Chapter Three
“Iz, your cat’s in my apartment,” Josh yelled from upstairs as she checked her mailbox. “Seriously?” Izzy sighed and rolled her eyes, wondering who’d been in her apartment since she’d left that morning. She glanced in the direction of her door, and yep - it was ajar. Thank God the general entrance to the building required a key. Her grandparents owned the apartment house - it was their “investment property.” An older building, it sat in the middle of a mid-century middle-class neighborhood, offering four one-bedroom units. But instead of leasing the apartments to college students and young professionals to make a pretty penny on premium rent, all four units in the building were leased at a discounted rate to Millie and Burt’s grandchildren. Izzy was grateful for the sweet deal on rent, as well as the landlords who adored her, but it came with a few less-than-ideal caveats. First, she’d lost count of the number of times she’d come home to find her grandpa tinkering in her apartment or her grandma “tidying things up a bit.” Also, to make things “easier for everyone,” her grandparents had given each of them a copy of the master key so they didn’t have to mess around with individual locks. Sometimes it felt like she lived in a big house with her cousins instead of her own apartment. Her younger cousin, Emily, beautiful and funny and right across the hall, could often be found letting herself into Izzy’s apartment, borrowing her clothes and leaving notes that said things like “I have your black shoes - will return later.” Daphne, her other cousin, lived upstairs and was generally a quiet person aside from the occasional cosplay party she hosted for her fellow larpers. Did she sometimes let herself into Izzy’s place when she was out of food and didn’t feel like going to the store? Yes, yes she did. But did she replace the food she borrowed? No, no she didn’t. Josh was the best building-mate cousin out of the trio. He was an IT workaholic, so she rarely saw him at all aside from the occasional laundry room run-in, and he only got into her stuff when he ran out of beer and didn’t want to go to the store. Izzy ran up the stairs and retrieved The Darkling, apologizing to Josh for the black fur deposits her cat had left on his fancy white sofa. He said “it’s cool” in a huge cloud of smoke, because her favorite cousin was also a total vape hound. By the time she finally got inside her apartment and kicked off her shoes, she was ready for a lot of inactivity. Because her day, in and of itself, had been a LOT. She changed into her pajamas (yes, at 6:10pm), grabbed a Diet Coke and went into the living room, where the McDonalds bag was now soggy and grease-stained in the bottom of her purse. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, needing escape as she pulled out her dinner. The Darkling walked back and forth on the back of the couch, stepping on her neck and being his usual dickish self, and she let out a huge sigh. What was she going to do? She unwrapped her hamburger and kind of wanted to cry. She'd finally found what seemed like the perfect job, with a company that was considered to be the best place to work in the entire freaking world, and she'd totally blown herself up. She'd somehow managed to lie to - and insult - a freaking Vice President on her very first day. As if that weren’t enough of an aww-shit sandwich, she was so profoundly disappointed in AVP Blake’s awful character arc that she could cry. He’d started off the day like some dashing hero in a rom-com, attractive and charming and filled with promise, but then, in an instant, he’d shown himself to be a pompous, arrogant, judgmental jerk. A jerk who would most likely be firing her the following day. And yes, she knew the whole thing was her fault. She shoved a fistful of fries into her mouth before grabbing her phone. She knew it was a bad idea, but she had nothing to lose. She clicked into Blake’s last message and texted: Hi. I will lose your number after this, so don’t get freaked out that an employee is texting you. But I have a question. She waited for a response, but after about two minutes, she texted: Okay - obviously you’re ignoring me, which I get. Because AVP. Still…can I talk to you for a sec? She waited a few more minutes. Hello…? She counted to ten, and then texted: Okay, well, I’M going to talk, even if you choose to ignore me. Izzy began what could best be described as a rapid-fire text assault of Blake’s phone, hitting send after every word. She wasn’t sure if it would be seen as adorably persistent or the final straw, but as she typed, she accepted both outcomes. I Am Sorry About The Misunderstanding (i.e. the liberation of Amy’s coffee even though she clearly didn’t want it after her name was called 3x and I did order the same thing and paid for it. I even left a tip for the barista, and you KNOW the real Amy did not) I Am A Very Honest Person Who Simply Lost Her Head For A Second When Panicking About Possibly Being Late On Her First Day— Feeling like she’d made her point, Izzy ended the barrage and began typing in normal, grown-up paragraphs. I’ve never stolen anything or lied about my identity. *Well actually I had a fake ID my freshman year of college that said I was Connie Brockman, but it was so bad that I only used it once because when the bouncer looked at it for more than five seconds, I confessed and went home. Right as she hit send, AGAIN, her phone started ringing, which made her scream. She looked at the display, and it was Blake. Or was it Mr. Phillips?? What was he to her? AAAAAAAAAAHHHH. She raised the phone to her ear and said, as calmly as possible, “Hello?” “I seriously didn’t know someone could be that textually irritating.” The man had the deepest, sexiest voice. Such a shame. She replied, “What, that? That’s only scratching the surface.” “As much as I enjoy hearing my phone ping every five seconds, I feel I must inform you that I will not be responding to your messages.” She rolled her eyes and popped another fry in her mouth. “Because you have fat thumbs and can’t keep up?” “Because it would be unprofessional for me to be texting an employee.” She said, “I see. What if I was texting that I was too sick to work?” “A call to the office would be the best course of action," he replied. “What if I was texting to tell you the office phones weren’t working?” She heard him clear his throat and wondered what he was wearing. His deep voice sounded polite and business-like when he said, “Miss Shay, is there something I can help you with?” “Miss Shay? Oof.” Izzy sat back on the couch and said, “Listen, I just want to say that if you’re going to fire me for the lie – which I totally regret - and for when I was kind of a jerk to you, can you please just do it now? I can’t deal with it hanging over my head.” “I have no plans whatsoever regarding your employment.” He sounded like he thought she was absurd when he said, “Pam is your manager, so she’s the only one who makes those decisions.” Izzy said, “But you’re her boss.” “Yep.” “And I flipped you off.” “Wait - when did you flip me off?” Shit. She said in a slow, apologetic tone, “You know what? It’s not important.” He made a laugh-like sound, a deep noise of surprise like he hadn’t expected to be amused by her, and said, “I guess I missed that.” “I’m very quick with obscene gestures - my special gift, really.” “So it would seem.” “To summarize,” she said, unable to wrap her head around it, “You’re telling me that you’re going to do nothing about my questionable behavior.” “Correct.” “Wow.” She couldn’t believe it; she still had her job? She said, “I feel like I should thank you.” “So…?” “So thank you. Truly.” She took a deep breath and said, “Now, um, can I talk to you as Izzy from the coffee shop, not Izzy from work?” “The girl I met in the coffee shop wasn’t named Izzy," he said, sounding terse, "So I don’t actually know how that game would work.” She thought about that for a second, got an idea, and pressed the END CALL button.
Blake Blake looked at his phone in disbelief. She hung up on him? Before he could even process that, his phone started ringing. He sighed and answered. “Hello?” “Hi, is this Blake from Starbucks?” she asked. “What are you doing?” “You may not remember me, but do you recall recently getting coffee spilled on you by a breathtaking stranger?” “Yeah.” He picked up the bottle of Dos Equis that was sitting beside his chair and took a long drink, irritated by the ridiculous situation he suddenly found himself in. Not only was Amy a liar who wasn’t actually Amy at all, but she technically worked for him. Talk about a lose/lose scenario. Even if he was cool with casual dishonesty, which he so fucking wasn't, Starbucks Girl was on his payroll, so she was simply an employee. Nothing more, nothing less. She said, “I know you said you were going to call me, but I couldn’t wait. I rather like hearing the voice of the person I’m talking to.” “Is that right?” he said, leaning back in his chair and lifting one corner of the beer's label with his thumb nail. Even though he'd never seen her before that morning, he could picture her face perfectly. “It is.” She cleared her throat and said, “And for some reason, your dumb face keeps popping into my head.” That made him smile, even though he didn’t want to be amused by her. “Maybe you’re just bonkers.” He heard the giggle in her voice when she said, “Maybe, but I actually think it’s your eyes.” “My eyes make you bonkers?” “Your eyes make me think you’re a vampire,” she corrected. “So you are bonkers.” “You just have intensely villainous eyes," she said. "They stick with a person.” “I have no idea how to respond to that.” “Either I beg your pardon or thank you will suffice.” “Do people ever know what you’re talking about?” he asked. “I don’t know - I never ask them, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say rarely.” Her voice changed, then, the teasing tone gentling into sincerity. “Listen, Blake, we are strangers who happened upon each other multiple times in one day. I’m certain you think I’m a creep because of the coffee lie, but in my life, I’m usually honest to a fault. Klutzy, but rigidly honest. So to prove my non-creepitude, I’m going to tell you five embarrassingly honest things about myself." “Okay,” he said, knowing he should stop her but too interested in hearing the five things to actually do it. Goodyear walked up to the desk, bumped into it, then started meowing and walking in circles until Blake picked up the visually-impaired cat and set him on his lap. “First of all,” she said, “I think you should know that even though I’m an adult, I still sleep with my baby pillow. It’s nothing freaky - I'm not into wearing onesies and pretending I'm a baby - but my mother never pried the pillow out of my sticky hands like she should have, so I still need that little lumpy rectangle in order to get a good night’s sleep.” He was smiling again, damn her. “Wow. Noted.” “The second thing - I have a large pizza delivered to my apartment at least four times a week, even though I live alone.” “What do you watch while you eat it?” he asked, wondering what kind of apartment she lived in. “I’m very much a creature of habit, so it’s one of two things. I either turn on New Girl and re-watch episodes I’ve already seen - comfort TV, or I watch Little House on the Prairie.” “You’re shitting me.” His grandma loved Little House and sadly, he’d seen nearly every episode. “I shit you not. My grandma loves that show,” she replied, “So I grew up watching it every time I went over to her house. I swear to God that Charles Ingalls has ruined men for me by being so damned perfect.” “That is a high man bar, isn’t it?” She said, “The Mount Everest of man bars, for sure.” He heard a bag rustling and asked, “Is that a fast-food bag I hear?” “Charles Ingalls would never put me on the spot like that, as a gentleman never asks,” she said, “But if you must know, you are correct - McDonalds is in my lap this very minute.” “Lucky.” He couldn’t think of the last time he’d had fast food. “I had a Clif bar for dinner.” “As someone who recently dabbed your chest for an uncomfortable, yet not unenjoyable, length of time,” she said. “I can say with certainty that there is no way would your pecs be that spectacular if you filled them with trans fats and French fries.” “Did you just compliment my pecs?” “Settle down - it’s just an observation. No different than there’s a book, that is a car, those are spectacular pectorals.” He wasn’t sure how she was making him laugh when she’d stressed the hell out of him earlier, but he scratched Goodyear's head and said, “I’m taking it as a compliment, no matter what you say.” “Suit yourself. Honest question - can you do a one-handed push-up?” “Probably…?” “Fascinating. I will file that little morsel away to revisit later.” She made a noise in her throat and said, “Okay - third fact about me. Also, I hope you’re preparing yours.” “My what?” “Your five facts, Phillips. This is important.” “I never said that I would--” “Number three,” she said, using the same tone a teacher would use if a student were interrupting, “I’m a little obsessed with Reylo fanfic.” He said, “I'll be honest - I don’t know what those words mean.” “You don’t know what fanfic is?” she asked. “I mean, sort of," he said. "It’s just, like, people making up new stories about existing works, right?” “Yes.” She sounded a little impressed as she said, “And Reylo pertains to stories about Kylo Ren and Rey.” “From Star Wars?” “Yes.” He didn’t really understand, but he said, “Ah. Okay.” “Obviously you don’t understand and that’s fine. I’ll be sure to say “Ah - okay” about your number three when your turn comes around.” “I’m not--” “Number four,” she barked out, a smile in her voice, “I grew up here, have one older brother who finds me to be generally annoying, and I was briefly famous in eighth grade when a video of me falling down my school’s stairs went viral.” “I will need a link or it isn’t true,” he said, turning his head so he didn't get a mouthful of tail as Goodyear started walking in circles on his chest, trying to get comfortable. “Sending right now,” she laughed, and his phone buzzed with a text notification. “But if you make fun of my hair, I swear to everything holy that I will shank you with an ice pick.” “Do you have an ice pick?” he asked. “Of course not - does anyone? Has anyone in the history of life ever needed an ice pick, other than, um, ice harvesters?” “I don’t think ice harvester is a thing," Blake said. “Agree to disagree. Okay. Are you ready for number five?” “I don’t know - am I?” “You can’t be.” “Then I’m not.” “All right.” It sounded like she let out a huge breath before she said, “Number five. I totaled my car last year when I sneezed on the interstate.” He shook his head and couldn’t not smile. Again. “Yeah - I’m gonna need more information.” “My foot involuntarily slammed on the brakes when I sneezed," she explained, "which caused a Honda CRV to rear-end my Civic, which pushed me into the side of a Ford Expedition.” “Is it weird that I’m impressed by your recollection of the makes and models of the vehicles involved?” he asked, laughing against his will. “Not at all - I am incredibly impressive and you are right to feel that way.” “Not what I said," he countered. “I know it's what you meant," she replied. "Okay now you." “No, thank you.” “Then I’ll ask you five questions.” “Do I have a choice here?" he asked, knowing he needed to end the conversation and get off the damn phone. But - dammit - there was just something about her that made him want to linger. “Okay – number one. Where did you grow up, and where did you go to college?” “That’s two questions,” he replied as other cat appeared in the doorway. “Since I included both in one sentence, it is one question.” “Sure it is,” Blake said, moving his arm so Hole could jump on his lap. “I grew up in Omaha, and went to college in Minnesota.” “Were you in a frat?” she asked. “No frat but I played basketball.” “Shut up - so did I!” “Really?” She hadn’t struck Blake as looking particularly athletic, but maybe that was because he’d been obsessed with her legs in those high heels and had been a little oblivious to pretty much everything else. “Where?” “LaVista Junior High.” “So…not in college. Got it. Not entirely relevant, but I’ll allow it.” He was smiling again, dammit. “Tell me everything.” She told him about how she only went out for basketball in ninth grade because her friend Lindy wanted to, and how she scored a whopping two points over the course of the season. She rambled about running hundreds of laps because of missed free throws, and finished the story with, “Yes, the coaches hated me, but I feel like I might’ve taught them a little something, too.” “I think they probably just hated you.” “Can it.” He thought he heard the Little House theme song in the background just before she said, “Okay - number two. Were you mad when I spilled coffee on you this morning? Honest answers only.” God, had that really been the same day? Talk about a long one. He reached for his beer and said, “The honest answer - and I’m only saying this because we will not be talking after tonight - is that you spilling coffee on me was a fucking lovely surprise.” Her voice was quiet when she said, “It was?” “Sure. It’s not often that a funny, charming, beautiful girl – though no longer beautiful to me because she’s now just an employee - appears out of nowhere and starts rubbing your chest in a coffee shop.” “I am all of those things.” He heard a breathless laugh as she said, “Including the no-longer-beautiful employee.” “Yeah,” he agreed, feeling oddly unsettled by that. “Okay, um, number three,” she said. “What is your--” “Number three?” he scoffed, startling Hole with his raised voice. “How is this number three? I’m beginning to have serious reservations about our hiring process.” She laughed again. “Shhhh. Number three--” “Number three. When you stepped into the elevator at Incite,” he interrupted, “I had an instant daydream about hitting the stop button and seeing what transpired. So when you actually did it…hell, it felt like a Big Fate kind of moment.” She didn’t laugh, didn’t say anything, and he let his head fall backward so he could stare at the ceiling and fucking regret his idiotic mouth for actually saying those words out loud. After a moment, he said, “You there?” He heard her clear her throat. “So is there any way for us to go back--” “No.” He looked out the window, out at the city lights, and felt a heavy load of disappointment settle over him as he said, “There are rules, and I have ethics. Regardless of the Amy thing, Isabella Shay is on my team, therefore off-limits.” “But I--” “Actually, I should probably go now.” He grabbed Goodyear and Hole, stood up, and walked toward the kitchen. He needed to feed the cats and get on with life sans Starbucks Girl. He said, “You know we can’t text and call anymore, right?” “Um,” she said, and something about her tone made him stop walking. He listened as she said, “Isabella Shay is your employee, so you definitely shouldn’t be communicating with her after hours. But if, from time-to-time, you were to get a random text from Amy, a girl you met at Starbucks, would that be such a bad thing?” Shit-shit-shit-shit, he thought, knowing what the correct answer was. There were no grey areas regarding ethics in the workplace - he wholeheartedly believed that. So he didn't know what the fuck was wrong with him when he heard himself say, "I suppose not." "Okay - I have to go now. Bye." Before he could say a word, the call ended. He shook his head, went into the kitchen and grabbed the cat food, holding the guys against his chest as he wondered who Isabella Shay really was. And just as he was setting the bowl on the floor and putting down the cats, he got a text. Hi, it's Amy from Starbucks.