Page 36 of Truth Be Told
Those unsaid things don’t dissipate as we leave each other. They hauntingly follow both of us, and I hurry now to get to work, those words much more urgent to escape from than any amount of cold. When I turn my final corner, the building of Thatcher Industries comes into view, but I can’t bring my mind where it needs to be, which is in preparation for the first meeting of the day. Instead, my mind remains on her, the way it has secretly been these last two weeks, and the way I know it will continue to be until I have her again. Stella. My Stella, who I pulled out of harm’s way with my own two hands. It feels as though part of her should be permanently indebted to me, and yet I know that’s not the case. I only want it to be, wish it was.
I wish I didn’t feel this way, but I can’t help it, knowing that she’s not yet mine.
STELLA
I arrive at Thatcher Industries precisely fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to meet Cohen and with a bagel in hand. I’m early because the midday sun has finally warmed the air a little, and I wanted to get out in it to warm my face and stretch my legs; I have a bagel because I’m starving, and I couldn’t wait the few more minutes until going out to eat with Cohen. Passing the smell of fresh baked bread on my way here was too much for me to take on an empty stomach. Bread. It’s a weakness.
I pick a piece off and pop it into my mouth. I’ve managed to finish half of it, which has left me perfectly satiated for the time being.
I left my scarf and hat behind at work, taking with me only the bare necessity of my coat. I don’t even have my purse with me; I crammed my wallet into one of my coat’s big outer pockets. My gloves, too, are in the opposite pocket, at the ready should I need them.
I look up at the enormous building in front of me. I’ve never walked down this street before, although I’m sure I’ve driven down it. Walking gives you a more accurate sense of perspective, and now I can see the building for what it truly is – a pretty amazing work of architecture. I wonder if Cohen had anything to do with its design, any say in the way it boldly stands out from all the other buildings, making itself–himself–known. It definitely testifies to how rich he is.
I check the time. I’m still early. I’d really like to go up, to check out more of his workplace and see him in action, but I hesitate because I haven’t been invited. Still, this is Cohen we’re talking about here. My savior. My lucky charm. The one who dropped everything for me that one night, and another night as well.
The one I almost didn’t ever talk to again. How did I let that happen? I let my apprehension get the better of me, that’s how. I thought it wouldn’t be right, even though I confessed to Lorelei that I thought I was falling in love with the guy. That part was true – but sometimes love requires you to make sacrifices.
I sigh. I’ll do it. If this is the first step toward connecting the two of us again, the least I can do is show my interest in what he does. I grip the long steel handle and pull the massive glass door open. A rush of warm air, powdered by the pressure of a strong heating system, floods over me, and I have to push through it and the heavy door to make my way in.
When the door slams closed behind me, it’s dead quiet. The sounds of the street and citizens outside are immediately hushed, and all I can hear now are the rustling of papers and the clicking of a few select keyboards and mice. The interior of the building is just as impressive, and as I look around I’m reminded of Cohen’s home. Everything’s in its place, the same way that it was there, and just as similarly there isn’t a speck of dust or dirt to be found. A few female employees flutter around, clutching manila folders to their chests, their heels clicking as they walk across the polished marble floor.
I approach the wide, round desk that stands directly in front of me. A man is behind the counter, sitting at a computer. The front of the desk readsTHATCHER INDUSTRIESin crisp, bold letters.
“Good morning,” he sings. “Can I help you?”
“Um, yes, I’m here to see Cohen.”
The man regards me carefully, and I’m reminded of my similar dumb encounter with the security guard at Cohen’s front gate. I guess I’m still not good at this whole rich person thing.Stop calling the rich guy by his first name, Stella. No one will take you seriously.I roll my eyes at my own foolishness.Obviously.
I clear my throat and straighten my back. “Mr. Thatcher. I’m here to see Cohen Thatcher.”
As the man sets to work at his computer, no doubt checking Cohen’s schedule, I notice that he is dressed better than I am. He’s wearing a form-fitting gray suit, with a white undershirt and a purple tie. The cuffs on his wrists are crisp and pristine as he types away on the white, standalone keyboard in front of him. I try not to show my embarrassment.
Under my coat, I’m wearing little more than an old black dress shirt, my favorite pair of skinny jeans, and a comfy pair of ankle boots, which, these days, I still consider to be my work shoes. I used to work in heels all night at Sapphire, I remember as I crinkle my toes in the roominess of my boots. Damned if my feet can afford to work in heels during the day, too.
“I’m sorry,” the man says, “what’s your name?”
“Stella Montgomery. But I’m not–”
“No, I’m sorry, but we don’t have you down for anything in here.” He continues to scan the computer, his finger flicking at the mouse.
“You wouldn’t. I don’t have an appointment.”
Before I can explain, he continues, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’re going to have to make an appointment if we don’t already have you scheduled. That’s how we work around here.”
“I really don’t need an appointment. I just need to see him. We have a lunch date for…” I check the time once more, “ten minutes from now. Can’t I just head up?”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Then can you at least let him know that I’m here?” I gesture to the phone that rests no more than a couple of inches away from him.
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that either. It’s showing here that Mr. Thatcher has a meeting that just ended at ten forty-five. There’s a fifteen minute window in which we don’t disturb him. He makes that very clear.”
I realize that Cohen, being Cohen, is super important to everything that has to do with Thatcher Industries. Hell, CohenisThatcher Industries. But couldn’t this guy at least help me out?
“Okay,” I say. “Is there at least somewhere I can wait then?”
His demeanor suddenly changes. “Of course.” He stands and leaves the safety of the desk, coming around to my side. “Would you like anything to drink?”
