He shakes his head. "Sorry, Meghan, you only get partial credit for that one. Try to be more original." He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as he steps back. I absolutely do not notice how much his perfectly-cultivated stubble resembles that of Dirk, the billionaire boss of my fantasies. "Oh - and get those files copied before you run off to feast on the flesh of the living, will you?"
"Oh, and you're allowed to do a zombie joke off of my vampire joke? Really?" I call after him, but he's already practically out of earshot. Damn it, he walks fast.
And before I know it, I'm checking my email. Not my work email - the one I contacted Natalie from. The secret anonymous one that, even in my sleep-deprived stupor, I'd been smart enough to use.
She's answered.
My heart leaps into my throat and I click on it, before I can stop myself. I have to know.
Meg,
Thank you so much for writing! It really means a lot, knowing that my books can change people's lives for the better. You don't sound silly at all. A lot of people think books like this aren't important, but we all need escapist fantasies sometimes.
Your boss sounds like a piece of work. Not that this makes it any better, but I'm sure he doesn't mean to hurt you. He was probably just raised in a billion-dollar bubble, and he doesn't know how to interact with other humans. It's actually a pretty common affliction. Dirk was based on a real guy, who, believe it or not, sounds a lot like your boss. I just softened him around the edges, made him a little more tolerable. Artistic license, you know?
Oddly, it's kind of heartbreaking that there's no real Dirk. Or if there is, he's basically Mr. Risinger, but with a bit more of a conscience. The last thing I need in my life is more assholes.
I take a deep breath. She's being nice, although I'm sure I came across as a total nutcase. I'm afraid to look back at what I wrote, and I only remember snatches of it. It's better this way.
After some other polite shop talk, she ends with:
I hope you'll write back. A lot of people never answer my emails, like they think I'm too busy or they're bothering me, or something - but I want to hear how things go with your boss. I think you should try going a whole day without rising to his taunts. Just to see what happens, you know? Remember what Dirk said to Amanda - one of the reasons he teased her was because she would always deal it back, and he loved having someone in his life who'd actually talk to him that way. When you dish it back to your boss, you're just doing exactly what he wants by popping his billion-dollar bubble.
And if it doesn't work, well, you'll have a whole day to think of new insults.
xoxo,
Natalie
I have to chuckle. I can't really remember the last time I made an effort to bite my tongue around Mr. Risinger, but I find it hard to believe that her theory is right. That might have been the case for Dirk, but Mr. Risinger's been riding my ass since the day I started working here.
But it's not quite the same, is it? He didn't really start taunting me until I started pushing back. Shit, maybe Natalie's right.
It's a little too late for the "whole day" plan, but I resolve to start now and make it through at least half of tomorrow without taking his bait. Just to see how it goes.
I finish copying the files like he wanted, then run down to the cafeteria for a sandwich. I'd rather go to a proper restaurant, or at least Panera or something, but he's packed my schedule so full today I barely have time to leave the building.
"Back from the hunt so soon?" Mr. Risinger asks, suddenly appearing beside me while I have a mouth full of tuna salad. His timing is impeccable as always. "Did you accidentally stumble into direct sunlight?"
I struggle to chew and swallow, the lump sticking in my throat for entirely too long.
Dear Lord, please don't let this happen. Please don't let me die in a tuna salad mishap while Satan himself looks on.
Finally, it all goes down.
I clear my throat. "The files are on your desk, sir."
"Oh, I like it when you call me that." He's grinning, but I just look at him mildly, playing the innocent, ordinary, businesslike secretary.
"I'll keep that in mind, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you at the moment?"
He's just staring, trying to figure me out. Trying to read me, and gloriously, failing. It feels good. I'm so glad I took Natalie's advice.
Finally, he just brushes past me and retreats into his office, slamming the door behind him.
I promise I'm getting to the thing with the ashtray.
So that's how it goes. For the rest of the day, I don't even see him. It's like he's decided I'm not worth talking to, if I don't come up with a bunch of creative ways to call him a subhuman bloodsucking waste of space. And as satisfying as the insults can sometimes be, I find I prefer this.
When I get home, I write Natalie back right away, telling her that her advice worked. It's Friday, and by Saturday morning I haven't heard back. I'm disappointed, but realistically, she probably doesn't answer fanmail on weekends.
Fanmail. Jesus. What kind of person have I turned into?
In the end, I don't hear back from Natalie for a couple of weeks. I finally stop thinking about it, and within a few days, Mr. Risinger pushes me to the breaking point and we're back to snarling at each other.
Finally, though, she writes back. She tells me how glad she is that things have worked out, and she's sorry she's been too busy to answer. She tells me she's still working a full-time job in addition to being a novelist, which kind of blows my mind, but I guess there are people like that. Me, I can't imagine having the creative energy to do anything after I get home across the river Styx.
She talks about her writing process and what a struggle it is sometimes to publish a book, like pushing your little chicks out to swim on their own, and knowing there's nothing you can do for them after a certain point. She's been dealing with a lot of anxiety and stress about her latest book, so her email's been neglected. She hopes I understand.
I feel weirdly comfortable with her, so I find myself answering right away, telling her all about my family problems and the reasons why I think I put up with Mr. Risinger in the first place. I tell her that maybe, if I can ever manage to find my way out of this job, I might be able to use her books as a safe outlet for my obvious pathological need for irritating bad boys. Better in fiction than in real life.
She answers quickly, this time, and she's got me giggling. I feel the kind of warm glow in my chest that I haven't experienced in such a long time. Is this what it feels like to have a friend?
I even confess to her that Mr. Risinger is probably just as sexy as Dirk, although I can't verify if he knows how to handle a woman quite as well. That seems to amuse her:
Haha, really? I specifically created Dirk with the idea in mind that NO real man could measure up. I've got to meet this guy.
I shoot back a quick response.
Is he really that sexy? Well, let's put it this way: when he walks into a room, this song plays.
LINK: Youtube - Sex and Candy - Marcy Playground
She answers almost immediately.
Oh my God, I died laughing. I don't know what I was expecting. This, maybe.
LINK: Youtube - Moving in Stereo - The Cars
I laugh for five minutes straight.
For a couple more weeks, we're emailing back and forth at a rapid pace. Mostly outside of work hours, although I find myself chuckling at things that happen throughout the day that I know I'll enjoy telling her about later.
You're acting like you've got a crush on her.
The thought pops in, unwelcome, and I'm not sure from where. Obviously, I don't. I'm not into girls. I'm pretty sure she's married. And anyway, I've just forgotten what it's like to have a friend. That's all. Not that we're friends, exactly. But we could be.
"What's so funny?"
Rise above it, rise above it.
But then I see his face, and everything flares up inside me. He's still cultivating that ridiculous two day's growth on his firm jawline, and he's walking in that particular way, like maybe he went and lifted weights on his lunch break. He certainly has a body that hints at some kind of regular strength training.
I'm remembering the scene where Amanda secretly watches Dirk doing his bench presses and basically soaks through her panties, and now I'm blushing. Great.
"Nothing," I mutter, quickly.
"Good," Mr. Risinger says. "I need you in my office."
When he disappears through the door and I don't immediately follow, he pops his head out a moment later.
"Now," he clarifies, with no hint of humor on his face.
Here we fucking go.
Bracing myself, I walk in, and shut the door behind me.
"Sit down, Meghan," he says. His face is serious and his fingers are interlaced. Shit, this can't be good. He doesn't look angry, and he doesn't look mischievous - it's like I don't even know him anymore.