Page 40 of Veiled in Brick

“Sooo,” she said with a wide I caught you smile, her cheeks turning rosy at the action, her hazel eyes wide with implication.

“So?” I asked back, peeling my eyes away from the pathetic display of a meal before me.

She smacked her lips as if she were chewing a piece of gum. “When were you gonna tell me you got a boyfriend?”

Nausea built in my stomach, and I forced the feeling away with a snort at her question.

“Pardon?”

“Forgot to tell you,” she began. “Guy came in yesterday asking about when you’d be in next. I know, I know,” she held up her hands in mock defense as she smirked. “You don’t like talking about guys. He’s cute though.” She winked at me. “Nice job.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Brenda—”

“Well, he said—”

I exhaled heavily, setting my fork down on top of my uneaten meal. “Tall, tattoos, nice eyes?”

“He has tattoos?” Her grin grew.

“If, and I mean if, the guy that came around—who is most definitely not my boyfriend—is the guy that I’m thinking of…then yes. However,” I held up my index finger, “if you could see his arms at all and he didn’t have any visible ink, it wasn’t him.”

She shrugged. “Long sleeves.”

“Crooked nose?” I asked and Brenda nodded emphatically. Whatever reason James had for asking for my work schedule was beyond me, but the point was moot now. “Yeah, you won’t be seeing him around.”

She bobbled her eyebrows at me. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise is a loose term,” I returned in a sigh.

“So…he was your boy—”

“Not,” I interrupted quickly, “my boyfriend. Semantics are beside the point; we are, ah—no longer involved.”

Brenda frowned. “Is that why you’re not eating?”

I begrudgingly chuckled. “I’m not eating because this microwave meal sucks.”

She replied in a hopeful tone, “Maybe he’ll come by for a visit anyway.”

“Yeah,” I returned slowly, “I doubt it.”

“Well, I gave him your schedule so it’s not impossible—”

I exclaimed, “Brenda!”

We all had to endure the hideous, made-in-the-80’s video about confidentiality, harassment in the workplace, and theft. Though the content was about as dry and boring as the lasagna that I refused to eat, the commentary about privacy between employees and what you should and should not disclose was ever-clear.

She laughed, “What?”

“You gave a random guy my schedule?”

Her hazel eyes locked on mine as I looked at her pointedly, and she reminded me, “He’s not a random guy, though.”

“Uh huh,” I retorted, “Do you need to watch the video again? Don’t give out schedules, personal information, paychecks—”

“Aren’t close friends and family exempt from that?” she pondered aloud.

“Pretty sure they’re not, and you’ve never even met James.”

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