Chapter LIII
I Wanna Write Her Name in the Sky
I wanna glide down, over Mulholland
I wanna write her name in the sky…
- "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
"The fact that he had the nerve to look me in the eye and say that is just- jesus," Heather continued as she buried her hand in the side of her ruffled hair. Her glasses had fallen down the slope of her nose, in a disappointed slump similar to her posture. "I'm so done with blind dating. My friends must hate me."
"There's something I just don't understand about this," Michael muttered to himself.
Heather lifted her head, forcing her eyes open to look at him seriously. Michael looked up from his screen just in time to receive her withering stare. "I'm not telling you the whole thing again," she replied under her breath. Her head fell back. "I should just be a lesbian. Men are all disappointments. Even you, Mike. Even you make me question my sexuality."
"Yeah," he agreed mindlessly. He squinted at the screen in front of him — the blue 1's, the green 2's, the red 3's, and the one purple 4 square — the impending doom of the timer running on him and the yellow smiley-face glaring at him — and he stalled, completely stumped. Eventually, he just randomly clicked a square off to the side.
Bombs filled the screen, and the smiley-face was now dead.
Minesweeper was the worst thing ever invented and it made him want to die. He shoved the mouse a few inches and dropped back in his chair resignedly.
When he opened his eyes, Heather was still grimacing at him.
"What?" Michael asked, having lost track of the whole conversation. "I'm listening, I'm- trying to listen."
Heather just threw her hands up with a huff, giving him the strong impression that he had said the wrong thing. Covering her face, she added with a groan, "Forget it."
"Start again! I'll listen."
"You're just another man," Heather scorned him, as if it were a curse word. She sat up and turned halfway to look him hard in the eye. "All you do is watch porn and ask women for their bra sizes — or guess their bra sizes from across the table, and go way too low!" Gesturing to her breasts, Heather asked, "Do I look like an A? Seriously?"
Michael averted his eyes at first, shaking his head. "I wouldn't- I don't know…"
"Don't be shy. Give me your best guess."
"34C," he offered with a shrug, not looking up from the screen. He clicked at a square, and then found himself at another stalemate. "But I don't stare at your boobs, so I'm probably wrong."
"That's exactly right."
"That's- wow," Michael said, and raised his eyes. Briefly considering her chest, he nodded slowly. "I was… I barely even notice your boobs, so I don't know-"
"Man!" Heather announced as she kicked her heel against the shelf beside her chair. "You aren't the honorary woman I thought you were."
"I am too an honorary woman. And an honorary man. I'm just honorary," he argued, and clicked another square. Bombs appeared everywhere — he then shoved his chair back a few feet and declared, "I don't get Minesweeper, and yet I can't stop! Please kill me!"
"Suffer," she spat mock-bitterly. Rolling onto her side to see him, she added, "It's what you get for not paying attention to me when I am in need. I've lost faith in the male sex! What if I never date again?"
Michael just couldn't pay attention at all. "You know what would get your mind off all this?"
"What?"
"Going into your office and working," Michael suggested. He took a peek down at the clock in the corner of the screen. "You've been in here ever since lunch, and as much as I love talking about how much men suck, I have… work to do."
"You do not," Heather pointed out, and rolled onto her back again, as if to make a point of planting herself in that chair. "And I can't go out there until Zach finishes his lunch."
Michael, now making progress on this game, could only spare a brief glance at her before disengaging. "Okay… why not?"
She chuckled, tossing her head back to look at him upside-down. "He's wearing a tie clip," she said — and she could barely get it out before snorting in laughter. "A tie clip! How am I supposed to face that without making, like, seven different genres of jokes?"
"That's not…" he began. But as the image came to his mind, he cracked a smile. "A tie clip? Come on."
"He's a secretary. Why's he even wearing a tie?" Heather asked in a whisper, giggling to herself. "Does he think it makes him look all big and important? I mean, what's next? What could possibly come after the hairstyle and the shoe polish and a tie clip?"
Michael thought about this for a moment, eyes wandering from the screen. Then he snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Pocket square."
Heather's eyebrows shot up, and she burst into laughter, kicking her feet into the air — her high heels nearly flying off her feet. "A pocket hanky!" She folded her hands in prayer. "Please, God, oh please let me witness that."
"You like it, though," Michael said with a chuckle, and his face straightened into a crooning expression. "You like him…"
"Do not," she shot back lazily.
"Do too."
"Do not!"
"Do too," he mumbled under his breath, and clicked a square — the wrong square. "Ddddamn it!"
"You could stop doing that and work if it's really killing you this much," Heather pointed out with a smirk.
"No, I can't!" Michael buried his face in his hands, shrugging. "I can't. I'm waiting for Holly to come in for her interview, and I just- I'm too excited, and nervous, and… frazzled to work, so… if I could just beat this game…"
"But you don't know how to play it."
"I am figuring it out!" he shot back in lamentation, as he looked back up at the screen. "Sort of!"
Heather just chuckled at that and walked her heels back up the side of the shelf, eyes following the motion silently. Michael watched for a moment, and sighed.
Footsteps sounded out in the hall, then, and both their heads lifted up to peek through the open door — Heather waiting for Zach and Michael waiting for Holly or the interviewers. They watched with bated breath.
But it was just Hughes from three doors down. They both huffed a breath.
After she had settled down again, Heather asked, "You really think it's a good idea for her to work here?" She raised an eyebrow. "Think you can keep it low-key?"
Michael wrinkled his forehead, and restarted the game. "It's not a secret agent position or anything, Heather. I'm not too worried."
"But what if she gets it?"
Studying the screen, he mumbled, "So what?"
She didn't reply at first, but her head dropped back — and when he looked at her, her expression wavered.
He blinked. "What?"
"Oh…" she muttered, mouth forming a tight circle. "Yikes."
"Yikes, what?" Michael asked quickly, nervous at her tone. He turned his chair away from the computer to face her. "Is there a problem with that? Is she… what?"
Heather didn't respond for a moment, just biting on the inside of her cheek as if she were debating whether or not to answer. Finally, she straightened up in her seat, seated Indian-style with her head leaned in toward his desk. "So…" she began, and her tone dropped a good deal lower. "I guess no one told you, but there's a bit of a stigma on office romances at the DNR."
Michael blinked, and glanced at the screen to click a couple of squares. "Okay… as in, they're frowned upon?"
"As in, they're terminable."
His finger froze over the mouse, suspended as his mind made a full stop. He turned his attention completely back to her.
"Terminable?" he echoed in disbelief. "Like it's possible that I could get fired? Or she could?"
Heather reluctantly nodded her head. "It's not possible; it's probable. Especially if she's new."
"W- that's not good," Michael remarked, brow furrowing with nerves. "What do I- is there someone I can talk to? Can we sign a paper or something — a pardon, or…?"
"You want to sign a pardon from your fiancee?"
"Okay, that's not the word," he admitted, "but what do I do? What do I do?"
"Just relax."
"I can't get her a job just to get her fired!" Michael pressed a hand to his face, his eyes wide, and he stared at the desk absently. "I can't get myself fired. We have to pay rent now, and we're planning a wedding, and- and my god, if we have to move back in with her mother-"
"Michael, it won't be that bad," Heather insisted. "She might not even get the job."
"No, it's gonna be bad," he said, shaking his head. "We're gonna have to move back into her parents' place, and Annie and I just made it into the clear with her dad…"
"You won't have to move b- wait, what?"
"And we've been having sex!" Michael groaned as he squeezed his eyes shut. "So much sex. It's like I'm reborn, and I'm just this little newborn baby in this brave new world, having the best sex of my life with this gorgeous… vixen-"
"Okay, ew — ew, stop," Heather cut him off loudly. "Time to stop… that. Okay? There's a fix for this. Don't get all worked up."
Michael opened his eyes to look at her seriously. "What fix?"
Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she went down to a whisper. "You really don't have to tell anyone… yet. I don't know if this applies across the board, but there is a married couple working here already — they're not on the same floor, so I don't know if that's the same situation, but-"
"That's very different."
"But also similar - you know, once they're not liable for harassment suits, they don't really give a shit." Heather raised her hands. "Wait for wedding bells. You'd have a shot then, at least."
"Yeah, but what if I-"
Michael's voice cut off as someone came down the hallway — again, they whipped around to catch the person's face before they were gone.
Zach appeared for just a moment through the cracked door, heading back to the lobby from the break room he'd previously hijacked. Michael glanced at Heather, who watched the door in silence, expressionless.
He waited quietly for Heather to get out of her daze, even clearing his throat for her attention — but she was lost somewhere in thought. So Michael sighed out his anxiety and closed out the Minesweeper game. "Screw that," he muttered and grabbed his phone. "I just suck at puzzles."
"Me too," Heather said under her breath. Finally, she turned back around, returning to the conversation. "Anyway, in the event that she happens to get the job, I'll be here to keep you from blowing it right outta the gate."
Michael just huffed a breath as he began to text Holly:
You:
CODE RED! OFFICE RELATIONSHIPS NOT ALOUD!
You:
WE ARE NOT A COUPLE
You:
ILY GOOD LUCK :D
"Whew. Hope she checks her texts before she gets here," he breathed, and set his phone down. Then, to Heather, he added, "Couldn't we get in trouble for lying, though?"
Heather chuckled, shrugging. "Not if you don't get caught."
"And what do we tell people at the end of this?" he asked nervously. "When we're married?"
At that, she shook her head. "Nothing. It's not their business. You weren't married, and now you are, and you want that on file."
Michael nodded slowly, though this all sounded sketchy to him.
Heather sat back in relaxation, yawning. "Your main worry should be making sure your arch enemy doesn't find out and report you before you tie the knot."
He grunted. "Zach."
"That's the one."
"Why does he hate me, anyway?" Michael asked, indignant to this kind of random disapproval. "It's not my fault he wasn't qualified for this job. He should hate the people who hired-"
The elevator dinged outside, and Michael cut himself off.
"Shh-sh-sh! That might be Holly!"
"I'm shh-ing," Heather protested in a much quieter voice. Both of them eyed the door, and listened out for conversation down the hall. "I can't believe I'm about to meet the gorgeous vixen-"
"Shh!" he urged with a shushing finger, as he waited for someone to speak.
He could make out a faint male voice down the hall. "Whoa, hey…"
That was Zach, and it didn't sound as if he were greeting a stranger. Michael and Heather exchanged curious expressions.
"-m fine."
"What happened?"
"Nothing happened," Ginny shot back, voice unusually high and quiet. "Don't worry about it."
"Is she crying?" Michael asked, even though Heather couldn't have known any better than he did.
"I don't know," Heather whispered.
"Why's she so late? I figured she was sick or something."
"I don't know," she said again. Heather inched out of her seat and stepped lightly over to the doorway, holding up a finger for silence. Michael watched her approach the hallway and peek her head out.
"Should I call someone?" Zach asked insistently. Michael's forehead shot up.
"No, thanks."
Suddenly, Heather leaped back from the door, just as footsteps came down the hallway and approached them. Michael clicked something random on his desktop and started typing. Heather sat down and pretended to be asleep.
Just in time, Ginny appeared in the doorway; Michael resisted the urge to look right up at her, acting as if he didn't notice her.
"Sorry I'm late," Ginny said.
"That's all right," Michael said and raised his head nonchalantly. "There's not much-"
His breath caught in his throat, until he choked on it. Discretion was gone in that moment.
Ginny had a big, swollen cheek — and upon further inspection, red marks around her wrists, and marks on her knuckles. Had she been in a fight?
Michael's mouth opened to speak, but he thought against it. His mind raced with all the wrong things to say in this moment, including a comment on how horrible she looked, and the instinctive question of who she'd been fighting — and if it was her "not-boyfriend" who kept making her pick him up at bars. Also, he was tempted to yell "zoinks," but that was his natural internal reaction to everything.
Heather had quit trying to play possum, now completely staring at Ginny. She seemed equally stumped for words. Unfortunately, she didn't exercise restraint.
"Your face is…" she began, grimacing, "all pink-"
"You're not in your office," Ginny pointed out without skipping a beat, not harshly but not happily either. She then stepped right past Heather to her chair at the other end of the room, dropping her bag to the floor. She proceeded to ignore Heather's presence.
Heather shot Michael a look over Ginny's shoulder, but Michael just shrugged. Eventually, Heather, feeling supremely uncomfortable, rose to her fight and exercised her unique right to leave.
Michael wasn't sure what to do with this gigantic elephant in the room, with literally no work to do and no way to talk to Ginny at this moment. She was already engrossed in her phone — probably on purpose — and maybe that was for the better.
So, in spite of himself, and in a pattern of self-destructive and self-loathing behavior, he opened Minesweeper again.
I was 16 when I wrote this. I'd never worked a job. Suspend your disbelief, because I had no understanding of how this situation would work and still don't. Whee.
Also, looking back on this... Heather, you're so bisexual I could scream. Stop bitching about men and date a woman.
