<<Jennifer to Beth>> Caution and fidelity. Floozy.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I walked in all casual, like, “Don’t mind me, I’m just here for the vending machines,” and there he was, sitting with Doris. They were both eating chocolate cake. I was all, “Hi, Doris.” I smiled at them both, made eye contact with them both, gave one of them the serious come- hither, bought a piece of beef jerky and walked away.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Beef jerky?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I was just randomly punching buttons at that point. And, like I said, sucking in my stomach.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Were there fireworks when your eyes met?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> On my end? Capital Yes. Roman candles. On his end? Well, he looked at me in a very pleasant way, as if to say, “Any friend of Doris’s is a friend of mine.”
<<Jennifer to Beth>> They were both eating chocolate cake? Were they sharing a fork?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> Don’t be silly.
<<Jennifer to Beth>> Oh, I’m being silly. Right. I thought you were giving up Cute-Guy hunting because you realized it would be awkward if he actually noticed and tried to talk to you.
<<Beth to Jennifer>> I can’t give him up. What would I have to look forward to?
<<Jennifer to Beth>> I refuse to talk about this anymore. It just encourages you.
Mitch just called me to gloat. I tried to talk him into going to Sam’s Club last night to buy stuff for our millennium stockpile, but he refused to go. He said that he preferred Armageddon to Sam’s Club.
Did you stock up on anything?
<<Beth to Jennifer>> God no. If civilization comes crashing down at midnight, the last thing I’d want is to be stuck in my apartment, living off bottled water and canned beans.
WHEN LINCOLN GOT up to the newsroom—because that’s where he went, that’s where he had to go, as soon as he’d read the words “tremendous” and “Roman candles” and “I can’t give him up”—the room was full and buzzing. Most of the reporters must have special Y2K shifts. They were hanging out in clumps around the newsroom, laughing and talking. Lincoln took a deep breath, the air felt like champagne in his lungs.
She was there. The girl from the break room. Beth. She was there, at her desk. Her hair was down, her glasses were pushed up over her forehead, and she was talking on the phone, twisting the cord around her fingers. There she was. Lincoln was going to say hello.
No, he was going to wait until she was off the phone. And then say hello.
No, and then he was going to kiss her.
No, he was just going to kiss her. He wasn’t going to wait. She’d kiss him back. He was absolutely certain that she would kiss him back.
And then he’d tell her that he loved her.
And then he’d tell her his name.
And then and then and then … what?
“If everything goes to hell at midnight, I want you to join my savage gang of looters.”
“What?” Lincoln turned around. Chuck was standing behind him. He had a blue marker in his mouth, and he was looking at a pie graph.
“Do these percentages make sense?” Chuck said, holding out the graph.
“I don’t know,” Lincoln said.
“I’m asking you to check them.”
“Did you say something about looting?”
“Yeah,” Chuck said. “But that was more of an invitation. If things get Mad Max around here later, I want you on my team. Don’t ask me what’s in it for you. I haven’t worked that out yet.”
“I can’t do this right now,” Lincoln said, pushing the paper away.
“Why not?”
“I …I have to leave.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.” Lincoln looked up at Beth again and started backing away from Chuck. Away from the newsroom. “I have to go.”
“Do you know something about the power grid that we don’t?” Chuck called after him. “What are the machines telling you?”
“I HAVE TO go home,” Lincoln said when he got back to the IT office.
“You look terrible,” Greg said. “But you can’t go home. We’re on the cusp of a new age.”
“I feel terrible. I have to leave.”
“If you leave,” Greg asked, “who’s going to lead the Strike Force through zero hour?”
Lincoln looked at the television on Greg’s desk. People were celebrating in London. Midnight had already arrived with an anticlimactic thud in Paris and Moscow and Beijing. Even Wolf Blitzer looked bored. The members of the Strike Force were shamelessly playing Doom.
“All right … ,” Greg said, frowning. “But you’re going to miss out. We’re ordering pizza.”