Pete Camacho stretched and looked out his office window. His first day had started with a terrorist act, with him as the victim. He was an equal measure hero and pariah in the office. It didn’t help that his accent was so similar to that of the man who had threatened the safety of them all. The thing was, he was actually good at his job, even in his short tenure. That was obvious to his co-workers. The only way he could make it through was by keeping his head.
He had left his door open every day since Kris Bowen had knocked on it. The sight of it closed, with the possibility of anyone tapping on it, filled him with anxiety. He tried closing it each morning when he arrived in the office, but he found himself unable to let go of the handle and hyperventilating each time. So, instead, he reopened it and shoved the plastic wedge up under the base of the door. Even so, his interactions in the office had been all business. No one reached out to him, and he felt immensely isolated in his office. He was beginning to wonder if that view was worth it.
He glanced at his watch. Ten to twelve. Soon, he’d contemplate whether to eat his lunch alone in his office or alone at a table in the breakroom. Either way, dozens of eyes watched him eat without any of them showing any cordiality. He turned and looked out the glass wall that separated his office from the cubicles beyond and immediately felt the mass return to work. He could close the blinds, but that made him anxious, too. Besides, he didn’t want to separate himself from his team further.
Camille suggested he appear more relatable. He had no idea what that even meant. These people had seen him crying, pleading, and afraid. How could they possibly relate to him?
Just as he turned to go back to his seat and refocus his attention on the project he’d been hired to develop, the elevator binged at the far end of the room from his office entrance, and the doors slid open, revealing his gorgeous wife, her creamy light brown skin tone deep and even against the white of the simple cotton dress she was wearing, her hair natural, curly, free brushing her shoulders. Her belly had quickly expanded this time. At six weeks, she was already starting to show, as this was her second pregnancy and third child. Her black patent leather tote was slung over one shoulder, and each arm gracefully hung to her sides and ended in a chubby child clingy sweetly to each hand. Annalise’s hair was braided sweetly, and she, too, was dressed in a white dress. She had on little ankle socks with lace trim and little shiny black patent leather Mary Janes. Liam wore a little checked short-sleeve shirt with a little white bow tie, a pair of gray dress slacks, and little black and white wing tips. They could have stepped out of a picture book from the 1960s. He grinned and shook his head. Camille was a trip.
He couldn’t help but think of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on her. Spring Break, 2012. Fort Lauderdale. She had walked past him in the hallway of the Holiday Inn, Miranda on one side of her, Mike and Vanessa on the other. She smiled, and they looked back at each other as they passed one another. “Hi there,” she had said.
“Hey,” he had replied.
He was done for at that moment, in the best possible way.
She threw her shoulders back and prompted her children off the elevator. She smiled and walked confidently across the floor, meandering through the maze of cubicles, making her way to her husband’s office. He rose from his chair, walked around his desk, and stood leaning against the doorframe.
“Hey, Baby! Whatchu doin’ here?” he asked, kissing her as she sauntered up to him, grinning like a fool. Then he stooped down, grabbing a child in each arm, and lifted them. “Hey, Munchkins. You wanna see where Daddy works?”
They both beamed and squealed in delight.
Margaret Kelso grinned from her desk. She stood up and made her way to her boss’s office. “Mr. Camacho, can I get you or your wife some coffee? Or something for those little angels?” she asked. She was his assistant, but it was the first friendly overture she’d made. Pete looked at his wife in shock and surprise. Camille winked at him.
“Oh, no thank you, Margaret. It is Margaret, right?” Camille smiled. “We just came to take our man out to lunch. But thank you.”
Margaret smiled back. “Oh, sure! If you need anything, let me know.” She waved to the twins. “The kids might enjoy Ed Debevic’s. I can reserve a table for you if you like.”
“That would be great, Margaret, thank you,” Pete replied. “I’m going to give my family the tour. We’ll be back in about half an hour, so maybe for 1 pm.”
“Yessir,” Margaret replied and returned to her desk.
“Baby, you’re amazing,” Pete grinned, kissing Camille again.
“Ah. I just figured: who could resist those faces?”