Again, But Better by Christine Riccio

Author:Christine Riccio
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: St. Martin’s Press

* * *

I can do this. I can talk to him again. I can say things. I’m a grown-up. I’m almost a doctor. This is casual. This is nothing.

When the taxi comes to a stop, my stomach’s turning itself inside out, but I have a plan. It’s simple and classy. Simple and classy. It’s classy. And it’s simple. I’ll ask him to grab a cup of coffee. That’s a normal thing that people ask people when they want to catch up.

I step out of the car. My tight, blue business dress rode up and got all twisted in the cab. I hastily pull it down while I crane my neck to get a better look at the generic, sleek silver building towering before me. A wide set of steps leads up to a row of glass doors.

I spend a good two minutes staring at the doors. This is a terrible idea.

Then I steel myself. Do it for the closure.

My tiny neutral-colored heels clack up the stairs. I fumble a little as I take the last two steps at once, before striding into a large, high-ceilinged, empty lobby. Gold elevators line the wall a little way in to the left, and a man with gray hair sits behind a desk to my right.

“Good morning!” I greet him.

“How can I help you?” he responds blandly.

I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Pilot Penn. I believe he works at FJ Golf. Could you tell me what floor I could find him on, please?”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s all right. I’m a friend of his,” I lie. I mean, we’re kind of friends.

The security man stares at me for a second, contemplating whether or not I should be allowed up without an appointment. He seems to decide I’m not a threat to the building.

His face falls, and he mumbles, “You’re going to need a visitor’s badge. Name.”

“Shane Primaveri. P-R-I-M-A-V-E-R-I,” I respond automatically. He scribbles my name on a small white sticker, slaps it on a badge that says VISITOR, and hands it over the counter.

“Put it on and head up to the sixteenth floor.”

I carefully clip it to my silver cross-body purse before ambling over to the elevators on the balls of my feet in attempt to be less conspicuous. Why is the urge to be stealth overwhelming? I don’t need to be stealth! This isn’t weird. This is fine!

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I punch the up button with my index finger.

The arrow over the elevator all the way to the left glows yellow. I nervously float up to the crack in the gold doors until I’m right up on them. There’s a muted ding as they slide out. There’s already a guy inside, holding a bunch of paper. When he looks up my eyelids snap back.

“Shit,” I breathe, stiffening as insecurities I banished years ago materialize instantaneously. It’s him. I was counting on having a few more seconds to prepare and he’s just here.

He’s sporting khakis and a white button-up shirt today, carrying two big stacks of paper.

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