Page 78 of One Night Only
“Thank you for your… Thanks.”
I slump back in my chair, suddenly exhausted, as he leaves.
Will appears almost immediately, clearly lurking. “Well,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “I think that went well.”
* * *
“Why would he send me an email like that?”
“Claire—”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” she insists.
It’s 11 p.m. on an airless Friday night and we’re sitting on the fire escape outside her window, drinking an icy mojito mixture and talking about men. Or one man at least.
“Who sends nonurgent emails this late?” Claire continues, gesturing dangerously with her glass.
“You do. All the time. No,” I add as she clicks into her inbox. “You’ve already read it out to me.”
“Hi Claire,” she reads. “Thanks for those numbers. I hope Baranski isn’t driving you too crazy.We’re making good progress out here, but I’ve got to say I miss our all-nighters.Are you going to the Griffiths’ party this year? Be nice to see”—she looks up at me—“a friendly face.”
“Stop, I’m blushing.”
“He misses our all-nighters; he asks me if I’m going to the party. He wants to see me.”
“Yes,” I say, reaching for another tortilla chip.
“Why aren’t you more excited for me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter what he wants. You’re still not going to do anything.”
“This time I will,” she says, scanning the email again. “It’s different now. I’m going to wear my red dress.”
“The slutty one?”
“It’s backless not slutty.” She hesitates. “It’s a little slutty.”
“But in a high-class way.”
“Exactly.” she says, snapping her fingers at me. “And maybe with all the distance between us he’ll finally realize he’s in love with me.”
“I just don’t want you to pin all your hopes on an email.”
“I’m not. I am identifying an opportunity and seizing it.” She turns the laptop to face me, pointing to the email address. “It’s from his personal email. He sent my work email to his personal email and replied to me from there. Personal.”
“I get it.”
“I’m reading too much into this, aren’t I?”
“A little.”
She grimaces, closing the laptop. We’ve both been working all day. An hour ago, I knocked on her door with the alcohol, an oversized carton of dip and a lot of simple carbs. I feel like I’m back in college, the night before finals. Except now, I know I will look like death in the morning and my knees will probably hurt for some reason.
“I miss him,” she says.
“I know.”
“I miss hima lot,” she says, nibbling on a chip. “He’s started emailing me way more than he used to and I’m only hoping it’s because he misses me too.” She looks up at me and, for the millionth time, I’m amazed at how awake she looks. The woman seems to survive indefinitely on four hours of sleep a night.
