Page 1 of Chaos Theory
ONE
MAEVE
Friday, 8:15am
‘This definitely can’t happen again,’ I murmur the instant I open my eyes and see that once again I’ve woken up in Shane Fitzgerald’s crummy bedroom. Uninvited morning light pokes through the wonky Venetian blind. Who hangs office blinds on a bedroom window anyway? I snuggle back under the covers, check to see what, if anything, I’m wearing.
‘Pretty sure that’s exactly what you said last time.’
So Shane is awake. He grins at me as he opens his eyes. Of course he looks relaxed and content – why wouldn’t he? Another night of shenanigans.
‘And the time before that. Remind me again why.’
He’s heard my can’t-happen-again song so many times he must know it by heart. He turns onto his side to face me, puts one hand behind his head. I decide to ignore the defined shoulder, the flex-and-relax of his upper arm. I learned the names of each of those muscles in human anatomy at school and have long since forgotten them, but I’ve done enough field research in the meantime to know I still find them utterly, utterly distracting. I turn away, focus on thepyramid of laundry on the floor, a single sock perched Sphinx-like on top. That must be at least two weeks’ backlog.
I clear the night from my throat, speak a little louder. ‘You know – we work together? I’m trying to be professional.’Does that sound legit?
I sit up, pull my side of the sheet up to my chin and discreetly sniff under my arms. Scent of the hops from my body’s own brewery. I smooth down my hair, which has lost the run of itself again. Granted, I’m not exactly the portrait of professionalism right now.
My eyes dart around the room, catching on anything that might be the vague shape and size of a pair of black leggings. Shane’s overflowing t-shirt drawer, a tangle of office ties merging with the pattern on the rug, one of those rope-y bicycle locks.
‘Professional? Since when?’
He’s teasing me. He reaches out and strokes a figure of eight – or is it an infinity symbol? – on my back… Either way, a sign of more to come. I flash back to our bodies entwined, in synch, a perfect dissolution into something beyond flesh, a human sacrifice to the gods of drunken horniness…
I shrug his hand away.
‘Stop that. Since now. Yesterday would have been a better time to start, of course. But from today on, anyway.’
The rejected hand withdraws and instead reaches for its one true love – the phone on the beside locker. He slides it frompub modetomorning modeand the notifications fly in. He flicks through them using only his eyes.
‘Okay. But why start now? As opposed to – I don’t know – any time in the past year?’
I continue to survey the surroundings. A flabby used condom on the nightstand.Hello, old friend.
‘Nine months. Not that I’m counting.’
I know it’s nine months because our hookups began the night of the staff Christmas party last December. Everyone knows that what happens at the office Christmas party doesn’t count, right? It was a Christmas bonus, a stocking filler, a delicioussnowflake melting on your tongue. The second time, after Tracy’s leaving drinks in January, I put it down to a heady cocktail of January blues, payday exuberance and, well, actual cocktails. I don’t have a clear memory of the third time because it’s mixed up with the fourth and fifth times. I admit I’ve kind of lost count of how many times I’ve woken up in this room. I’m pretty sure it’s less than ten. Below ten still counts as occasional; double digits would demand further investigation and possibly corrective action.
We’d both joined Go Ireland on the same day a full year before that Christmas party and worked in customer service until we both got promoted to the marketing department last December.
The very first time we’d spoken, I’d recounted my career history and Shane had counted back to me how many jobs I’d had since college: ‘Seven jobs in seven years.’ ‘Well, maybe seven is a lucky number,’ I’d shot back. He’d laughed and accused me of being a drifter. I’d proclaimed that I was not a drifter, I was a…a…seeker.The perfect job was out there somewhere – maybe it would be this one, maybe it hadn’t been invented yet. When I’d got back from lunch that day, I’d found a Drifter chocolate bar on my new desk.
The truth is, Shane’s no better, as far as I can tell. I mean just look at this place – this room clearly belongs to a man with zero ambition.
‘Anyway,’ I continue, forcing some authority into my voice. ‘I’m going to be busy with work. Yes, really. As much as I wouldn’t mind departing our beloved Go Ireland, I want to leave on my own terms, and ideally with a good reference. There’s a difference between jumping out of an airplane and being pushed out of one. I told you all this last night, remember?’
‘Was that before or after I went on the whiskey?’
He smirks, dark eyes twinkling in the half-light. Everything amuses him and he’s always in a good mood. It really is annoying.
Lying back down, I perch my body precariously close to the edge of the bed, gingerly pat the carpet underneath. I recoil as my fingers encounter an unidentified squishy object.
‘This place really is a dump.’
‘Well, you won’t let me come to your place, remember?’
‘I don’t want you messing it up.’
