Page 24 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
I get to the officebefore Will. His lovely new ergonomic desk chair is just sitting there, unoccupied. Smiling to myself, I wheel it over to my desk, then swap it with mine.Am I deserving of a comfy new chair with superior back support? Yes, I am.Tapping my pen against my lip, I pretend to work, but really, I am strategizing. I’ve never waged war on a colleague before. What do I even want? An apology? For him to leave? Or do I just want to wipe that smug look off his face?
When Will arrives, I watch him notice his lack of a chair. He glances across the office at me. I stretch my arms out on the armrests, doing a little shimmy to show how comfortable I am. While I can’t quite make out his expression, I suspect a hint of a smile. Then he sits down in my old chair, adjusts the height, and pulls out his laptop. A few minutes later I get an e-mail from him.
From: [email protected]
Anna,
How was fishing? I’m sorry things got heated last time we spoke. It wasn’t professional. Please can we discuss the column and how it’s going to work? Can I buy you a coffee at Colonna & Small’s?
Will
Hmmm. An apology. Not what I was expecting. He hasn’t even mentioned the chair. Maybe this is a tactic: invite me out for coffee, then snatch it back as soon as I get up. Either way, I need caffeine. I reply,Come on then, and stand up to put on my coat.
As we walk toward the café, I hand Will a printout of my column about the date with Neil. “If we’re going to have a common theme, it makes sense for you to follow my lead,” I tell him. “I can’t pick and choose who I date. It’s up to my children, and honestly, they don’t have a huge network.”
“Makes sense,” he says, reading my column as we walk, making my shoulders tense.Why is he suddenly being so reasonable?I know it shouldn’t matter what he thinks, I don’t need his validation, but I’ll concede he does—occasionally—have useful editorial notes. When he laughs, a sparkler of delight flares inside me, and I have to stop myself from asking him which bit he’s laughing at.
When we reach Colonna & Small’s, Will finds us seats at a narrow wooden table.
“Do you think it’s too gruesome?” I ask him.
“No, it’s funny, poor guy.” He winces in sympathy. “You have four typos.”
“Will! It’s a first draft,” I say, stamping on his foot beneath the table. He laughs and flashes me an amused look.
“Ow. Do you want to read mine?” he asks, pulling up a document on his phone and handing it to me. As I read, I try to maintain a neutral expression. His column is about choosing someoneon an app, but there’s a running metaphor about fishing. It’s about patience, and “using the right line,” and the temptation to put the catch of the day back in the hope of finding something better. It’s clever, well written, has zero typos, and is the perfect complement to mine.Damn it.
“It’s good,” I say, handing back his phone.
“No feedback? No areas for improvement? I value your editorial judgment.”
“Honestly?” I pause, and he nods. “I think the last line is a little crass.”
“What?”
“Well, you make it abundantly clear you ‘hook, line, and sinker’–ed this woman. Do you really need to spell it out?”
Will sets his elbows on the table and taps a fist against his mouth, his jaw tensed. He’s annoyed.Why can’t I just give him a compliment?It’s well written, it’s witty, so why do I find it so hard to just say that? I think it’s because heknowsit’s good. I suspect he’s not looking for notes, he’s looking for praise.
“Thanks for your honesty,” he says, taking his glasses off, resting one tip against his mouth. I can’t help but notice how smooth his lips are. They look perfectly soft, surprisingly full. I briefly imagine running my thumb across his bottom lip, then force myself to look down at my coffee cup, confused by where that thought came from.
“I just don’t think it needs those final lines. We get it, you’re a stud,” I say quickly.
“Why do you have this impression of me?” he says. “That I’m some serial shagger?”
“You’re telling me you’re not? Will, come on. You wear your date suit at least once a week.”
“What’s my ‘date suit’?” he asks, grinning now.
“The slim-fit vibrant blue one. You always wear it for a firstdate.” I pause, worried he’s going to ask why I take so much notice of what he’s wearing. “Plus, you crow about it so loudly in the office, everyone within a four-mile radius knows when you’re going on a date.”
“I’m not necessarily sleeping with everyone I go for a drink with. That line was just a play on words.” He drums his fingers against the table, his brows knit together. “And even if I had slept with her, why should that be a bad thing between two consenting adults?” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “Are you slut-shaming me, Appleby?”
His tone wrong-foots me. “No, not at all. You do you. I’m just thinking of our average reader, how they might perceive things. I think the ‘looking for love’ narrative you spun Jonathan would play better here.”
All at once, his face falls, and he leans his head into his hand.
