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Alicia
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The next day is almost odd in its normalcy. Jeanine doesn’t ask about last night. Cesare is already in his office when I come in. Dante comes in later with what I think is a hangover. When I ask Jeanine about Dante, she says to ignore it before she picks up the phone to order him breakfast in, then gets up to make him an espresso. I’m told I can go home early again to make up for the dinner out, so I leave at three thirty.
When I put my key in the lock to get into the building, I’m surprised at how smooth and easily it works. I remember Cesare saying something about it needing to be fixed. No, I shake my head, that’s crazy. Only my suspicion is confirmed when I make it up the first flight of stairs and encounter the super, Mr. Fredericks.
“I got the lock fixed for you like Mr. Sabatini said. Make sure you tell him that.” It’s the first time Mr. Fredericks has ever been cranky with me. I nod as I work to keep the smile off my face at what Cesare had done.
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As the week passes, the few times I encounter Cesare the blank look is back—if he even manages to look at me. Usually, he looks through me. When Jeanine leaves, I’m sad yet feeling prepared to fly solo. She tells me to call her if I need anything, to talk about the job or Cesare. I nod, even though I know I won’t.
The first week on my own is quiet on the Cesare front. However, I notice Dante gets cranky toward the end of the day. I mention it to Hannah. She nods knowingly.
“Yes, Cesare used to be the same way. They don’t leave their offices to have dinner until late. Claudine sends snacks for Cesare to keep him from getting cranky. You want her number, have her order things for Dante?”
I thank her. I know Claudine is the housekeeper for Cesare and Dante and call her with a request for snacks she thinks Dante would like. She promises to have them ordered and delivered by the next day.
Once I have Dante’s office stocked—the mini-fridge only held wine—I’m pleased he’s effusive in his thanks.
By focusing on each day as it comes, making sure never to look up when Cesare walks past me, doing my best to block out what that voice does to me every time I hear it, I make it through one week, then another. It isn’t until the third week when I’m asked to attend a dinner with Cesare again. Billings is finally rescheduling from the night he was too drunk to attend.
I’m so punch drunk from another sleepless night the idea of spending an evening with Cesare barely fazes me. This time I go with the Christian Siriano that could probably fit in at a funeral. Billings seems like a nice guy, but he’s more interested in going on about his divorce and what a bitch his ex is than talking business.
Cesare spends the evening looking through me, acting as if I were being forced on him. He never gets closer than twelve inches the entire night. It’s as if I have some invisible force field surrounding me. Despite my plea he walks me up to my apartment, but he’s gone the moment my key is in the door. I feel like I’ve lost something, something I can’t name but that’s as vital as the blood running through my veins.
The next week I have to attend a breakfast with Dante. It goes smoothly, until the end. In the car on the way back to the office, Dante asks, “Is there something you want to talk about? How are you doing?”
His concern cuts me deep, causing tears to spring out of nowhere. I refuse to give in. Shaking my head, I dare him to call me out. “I’m fine.”
He sighs as he lets it go. What was I going to say? That I hadn’t slept the night through in weeks because when I did, my dreams and nightmares were filled with Cesare? Amazing dreams of being with him, a replay of that first dinner, of those moments when his body was against mine. Or how during the day, stupid fantasies replayed of those dirty, sexy, hot desires Cesare whispered against my skin. Fantasies of what would happen if I said yes, fantasies that left me sweaty, wet and wanting Cesare with a hunger that threatened to consume me. Then awful nightmares of what his father did to his mother and watching Cesare deal with it. Wanting to hold him, finding myself at the side of a grave Cesare refused to move away from.
Or did Dante want to hear that I’d managed to drop an entire dress size because food had lost its appeal along with everything else in my life? No matter how hard I worked to design different quilts, harder, more unique than ones I’ve done before, none of it interested me the way it used to.
The thing I hate the most out of everything is the tears. Since I was a little kid, I haven’t cried, not for the love of my mother or her abandonment, or anything else. Okay, once or twice when Bethany was hurt, or I was really worried about her, I would cry from the stress. But real tears were always something I just didn’t do. Now it feels like it’s all I do. Without knowing how it even starts, I’m crying myself to sleep and waking up with tears in my eyes.
No, I’m absolutely not telling Dante any of what’s really going. Dante would think I was nuts, then he would probably suggest I find a new job. Everything is fine. It will be, eventually.
When I get back to my desk, I find an email from Cesare telling me he needs me for a work dinner tonight. The email is as dry and basic as any he’s sent me the rare times he’s needed to over the past few weeks. There’s the time of the pickup, the name of the restaurant, and the name of the client. I respond with a simple okay. His reply is immediate, telling me that I can leave at three today. I don’t bother responding, I see he has cc’d Dante already.
The day passes in a haze as I tell myself I can get through the night. I’m brought back into focus by the crashing of the phone into its cradle and a low exclamation of fuck from Hannah. My eyes shoot to her—the woman never swears.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I swear, I do not know what is going on with Cesare, but I’ve had all I can take. He’s bitching about every little thing. I know he’s not sleeping, I come in to emails written at two or three in the morning.” Her computer pings with a message. Another swear word escapes her. “That’s it, I’m putting in for vacation starting next week. I’m taking a week and maybe when I come back he’ll get his head sorted out. Sorry to leave you alone with them so early, but another week of this and he’ll be lucky if I don’t put in for retirement.”
I blink fast. “You can just put in for vacation next week?” It’s Wednesday.
“Most people need to give two weeks’ notice. I’m not most people. And neither are you. As long as you’re going to be here, I don’t have to give it two weeks.” Her hands are flying across her keyboard. “See, check your email and you’ll see the confirmation from HR.” The phone beeps before Cesare’s voice comes through.
“My office, now.”
A shiver goes up my spine at his voice. Hannah doesn’t look fazed as she gets up and the door to his office closes with a click.
***
Cesare
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“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t go on vacation for at least a month after the new hire started to give her time to become comfortable in her position.”
“Cesare, have you ever thought of facing your fear rather than running from it?”
I don’t need this. “Never mind, go on vacation.” I turn my attention back to the file in front of me.
She doesn’t leave. “I’ve known you almost thirteen years. I believe that gives me the right as well as responsibility to care about you. I’m concerned about you. This not sleeping and eating and working out too much, it’s going to catch up with you. Will you please come out to lunch with me? Get out of the office. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”
Christ, I can’t even remember the last time I left the office for lunch. It meant walking past Alicia’s desk. Does she read my mind? “How about I order in from Giordano’s? The veal and fettucine?”
She doesn’t give me time to respond before she’s gone again. I roll my neck—it aches from the tension. Am I that fucking easy to read now?
As much as I hadn’t wanted to have lunch with Hannah, as she leaves I’m glad she forced herself, and food on me. True to her word as always, we talked about her daughter Ruthie, who’s finally pregnant after a long year of trying with Hannah’s first grandchild. While it’s fresh in my mind I send an email to Claudine to get ahold of Ruthie’s gift registration and buy the three most expensive items, along with sending a large gift card to the store she registered at. I’m surprised by Hannah’s happiness that her daughter, who’s single at thirty-two, has given up on finding a man to settle down with and is going the donated sperm route in order to have the baby she longs for. Then again, Hannah has always prized her daughter’s happiness above conventions.
Hannah pressed me to eat again and again as she described in detail the nursery she was helping her daughter decorate, until I was bemused to find all my food was gone. It’s really annoying to admit I feel better than I have in days. Despite my increased workouts in an attempt to get Alicia out of my system, my interest in eating, along with sleeping, has been non-existent. Sleep was a minefield of torture I gave up on to bury myself in work or a sweaty painful workout.
Every night I told myself this would pass, only it was a lie because then I would think of her, see her against the lids of my closed eyes in the time it took to blink, and need would hit me hard. I have taken to hiding in my fucking office and it pisses me off but damn it, seeing her is worse. My whole body goes hard at the sight of her, the tension grows so high it’s a wonder I can keep walking past her. I’ve told myself there is nothing special about her. I could open my phone and find a dozen women more beautiful, yet I see her and all of those women blur into nothing. All I want is her.
As our lunch ended, I asked her to reconsider. She said no, that we both needed a break from each other. That wasn’t true—the idea of having to interact with Alicia daily, to have her take notes in meetings, to have to get close to her. Fuck, it’s going to be the week from hell.
I’m not looking forward to tonight either. Lately, I’ve done everything I could to avoid dinners, upping gifts, reaching out by phone to prospective clients and doing the verbal handholding by phone to avoid a dinner check-in. But Decker Holt is a different kind of client. He’s back in Chicago after spending the last twenty years in England and is expanding into the States and looking for warehouses. This has potential to be a profitable deal. The guy’s careful about who he does business with—I’ve been courting him for weeks. Tonight is the first time we’ll be sitting down together. I need it go well and I need Alicia there to take note of what we say.
Great, another evening of having Alicia close enough to touch but completely untouchable. Even though it’s early, I pour myself a scotch.