Michael arches his eyebrows, asking, “You guys have tried to hook up how many times?”
“Only two,” I say.
“At what point is it dating? Three times? Four?”
“It’s dating when we say it’s dating. And we’re not,” I say.
He sits forward in his chair like he’s a bloodhound who’s caught a scent. “Why do you want to reschedule?”
I shrug and put the printouts in the proper file in my desk drawer. Generally, I’m kind of messy—when I got around to cleaning my apartment the other week, I saw that my dishes really were growing mold; that’s a new level of nasty, even for me—but when it comes to this business, I’m super organized. I keep things alphabetized and color coordinated. My email inbox drops to zero unread at the end of every day. Everything’s paid exactly on time.
“Is it because you don’t want it to be over?” Michael asks. “You’re dragging it out?”
I don’t answer. Because it’s complicated. It’s true that Anna and I have been texting all week, making random observations, sharing funny news articles and cute animal videos and stuff like that. Talking to her fills a space in my life that I didn’t realize was empty, and I’ll be sad to see that end.
But I’m also nervous. I think I know what I need to do the next time we’re together, and I break into a sweat every time I think about it.
“I’m going to ask her about rescheduling while I’m thinking about it,” I say, picking up my phone and texting her the message Hey, can we meet on Sunday night instead of tomorrow?
“So let’s say you guys meet one more time and you finally hook up. What then? It’s over? You never talk to each other again?” he asks.
“That’s what usually happens after a hookup,” I say, but I don’t feel good about it.
Michael starts to comment, but my phone buzzes with a message from Anna. That’s fine.
That’s all she says. There aren’t any emojis, no funny comments. Something’s off.
Are you ok? We can stick to the original time if it’s a problem for you, I tell her.
I’m ok, she replies, and again, that’s it. This isn’t like her.
“I have to call her real quick,” I say out loud, and Michael frowns slightly as he watches me dial her number and put the phone to my ear.
The phone rings so many times that I’m sure it’s going to voice mail, but she finally answers, “Hello?” Her voice has a strange quality to it that puts me on edge.
“Are you really okay? If you want to stick to tomorrow, that’s fine. Or we can cancel or rain-check. Whatever you’re—”
“No, Sunday is fine. I’m fine,” she says, but her voice breaks halfway through the last word.
She’s crying.
The sound stabs straight at my chest, and before I’m completely aware of it, I’m opening my desk drawer and putting my wallet and keys and things in my pockets.
“Where are you?” I ask. There’s noise in the background. Pretty sure she’s outside.
“On my way home,” she says.
“Cross streets?”
“Why do you . . . Oh. You don’t need to come see me. That’s really nice of you, but I’m okay.” She releases a shaky breath that’s like a mile long. “I see my apartment building. I’ll be home in two minutes.”
“Be right there.”
“Quan—”
I hang up before I can hear the rest of what she says.
Getting up from his chair, Michael asks, “What’s going on?”