peered up in disbelief, and Tom started tapping his foot.
“Listen, Mike, I can see that you’re clearly going through something right now. And not to say that I don’t have time for it, but...maybe the office isn’t the best place.” Michael must have given him quite the look because he backtracked like the wind. “Why don’t you come over to my place tonight—we can pour some drinks and talk about it? Stay as long as you like!”
“Oh—that reminds me...” There was movement on the couch, and all of a sudden, something heavy and made of glass came down heavily upon the desk. When Michael spoke again, he sounded considerably brighter. “I brought the drinks to us!”
“...great.”
I could practically see the strained smile as Michael poured the both of them what smelled like whiskey and settled back into a chair.
“So anyway, I’ve just been rethinking my choices—like—every single choice I’ve ever made. Why did I make them? What was I trying to prove? Is my life really going anywhere?”
What commenced was one of the longest transcendental, existential speeches I’ve ever had to sit through. And I started out as a philosophy major. Michael droned on about everything, from his irrational fear of empty trash cans, to his misplaced feelings of guilt about their mother.
After about twenty minutes of sitting curled up like a fetus beneath the desk, all my extremities had gone numb, and I was seriously hoping Tom would drip down a bit of whiskey to ease the pain. The foot tapping had long since stopped, and he’d actually rolled the chair away from the desk a little so I could glimpse his face. His eyes were glassy—fixed on his brother like he didn’t dare interrupt such a profound speech, but he couldn’t possibly understand where Michael was going with this or why he’d chosen this precise moment to ‘connect.’
“...so I guess what this is all coming down to, is that I think I want to pursue a career in photography, and then I want to ask that Jenna out on an official date.”
“Enough!” Tom shouted, finally pushed past the brink. “He knows, Jen.”
He extended me a hand, and with the utmost care, I extracted myself from beneath the desk and pulled myself up to stand. Michael’s eyes glowed in triumph as they stared between us, reveling in the glory, before fixing squarely on Tom.
“Who’s the sinner now, brother?”