Page 2 of Wish I Were Here
“See?” Luca says, taking a casual sip of what remains of my coffee. “It’s broken.”
Panic rises up in my throat. “The elevator is going to come, though, right?”
Luca shrugs. “Probably. But it’s been a little off lately. I definitely need to call Dante.”
“This isn’t happening.” To my great mortification, I find my control slipping, and my voice breaks.
“Hey.” Luca’s smirk fades, and he sets my coffee mug down on the front desk. “Are you okay?”
My spine stiffens. “No, I’m not okay.” I bang harder on the elevator button. “I need to find a new pair of pants, which I don’t have because my dry cleaning is lost somewhere in the ether.”Bang.“And then I need to get on a bus that is going to drive by here in exactly two and a half minutes.”Bang, bang.“Or I’ll be late for a meeting with my new boss. And I—” My voice shakes with an uncharacteristic tinge of hysteria. “Am never.”Bang.“Late.”
And at that exact moment, the harmonizing voices of “Build Me Up Buttercup” fade, and the music switches over to the Supremes singing “You Can’t Hurry Love.”
My shoulders droop. I give the button one more hard hit with my palm for good measure and then sink down onto the bench next to the elevator. “I’ll never get these pants clean in time to meet my boss at nine o’clock, and I don’t have another pair. I’ll just have to reschedule.” A trickle of sweat drips down the back of my neck, and as I reach up to wipe it away, I can feel my long, wavy blond hair startingto frizz. “I’ll look like a complete slacker, but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Listen, Catherine.” Luca rakes a hand through his dark hair. “You won’t look like a slacker. These things happen. People understand.”
I press my hands to my temples. “They don’t happen to me.” Not anymore, they don’t. Not since I worked like crazy to get straight As in high school, land a full scholarship to college, and finally take charge of my life. Up until that point, I’d had a lifetime of being late, of no-showing altogether, ofwe’ll remember to pay the bills / buy your school supplies / pick up the groceries another day. For the last twelve years, I’ve made it to every single undergraduateandgraduate school class while also working as a research assistant, and I’ve planned out every hour of my schedule so I’malwaysearly. Always. With this new job, my hard work was supposed to finally pay off. “I’ve done everything right to land this tenure-track faculty position; I can’t start by appearing unreliable.”
The Supremes’ tambourine jingles, and a piano solo rings out across the lobby, but Mrs. Goodwin’s shimmying has ceased, and she’s crossing the room to stand next to Luca, sympathy creasing her already wrinkled brow. “You’ll be okay, honey.”
Luca glances down at the older woman. “Mrs. Goodwin.” He takes her by the hand. “Will you please take off your pants?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me?” Did he just ask an octogenarian to strip? Right here in the lobby? I ampositivethat the building’s manual of rules and regulations would have something to say about that.
But instead of rearing back in shock, Mrs. Goodwin nods. “That’s an excellent idea, young man. I think Catherine and I are about the same size.”
My gaze flies to Mrs. Goodwin’s legs. She’s wearing a basic, serviceable pair of black trousers. “I—” This is a ridiculous idea. Except I don’t have a better one. And shedoesseem to be about my size. I won’t exactly be dressed to impress, but now is not the time to turn into a fashionista. “Are you sure?”
Luca hurries to the opposite wall and swings open the door to a maintenance closet. “You can change in here.”
When Mrs. Goodwin and I are ensconced in the closet, I slide behind a shelf, kick off my shoes, and unbutton my waistband. “Thank you for doing this,” I call to her over the top of the bleach solutions and other cleaning supplies. “This is a really important meeting.” I pull off my pants and am about to pass them around the shelf when a voice rings out from behind me, much closer than I’m expecting.
“My goodness, honey!”
I jump and spin around.
Mrs. Goodwin is standing on my side of the shelf in a pair of pale pink granny panties, holding out her black trousers with one hand and gesturing at me with the other.
“What happened to your underwear? Where’s the rest of it?”
My hand automatically flies to my backside and slaps on one cheek.Oh.“It’s—uh. It’s a thong,” I mumble, my…other… cheeks heating.
“Looks like dental floss to me. I used something like that to get the spinach out of my teeth last night.”
“No, it’s… it’s a standard type of underwear,” I stammer. There’s nothing really racy about a thong, but being questioned about mine by an eighty-year-old woman makes me feel like I’ve been caught working as an exotic dancer. “I wanted to have clean lines. Under my trousers.”
Mrs. Goodwin raises a silver eyebrow. “I thought you said you were meeting with your boss. Are they going to be looking at your butt? What kind of work are you in?”
“No.” I grab the black pants and quickly slide one leg into them. “No, of course not. I’m a mathematician.” I step into the other leg and hike the pants up over my hips. “Nobodywill be looking at my butt. That would be inappropriate.”
I remember the calm, quiet math professors I met during my interviews for the faculty position. There didn’t seem to be any chaos or drama in the department, just a group of dedicated academics conducting research and shaping young minds. Since there’s nothing I dislike more than chaos and drama, I knew I’d fit right in there. Which is why I can’t quite understand how I’m spending my first day in a maintenance closet being interrogated about my underwear choices.
“I’m starting a new job.” I pause to briefly question why I feel the need to explain myself to Mrs. Goodwin. Except the womanisgiving me her pants. “I wanted to look nice and put together. To make a good impression.”
Mrs. Goodwin looks at me sideways. “And you thought you’d make a good impression by showing off in a pair of sexy underwear?”
I close my eyes. She definitely thinks I’m an exotic dancer. “No. Nobody is going to see my underwear today.” I realize as the words are coming out of my mouth that this is acompletely inaccurate statement. “Well, nobodyelseis going to see my underwear today… You’re the only one.” I sigh, shaking my head.Just give up.Let her think you’re an exotic dancer.There’s nothing wrong with that line of work. I’m sure it provides a good income. My dad dated several burlesque dancers during my childhood, and they were all very nice to me.
