Page 2 of Faker
“Just looking at her...” Disdain dripped from his voice. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to deal.”
So that was it. We would never, ever like each other.
I had no idea what I did to turn him sour so quickly. I should have confronted him, but I didn’t have the strength. I was humiliated, going out of my way to welcome someone who hated me instantly for some unknown reason. From that afternoon, I quit engaging him unless it was a work-related issue and he was the only one who could help. We fell into a pattern of ignoring and arguing with each other.
I shove away the bitter memory and staple copies of a shopping guide I wrote. A soft squeak distracts me, and I look up to see Tate leaning back against his chair, stretching. His sleeve slides up his arm, and I catch a glimpse of skin. His paleness never ceases to wow me. Living in Nebraska, I was surrounded by countless white children in school, but Tate puts them to shame. His skin practically glows. I want to ask what SPF he uses, how long it takes him to burn when he’s outside, but that’s small talk, and he refuses to make it with me.
I could say his complexion makes him haggard, but it would be a lie. The lack of color actually suits him. Raphaelian-hued skin, blond hair, eyes so light blue they’re almost gray. His photo belongs in a travel brochure for Nordic countries. He’s a living, breathing advertisement for that region. It’s another reason I can’t stand him. A person as unpleasant as Tate shouldn’t look that good.
He catches me before I can turn away. Busted.
“Like what you see?”
“Just wondering if you burst into flame the moment you step into sunlight.” I can feel myself blushing, but thankfully, my own tan skin conceals it.
His ever-present neutral expression remains. I’d wager his genes have never been infiltrated by a person of color. His ancestors must have been stationed for generations near the Arctic Circle, surrounded by the Baltic and North Seas, no tan people like me allowed entry for generations.
“Not all of us are lucky enough to tan at the drop of a hat like you do, Emmie. What’s your secret?”
I ignore his sarcastic question. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I will not give it to him.
This is how most of our interactions go. A mix of snide comments and dismissive quips, with a sprinkle of work-related topics every once in a while. Nothing personal.
Despite this mutual disinterest in each other’s lives, I feel like I know him well after eleven months. He reminds me of an android in a sci-fi movie. Cool and polite, but with a machinelike quality. Almost like he’s feigning human reactions for courtesy’s sake, and you can’t tell what’s really behind the wall of artificial feelings.
A robot would be a more pleasant coworker.
I once taped a photo of an android on his computer with the wordsI’m flattered you work so hard to model your personality after minescrawled on the bottom after a particularly infuriating day of snapping at each other. I would have loved to watch him rip it apart in anger, but I was giggling so hard I had to leave the room.
The soft tick of the minute hand on my desk clock pulls me back to the present. Only one more hour until I can go home andshed my work armor. I glance at the lone framed photo on my desk of my younger sister, my mom, and me. Addy is a toddler; I’m just out of kindergarten. We’re soaked from running back and forth into the waves at Hapuna Beach in Hawaii. Our mom kneels behind us, hugging us in her arms. All three of us display impossibly wide grins.
My mouth waters for Spam musubi, my favorite childhood snack. I curl my toes inside my sneakers, wishing they were sand. Nostalgia is hitting hard today. I send Mom and Addy quick “I love you” texts, then punch in a reminder on my phone to email Mom this weekend.
Next to the frame is a hollowed-out coconut half, my favorite keepsake from the Big Island that doubles as a quirky paperweight. I run my fingers over the fuzzy fibers on the shell. Inside rests a message scrawled in my mother’s trademark cursive handwriting.
For my beautifulanak, who’s as sweet and strong as this coconut.
My eyes prick, but I blink away the split second of emotion. Remembering how and why she gave this to me will forever leave me choking back tears.
“Missing Hawaii again?” Tate asks.
Curse this heat. I want to shut my door so bad. “You could say that,” I concede.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Nope.” I gaze at my computer screen and click indiscriminately on random links.
“Come on. I’m a good listener.” He looks at me expectantly, like he thinks I’m actually going to chat with him about my childhood. Fat chance.
“Nope.”
The heavy sigh he releases sounds a lot like disappointment,but I have no idea why. Like I’m going to divulge personal details to the guy who spends every workday staring daggers at me in between bicker sessions. He’ll just make fun of me. Like how he smirks when I call flip-flops “slippers,” or how he frowns when I say “auntie” instead of “aunt.”
Five o’clock hits, and Tate’s gone before I even log off my computer. I glance at his empty chair, my chest tight with the desire to have a normal work relationship with the coworker sitting closest to me. But I remind myself why it’s not possible. He’s weirdly hostile, and I’m a big fat phony. As much as I want to be normal with Tate, I don’t need it. What I do need is to be hard, focused. Even if I have to fake it.
•••
NO TAPPING TODAY.Instead Tate is loudly guzzling coffee from his thermos. I want to yell after every earsplitting slurp. Every time he brings that silver thermos to his lips, I imagine ripping it out of his grip and chucking it against the wall. But I can’t. Because this is a place of business, not a street fight.
