"Yeah," I said, turning back the paper I was editing. "He wants me to come home; apparently he's made dinner..."
"We're not done studying," such a soft answer, so unlike him.
"I know, I told him we'd be like an hour or so."
"You know he won't accept that."
"Well, he's going to, whether he likes it or not," I replied. Why were we even discussing this? The great thing about Elijah was he never pried – a good quality in a friend.
As if to answer my question, my phone rang. I silenced it; I was not in the mood to be interrupted by my clingy boyfriend!
"I don't know why you put up with it," Elijah said quietly. He shook his head softly, and I knew the conversation was over.
I didn't have an answer for him.
Elijah and I changed our major to journalism the next year but picked up a minor in psychology, both of us with a love for helping others, if the opportunity for counseling should arrive in the future. In the meantime, he focused on sports writing, and I on historical documents. I wanted to be an archaeologist then, still clinging to a childhood dream, and publish essays and articles for a big magazine.
Zeke came and went, and after him there was Aaron, the self-admitted cleaning freak that drove me nuts. For almost a year after Aaron there was Dominic, but it turns out that journalism majors didn't mesh well with computer geeks. Every time, Elijah was were with a bottle of tequila to drown my sorrows in. Elijah had Lucy, Becky, and Shelley, who all turned out to be self-absorbed health nuts that drove him up the wall in the end. He hated being alone as much as I did – and sometimes there were nights we watched TV until the sun rose, crashing on blankets spread on the living room floor.
I watched his heart get broken, time after time. He adored them all, treated them like queens. But I was the one to repair the damage they inflicted. Just as he always soothed me that another one would come along, and I was the refreshing air of friendship when his soul was wounded.
We always ended up alone in the end, but Elijah – oh! His build, his charisma, his intelligence, he always had a girl on his arm. I always joked he was a chick magnet, to which he would always respond: "More like a crazy magnet!"
At the end of the day, after the final class bell rung, our work day ended and study sessions ceased, he was the best friend I could ask for.
I wondered if Elijah ever knew how hard it was for me each time my heart had been cruelly broken. He never seemed to be single long – it was still hard to believe I had introduced him to Alicia, Aaron's sister, nearly 4 years ago. It must be nice to have someone to take care of you, unlike my current single status of 3 years.
It was a long time. A really looooong time.
Career comes first, you know.
I was too busy for love. My days began at 6am, and often ended well after midnight. Almost 2 years ago, I had decided to return to school to finish my graduate degree in English Journalism, on top of taking the top editor position. My bed called to me long before my homework was done.
Did I long for something more than my small two bedroom house? Did I stop in the doorway of my home office, and briefly contemplate how it would look if a crib replaced the desk? Sure, I did. When I cooked with a flourish, creating delicious chicken Florentine with roasted garlic Alfredo sauce, I wished I had someone to share it with.
But we are all cast different lots that we have to deal with.
I looked up at my computer screen, shaking my head from the nostalgia that crept up to deter me from my work. My pencils and red pens were replaced with a twitchy delete finger on the computer. I pinched my nose, frustrated that this article had taken up so much of my time. My coffee cup was drained hours ago, and the pot in the main office was empty. I was too committed to finishing this draft before I would get up and make more.
Glancing at the clock, I realized the stunted hand was dangerously close to the six. I had a thesis revision, on impact of historical reports in TIME magazine, due tomorrow that I needed to work on. I'd have to get out of here soon.
"Still at it, huh?" Marion stuck her head in my door.
I blinked and stretched my arms above my head. "Yeah, working on few articles," I yawned.
She let herself in, dressed in her blue down pea coat and her brown nosebag slug over her shoulder. She plopped down in one of the arm chairs that sat beside the empty coffee pot. "I'm headed home myself," as she shook her unruly red curls out of her face.
"How goes the research on super bowl food?"
Marion closed her emerald eyes and shook her head side to side. "I hate working with Elijah, but it will be fantastic, as usual."
"He's a good guy, very talented writer," I said, clearing my throat and hoping that sounded platonic enough.
"Aye," she answered, with just a tilt of her hidden Irish accent. "He is." She patted her bag. "I'm still working on the business reviews, but I'll have those for you in the morning," she stood to leave, and glanced at the clock, groaning. "I told Bob I'd start coming home by five," she lamented.
"Go ahead, get out of here, and let me work!" I said, laughing.
She chuckled, and opened the door, turning her head slightly. "Elijah's still grinding the stone, out here" she said softly, "I think he's waiting for me to leave" and was gone.
Did she just wink?
Good God, I was such a fool to think we had convinced the office we were just friends.
But that was just it, we were just friends. He was the brother I never had. Through countless sleep-overs, seeing the bottom of numerous tequila bottles, we had never been anything more. We had never touched, besides the occasional banter of kicking each other or our gangly knees knocking each other under the table.
Sometimes, the touch sent a jolt of electricity through me; but I'll be damned if I ever let him know that.
God, just keep is professional, Rochelle, was my daily mantra.
Trying to focus on my work, I glanced back to my computer. I worked for a while finishing some grammatical errors, and moved a few graphics into place. Tim, who doubled as our web designer as well as local business critic, sure took some amazing pictures. I jotted down a notes on the post-its next to the keyboard to call Tim when I got home, just to see how he was doing, being out and down with the flu for the past week. Then I remembered that the shopping cart on our website had some errors, and wrote down that he needed to fix that, as well.
I was so lucky to have such a diverse and multi-talented crew.
Saving the file, I clicked open to Alicia's latest turn-in, an article on the kids' diabetes workshop up at the hospital. I didn't feel it would fit into our edition of "BBQ and Balls," with our focus being on local sports and BBQ cuisine/sales. Still, just by glancing at the spelling and grammar errors, it could use a good edit, so it would be ready for insert when the time came.
After a few paragraphs, I realized there were far more edits than I realized. Alicia was a decent writer, and her nursing background and expertise more than made up for it. When Elijah had first suggested I hire her, I had my reservations – but there are two kinds of people who can't be choosy – beggars and small business owners. And Elijah knew I was in desperate need of a health writer with credentials. Despite her often butchering of the English language, she had been an asset to our team as our health and fitness writer.
And boy, was she healthy. She was the picture of fitness. She had the bikini body that most supermodels would die for. She filled out in all the right places, with a waist slim enough to boast her natural curves. For Christ's sake, the woman had some of the best abs I had ever seen. Who ever knew a vegetarian nurse who balanced on-call duties and a near obsessive amount for the gym could also write for a magazine with 20,000 readers worldwide?
I could see why Elijah had such an infatuation with her.
I closed my eyes again and pinched my nose. I really wanted to stop in the middle of this edit, pack up my tablet, and just go home.
"So do it, then," Elijah said, causing me to jump.
I hadn't realized I had said that out loud.
"Wha'cha working on?" he leaned over desk, and put his face next to the computer to catch a glimpse of my screen. He smelled like Old Spice, and musk. A heady, spicy scent with a touch of gentleness.
"Nothing, just the Huntsman piece." I realized he'd smelled the same since college.
You're 28 years old, I told myself, and too old to swoon. Get a grip. I hastily popped open the Huntsman article; he didn't need to see the heaving editing I was doing on Alicia's article. Why ruin his perfect impression of such a goddess?
My heart beat a million miles a minute. I realized he was wearing his horn-rimmed glasses. He was the vision of a 1950's working man at the end of the work day: tie loosened, top 2 buttons on his collar undone, black suspenders (he always said it completed his journalist "persona") and khaki pants. His brown jacket was thrown over the armchair. But those glasses – so in style, now – just completed the look.
I took a deep breath, as mental pictures flooded my tired brain: me, dressed in a blue flowered housedress and apron (and skinny!), putting roast beef on the dining room table, the blond haired and blue eyed children playing quietly in the den with trucks, and trains, and dolls.
I set the computer to sleep; mostly to rescue myself from the unrealities that crowded my head. "I have a lot of homework, think I'm gonna take off." I stood up, smoothing the front of my pleated black slacks, and tugging on the bottom of the silk ruffled blouse. Such an embarrassment; it never did cover those fat bulges in the front. My chest heaved as I swung my arms into my coat.
Elijah grabbed my hand lightly. He swirled me around the small office in a dramatic dance flourish. "Let's go get some sushi!" he said, laughing.
"Why are you in such a good mood?" I giggled; his laughter was contagious.
"I have some good news to share with you," he said. Sparkles danced his pastel blue eyes. Pools I could drown in.
"Well, then, sushi it is." He knew I could never resist him. "Saki Sans?"
"Sure, they have great tempura there."
"And California rolls!" He shrugged into his coat and grabbed his laptop bag.
I switched off the office lights, leaving the running lights along the window that faced Main Street. We didn't bother discussing transportation; Saki Sans was 4 doors down. It was a brisk night in early December, already full dark, except for the blinking Christmas lights that adorned the closed toy shop across the street.
"Elijah! Rochelle! My two favorite writers!" Exclaimed Joshua, owner Sans Tanka's son, and also our favorite waiter. "Sit wherever, my friends!"
We took a seat for two in the corner, and ordered warm saki, California rolls for him, and tempura medley for me. There was only two other couples in the restaurant; it was a Tuesday, and Tuesday were slow for anyone in town that was open after 3pm, especially in the poorly lit downtown area.
In the far corner there was a slender woman in a pink 3 piece suit, and her companion, another woman wearing a pinstripe gray pencil skirt and matching jacket. I thought I recognized them from De Leanu
& Sons, who had an office down on 5th. The
first woman was tapping her well manicure nails on the table ever so slightly, wearing a blank stare of boredom at her companion.
The second couple, three tables away, was not bored at all. They were grasping hands over the table, and silently staring deep into each other's eyes. Dressed in jeans and sweaters, they looked young. With affordable and delectable sushi only a mile from campus, this place was a popular place for college students. Sake and one plate of probably shared yakisoba noodles sat between them,
chop sticks
discarded to the side. They kissed once, twice, and again, enjoying the peace of their
new found relationship.
I suddenly felt like crying and throwing something, all at the same time. Instead I crossed my legs under the white table, spreading a crimson cloth napkin on my lap.
"So how far are we on the new edition?" Elijah asked, sipping the deliciously tepid liquid and thankfully, ripping me out of my thoughts and back to reality.
"We have two weeks until publication," I answered, taking my own sip, and enjoying the balmy sweetness that heated my belly. "I think we're doing okay. I have about five more articles to edit, and two to write on the history of the Christmas parade. How are you doing on the "10 Greatest Announcers of All Time" article?"
"Good, but I think I might change the order of some of them," he added, "I love having a job where I get to do research on YouTube all day."
"Don't forget the endless supplies of coffee."
"True, true," he laughed, but quickly sobered. He took another sip... were his hands shaking? "But seriously Ro, I've never thanked you enough for hiring me."
"Oh come on, Eli. What are friends for?" I really hoped he wasn't getting mushy on me; I was barely in control as it was.
"No, really. If it hadn't been for you, with your stories of knights and dragons, your literature reviews and stories of real people, I would have never become a writer. And it took me a long time to realize my talent."
"Well, I'm glad I could be of help, ya big oaf. I saved you from a hideous career in football."
"Eh, football is overrated."
I put down my small cup and held the back of my hand to his forehead. "Hmm. Not sick. Maybe you're mad? Mad hatter style?"
"We're all a little crazy down here..."
We both laughed.
"There is more to life that football," he said quietly.
I let the ball drop on the one. My stomach churned. Maybe I was just hungry; too much coffee today was making me jittery. Maybe sake had been a bad idea, as I sipped it again. Naw.
Our food arrived. We devoured the sushi rolls of slender avocado and salty crab meat, wrapped in sticky rice and held together with thinned seaweed, like only starving writers could do. The crisped broccoli, carrots, squashes, and green bean tempura was hot and delicious. And as usual, the sweet ginger soy sauce was a compliment to the palate.