Page 9 of Holiday Romance
“Oh my God.” I shove my laptop bag at her and gather my papers. “Stop talking. We’re no longer friends.”
“It’s just you’ve been so distracted lately,” she says, hurrying to keep up with me as I stride out of the room. “And I want you to know that if something’s going on, you can talk to me. I’m a great listener. A lot of people confide in me.”
“Who confides in you?”
“Michael.”
“Michael’s your husband, he has to confide in you.”
“Yes, but I’m also great at it. And as two gals at the boys’ club, we need to stick together.”
“Two gals at… You’ve been listening to those podcasts again, haven’t you?”
“Women supporting women,” she insists. “That means we have to talk to each other.”
“Not about my womb though, Gab.”
We head back to the other side of the floor, down the long corridor lined on either side with glass-walled meeting rooms. For a lawyers’ office, we have ironically little privacy. I’ve always hated it. Especially in my more anxious moments when I feel like I’m in a fishbowl. Like there are eyes on me all the time, waiting for me to slip up. Even now, the floor is busy, most people having already gone out for dinner and come back to work well into the night.
“Have you slept with anyone since Brandon?” Gabriela asks, still clutching my laptop bag as we reach my desk.
“Why does it matter?” I groan, wincing at the mention of my ex. “When’s the last time you had sex?”
“This morning.”
“That’s… I didn’t need to know that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because you—” I exhale sharply, pulling out the folders I need before tugging my coat on. “It’s not about that.”
“But you admit it’s about something.”
“I do,” I say, placing the documents inside the bag. “But it’s nothing serious and I’m fine. Or as fine as I can be after the week I’ve had.” And the weeks I’m about to have. I take out the small suitcase I’d shoved under my desk, thinking about all the work I still have to do. It’s not that I never talk to Gabriela about this kind of stuff, but I know she wouldn’t understand. Both her parents are lawyers. Her brother is a lawyer, and her grandfather was a lawyer. All her friends are lawyers. It will never have occurred to her to do anything else. It will never have occurred to her that thereisanything else and I know she’ll try to talk me out of whatever this is I’m feeling and, to be honest, she’s better at her job than me. She’ll win.
“I just want you to know that I’m here,” she continues. “And that I am ready to actively listen should you want someone to do so.”
Amusement overtakes annoyance at her earnestness. “I know,” I say, taking the bag from her and slinging it over my shoulder. “And I appreciate it. You know I do. But I’m fine.”
“I just want to help.”
“You can help me find my coat.”
“You’re wearing your coat.”
Yes, I am.
“Okay, maybe I’m alittledistracted.” I check the time as I yank my blonde hair back into a ponytail. Thirty-minute window for delays. “Don’t move.” I pull out a white cardboard box from my bottom drawer, grinning when Gabriela gasps in delight.
“I thought we weren’t doing presents this year! You said you were going to go to that beginners’ samba class with me and not make fun.”
“I’ll still do that,” I promise. Gabriela and I usually trade each other small things for the holidays; favors or strictly budgeted gifts. Two weeks ago, she helped move my new mattress up three flights of stairs. Something that, for two not-so-tall girls, is a lot harder than it sounds. “This is for you and Michael,” I explain. “Espresso brownies from that bakery in Little Italy.” I pry open the box, presenting the neatly sliced squares of goodness. “Remember I brought them to your birthday party and you ate six?”
“I don’t because I’m pretty sure I had a bottle of champagne alongside them.” She reaches for the one closest to her, groaning when she bites into it.
“Put them in an airtight container when you get home,” I tell her as she takes the box from me. “And keep them at room temperature. They’re best with a bit of cream. And maybe some icing sugar. Or a little bit of—”
“I love that you think these babies are making it home,” she interrupts, licking the crumbs from her lips. “You should have been a chef.”
