Chapters (42)
She makes a stop sign of her hand. Must be something serious happening. When he looks back, there’s a clan of tuxedoed men facing down a blond woman in a sparkling evening gown. She runs fingers along a rose stem as if cocking a toy rifle.
“Love this show,” Henry tries. “So who’s she gonna pick, huh?”
“Ssshhh.”
“Sorry.”
No roses left on the table. This is it, their last chance. Maybe Henry’s, too, so maybe he should have put on the suit. The screen flashes a string of extreme close-ups on hearty, American male chins, all smirking as desperately as Henry. An orchestra mounts in pitch and urgency and—with a momentous pang—cuts to commercial break.
She huffs. At last, her gaze acknowledges his presence. “What?”
“Intense,” he says. “The show, I mean.”
She reclines deeper in her chair, already bored. It seems to pain her to ask if she can help him with something or what.
“Why, yes, actually. Yeah.” He composes himself, smiles harder, leans closer. “Big day tomorrow. Was wondering if you happen to have an iron I could borrow right quick?”
His request is met with a throaty gust, the moan of the inconvenienced.
From beneath the desk comes a squeaky patter as a pair of Crocs chug the desk chair wheels and the planet above them in the direction of a storage closet no more than three strides behind her. The iron is perched on the topmost shelf. She casts a glance like a hatchet back at him.
“Can I give you a hand there, ma’am—miss?”
“I got it, I got it,” she says, prying herself out of the chair with all the grace of a marooned walrus. The iron that she thunks onto the counter is ancient, its point spangled with rust. Looks more like a medieval hand weapon than a domestic appliance.
And, when she tells him that’ll be five bucks, he imagines driving the thing—rusty point first—straight into her temple.
“Fuck that.”
“You ain’t pay with a card,” she says. “We need collateral, like.”
“Collateral? Not another one of your service charges, right?”
“Meant like—”
He wags a fiver, stiff and folded longwise at her, as if teasing a puppy with a twig. Takes one glance at the bill to see he’s only taunting himself.
Five measly dollars.
Look at him getting so worked up over so damn little. After tomorrow’s interview, once the paychecks start rolling in, he’ll never have to suffer this crush again. He knows it, swears it, but to get to that point, he’s got to—he can’t. He can’t step foot into this interview looking exactly how he’s felt these last six months.
He flicks the bill. Snatches the iron. Warns her he’ll be back for those five dollars in five minutes flat.