Page 14 of Finding Jack
I was going to protest, but he swept in for a kiss and stole the words. I gave up with a laugh. “Yes, I can give you Saturday.”
“Thanks for the sacrifice.” He smiled, but I could sense ragged edges that he wasn’t quite letting me see.
“Stop,” I said, softening the order with another kiss. “It’s not a sacrifice. I want to spend next Saturday with you. No subtext.”
“I’m going to make it so worth it.” He was already on his phone, probably pulling up a spreadsheet to plan it.
I laughed again and took his phone from his hand and set it on the table. “Be present. I’m here right now, you’re here right now, so what should we do?”
I didn’t expect him to say, “Window shop,” but that’s what he did.
“Window shop?” I repeated like it was a German word I was learning to pronounce.
“Yeah. Let’s run over to that new pedestrian market and see what they have. I’ve been looking for interesting pieces to put in my office to give it a cooler vibe.”
Well. It wasn’t as fun as any of the things I’d imagined, all of which involved staying inside (cough cough kissing) but sure, okay. We could go look for office knick-knacks to give him some street cred. Or whatever kind of cred cool art gave to an upwardly mobile type like Paul. Fun.
I mean, not really. But making out was also not fun if you had to suggest it, so instead I grabbed my sneakers and we set off for the market. It ended up being fun for real, mostly because Paul grew more exasperated with every recommendation I made. He finally gave up altogether when I insisted he needed some blown glass grapes that looked more like stylized crystal poop emojis.
“Come on, you should totally get these grapes since we can’t go to Napa for the real thing,” I’d said.
And he’d pried them from my hands, hauled me from the gallery, and herded me into an ice cream shop to shut me up. Smart man.
Chapter 6
The week went fast even though each day felt sooooooo long. But work kept me busy non-stop, especially since I was trying to clear my desk for Saturday so Paul could sweep me off for whatever adventure he had in mind. He wouldn’t tell me what it was, but knowing him, he’d plan it down to the tiniest detail, and each one would be perfect.
It actually made the long days more bearable as I sat through staff meetings or worked through the eighteen million emails that came in hourly from my team. Whenever I wanted to just bag it and go home and crash, I would think about having a full day of being spoiled, and I’d buckle down again. And when that didn’t work…I found a second form of stress relief.
Jack’s social media accounts.
I was slightly ashamed of my low-grade stalking, even though I knew I didn’t have any reason to be. But I’d gotten in the habit of waiting until I hit what I was sure would be the most frustrating part of my day. Then, once I handled it, I’d check his Twitter to see what new absurdity he’d gotten up to.
Monday: Bryce in purchasing put a hold on my invoice because of a snafu in the system that didn’t show I was authorized to order new tech for my team.
I checked Twitter to distract from the need to throttle Bryce in purchasing. I told myself I was looking for tech-related hashtags, but soon I found myself clicking on Jack’s feed. He’d posted a picture of a frat-looking boy running across a city street, his face full of fear. The request read, “Can you make my friend look like he’s running from something scary?” Jack had Photoshopped the weird, beady-eyed Dutch puppets from the Disneyland Small World ride behind him. It saved Bryce in purchasing’s life.
Tuesday: the IT guy couldn’t upgrade my status in the system without a help ticket request from Human Resources.
I checked Twitter to keep from winging my stapler at the wall. The request showed a twenty-something hipster alone on a stool and asked, “Can you put a bunch of people in so I look like I have a social life?” Jack had Photoshopped in a bunch of preschoolers with cake-smeared faces and made the hipster look like a balloon artist. It saved my stapler.
Wednesday: the Human Resources manager said she couldn’t send a help ticket until my boss gave her a form she’d been nagging him for.
I checked Twitter to keep from flipping my desk over. Someone sent a photo of herself staring out at a beach sunset but there was a restaurant at the end of the pier in the background. “Take out the restaurant, ok,” was all it said. Jack had replaced the restaurant with a pile of sardines.
Thursday: Everything went fine. My boss turned in the paperwork, and I got my system upgrade, which meant Bryce in purchasing approved my requisition.
Checking Twitter at the peak of my daily frustration had become a quick form of therapy. Well, checking Jack’s clever posts had.
Once or twice it crossed my mind that Paul wouldn’t be too happy if he knew about it, but there was zero contact between me and Jack. I pushed those nagging worries out of my head. I had an overdeveloped conscience that always tried to make me feel guilty for stuff I didn’t need to feel guilty about. Like if I got home to discover that a cashier had accidentally given me an extra coupon, I’d have to talk myself out of making a forty minute trip to return it. Or when I smack-talked my brother’s favorite NFL quarterback, I’d feel guilty for criticizing someone I didn’t know. It got kind of ridiculous sometimes.
So I kept checking Twitter. Following a public humor account that I didn’t interact with at all wasn’t cheating. So even though Friday at work went well and nothing frustrated me at all, I checked Jack’s account anyway—with a clear conscience. It was my reward for making it through my first full week as a boss.
A man had sent in a picture with his girlfriend flashing some serious red-eye and asked Jack to restore her “baby blues.” So Jack Photoshopped some Mr. Magoo-style blue eyes onto her, all wild and bulgy behind thick glasses. It was disturbing. I laughed until I got the hiccups.
I arrived home in a good mood that only improved when Paul called to give me the time for our Saturday shenanigans.
Well, not shenanigans. He wasn’t really a shenanigans kind of guy. He used the word “outing.” And even though it meant setting the alarm for a time even a rooster would disavow, I was ready in “sailing clothes” when he knocked on the door Saturday morning.
