Page 60 of Dream with Me

“Oh, nothing. I must just have a resting frown face.”

I grab my pen and my pad of paper to write some notes down, hoping this will distract him from standing at my desk unless he has something he needs from me. This is his new thing. Since I’m very careful not to be alone with him and have turned down all his requests to go to lunch, he now stands at the side of my desk, usually for idle conversation with casual innuendos tossed in. It’s nothing I can go to HR about—it’s too subtle—and I’m pretty sure they’d say I’m misreading things. But it’s hard to misread when someone is clearly looking at parts of your body in a suggestive manner. Or when they say something that could be interpreted one way in a normal conversation but in a flirty or intimate context, it takes on a whole new meaning.

Still, he’s my direct supervisor, so I can’t tell him to stop standing at my desk. I usually just get back to work and hope he’ll go away. Today, though, he doesn’t.

“Get your bag. We’re going to lunch to celebrate you being done with your test.” Will already has his jacket on.

“I haven’t even found out if I passed yet. It seems a little early for a celebratory lunch.”

“Not at all. Just the fact that you finished the test is enough to celebrate. Many people take two or three parts of the test and never finish the fourth, so they never get their CPA license. This is a big deal.”

“Well, I’m not sure going to lunch with my supervisor is appropriate...”

“It’s not only us. The team is invited. We’re going ahead to get the table. They’re coming. Let’s go.”

He leans across me, locks my computer screen, then shuts the lid. I push my chair away and stand, uncomfortable with his invasion of my space. It looks like I’m going. I don’t know what to do, so I grab my bag and sweater, and follow him.

We walk to a small restaurant less than a block away.

When we enter, the hostess—who makes no attempt to hide the fact that she’s checking Will out—asks, “How many today?”

“Just us—” I whip my head over to look at him. “Kidding. There’ll be five of us today. We’re here to get things started.”

I’m acutely uncomfortable. After five minutes, when nobody else has arrived, Will suggests we go ahead and order.

“My meal tends to take longer to prepare, so it’s a good idea to get it started,” he says.

I wonder why there are only three people joining us if this is supposed to be a celebration—and who they are. I have some casual acquaintances at the office, but Tillie and Ruthie are my only friends, and I’m nearly sure Will wouldn’t have invited them.

This is all out of my wheelhouse. I’ve been married to Troy for the last fifteen years and with him for three years before that. Being two years behind everyone else age-wise and basically a total nerd—I proudly own that now—I didn’t have much exposure to men as I grew older, except for my brothers, of course. As for flirting and how to handle it, I’m not sure whether I’m being sensitive or if I should speak up now that I’m not okay with this. Maybe I’m overreacting, and someone else will show up soon.

Troy was my first everything. My first kiss. We lost our virginity to each other, which I know is shocking. The hot high school quarterback was still a virgin his senior yearandwaited for his younger girlfriend to turn eighteen before he’d agree to do anything physical with me. He’s my first love. My only love.

I reluctantly place my order and find myself glancing at the door, wishing someone else would show up. By the time our food arrives, we’ve been here for more than twenty-five minutes, and it’s clear to me by now this isn’t a celebration with the group. This is an ambush to get me to lunch with him alone after I’ve turned him down every time he asked. My cheeks heat with anger. Just because a woman gives you an answer you don’t like doesn’t mean you find another way to get what you want.

I pick at my lunch, answering questions when Will tries to make conversation. The good thing is I’ve come to learn Will loves talking about his work, so I don’t have to do much to keep the conversation going.

“We should talk about what we can do to get you moved into a senior accountant position once you’ve been here six months,” Will says.

What?

“A senior accountant? I’ve only been a junior accountant for a couple of months. I feel like I should get a couple years of experience before moving up.”

Will shrugs. “It can be determined on an individual basis.”

I ignore him.

After another ten minutes, the server checks on us and asks if we’d like anything else. Before Will can answer, I tell her, “Just the checks, please. Separate checks.” He shakes his head at her and holds up one finger, and I’m irritated by this.

I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when a shiver rushes through me. Ifeelhim before Iseehim.

My eyes search the space of the small restaurant and that’s when I notice them. Troy and Lincoln, in their fire department uniforms, are standing by the takeout area. I know Lincoln loves this place, and they sometimes get takeout for the station from here. Of course, it had to be today.

I’m not sure what my face does, but the inside of my chest is shaky, and my lower belly tenses. I don’t want Troy to get the wrong idea about this lunch with Will. Troy’s probably twenty-five feet away—too far to say anything—but his face speaks volumes. A flash of hurt appears in his eyes, but then they harden, and his expression goes blank, flattened, void of the smile he usually wears for me. I follow his gaze as our check arrives, and Will is quick to grab it and slide his credit card into the little binder. Oh, no, not going to happen. I pull a twenty out of my purse and move to set it on the table, but Will grabs my hand to stop me.

I look back up and see Troy’s lips pursed and his eyes narrow. His jaw is tight. He must say something or do something because Lincoln, who’s been talking to the owner, a high school friend of his, turns to look in our direction. When Lincoln realizes it’s me—me, with another man—sitting across the room, his mouth falls open. His face reddens, and he clenches his fists tight. He starts to walk toward us, but Troy grabs his arm, preventing his advance and drawing him back to the counter. They’re talking, but I can’t make it out. Lincoln shakes his head, throws me one more disgusted glance, and turns back to his friend.

I’m about ready to get up and explain that this is absolutely not what it looks like. I know I don’t owe him an explanation, though. He’s still my husband, and I imagine this looks like a romantic lunch between colleagues. But then, as if in slow motion, I watch as the pretty, young blonde woman I noticed earlier who’s working behind the counter walks up to the three men. Troy is leaning against the counter, his forearms resting on it and his hands clasped. The woman places her hand onmyhusband’s forearm. It draws his attention away from me and to her. My face heats as her hand lingers there for several long seconds, and I don’t like it. I feel feral. I force myself to look away.

---