I'll Be Your Everything (19 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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Oh yeah. That. “I’ll figure something out. When did he call?”
“A few minutes ago. At nine sharp.”
A nine o’clock call from Mr. Dunn usually means the call is of utmost importance. “Well, if he calls again, route him to my cell. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“I will be here. Bye.”
I want to share all these new complications with Tom, but they are not his problems. I just have to get back. I think better in New York.
We turn in our rentals, and we meet in the main terminal. I’m not hard to find because I’m pushing a bicycle. He makes me kiss him for losing the bet, but he returns the kiss just fine. Checking the bicycle isn’t as tricky as I thought it’d be. They must fly bicycles all the time. Bicycles that fly ... over potholes. That is still a good idea.
We sit several rows apart on a packed flight to JFK, but that’s okay. I’d probably be messing with him instead of thinking all this through. I try to think about all the possible variables, the wild cards, the tragedies that could happen ... and I fall fast asleep.
And I dream.
It’s kind of an ordinary dream at first. I’m walking across the Brooklyn Bridge on a sunny day, only the bridge is completely deserted. Halfway across, I see a man on a bike rolling my way. As he nears, I look down and see my boots. I look up and he makes a beeline for me. I have to jump out of the way, but it’s all slow motion like something out of
The Matrix.
He hits the brakes. He smiles. I walk over to him. He takes my hand.
“Shari.”
I open my eyes. Tom is holding my hand. “Hi.”
“We’re here.”
I look around at an empty plane. I jump up. “Wow. I was out of it.”
I keep holding his hand out of the plane, through the tunnel, and out into the terminal. I like this feeling. It’s as if we’re returning from a business trip together, which we kind of are. He turns to me in front of all these people, kisses me tenderly, and gives me a hug.
“I guess we can’t be seen together till this thing’s over,” I say, pouting.
“We’ll survive.” He squeezes my shoulders. “We’re survivors.”
“Yeah.” I stand on tiptoe and lightly brush his lips with mine. “Call me, okay?”
“I will.”
And then I stand there with all those people rushing around me and watch Tom walking off ahead of me. He’s not hard to see. He walks with purpose, his head up, his eyes straight ahead. I want to run up to him and, I don’t know, dip him to the ground and suck the tongue from his head.
But I don’t.
Mainly because I’m at JFK.
Without a ride.
Hmm.
Why didn’t I put this part in my itinerary?
Taxi?
Why not?
I’m just full of firsts these days.
Chapter 19
 
A
s soon as I leave the terminal and turn on my phone, I see voice mails waiting for me. I listen to the newest one first: “Corrine, this is Dunn. Give me a call soonest.”
I shudder a little. That was a
recent
transferred call. What if I hadn’t had Tia do that? Wait. It would have gone straight to Corrine’s office phone, and she never checks her messages on that thing. I have to do that for her. I stop shuddering. Because of my boss’s incompetence, the holes in my plan fill themselves.
I listen to the next voice mail: “Oh, this is ridiculous. What kind of a phone do you have? I will reimburse you for whatever phone you get, now, just get one! Oh, for goodness’ sake! Call me now, Shari! I need you!”
I sigh. I’ll bet the rest of these are from Corrine, too. I listen to the next one: “Shari, this is Tia. Dunn needs an update from Corrine. You better call him.”
Okay. I’ve already gotten this information. I listen to the next one: “Shari, I told you to keep your phone on. Don’t you ever listen to me? I leave and you fall
completely
apart. Call me immediately!”
And the next: “Shari, where are you? We need to talk! Call me
now!
”
I erase them all and prioritize. I have to deal with Mr. Dunn first since I will be seeing him in a little while. I call the office and have Tia transfer me to him.
“Mr. Dunn, this is Shari Nance. I understand that you’ve been trying to reach Corrine.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Mr. Dunn, Corrine’s been in Australia.” Please don’t ask me any questions!
“But I have an itinerary right here in front of me that says Corrine was in Macon, Georgia, yesterday touring the Peterson Bicycle plant.”
Okay now. Get your “facts” straight, Shari. “That’s right, Mr. Dunn. She
was
in Australia for a little R and R following the LA fiasco, you know, just to clear her head.” And get stung by a box jellyfish, have her breast become a big football, the usual Down Under adventure.
“She went to
Australia
in the middle of an important project?”
Yeah, it does sound suspicious. “Oh, Miss Ross has been working on the Peterson project, I assure you. I have all her notes with me.” In my handy tote bag in my own handwriting. “She gave me quite a bit of information from yesterday’s tour of the plant.”
“I didn’t see you at your desk when I came in. Where are you?”
At JFK eyeing taxis. They all look the same. Who decided taxis should be that shade of yellow? How can you tell which ones won’t rip you off? “Um, I took a half day, Mr. Dunn. I’m getting over a bad chest cold, but I’m all better now.” Yeah, my heart was cluttered, and now it’s clearing. “I’ll be in after lunch, and I’ll bring our ideas straight to you.”
“When will Corrine be back from Macon?” he asks.
Never. “Um, well, you see, she did some snorkeling out in Australia and got stung by a box jellyfish.”
“Nasty sons of bitches.”
I’ll have to send that box jellyfish a thank-you note. “Yes. And she needs to see her doctor Thursday, so she’s going to take the rest of this week off to recover at home. I will be in constant contact with her, so if you need anything, Mr. Dunn, you just give me a call.” And call me first! “Um, she’s turned her cell off. You understand. She doesn’t want to be disturbed. She wants to rest after her, um, harrowing ordeal.”
“And yet in her condition,” Mr. Dunn says, “Corrine flew from Australia to Macon to see Peterson anyway? That’s dedication. That’s determination. That’s the kind of leadership we need around here.”
Yeah, right. She was in Australia waiting on Tom to pleasure her happy space. “Yes sir. It sure is.”
“So what’s our timetable on this Peterson thing?”
Our? What’s he mean by that? “We have a sit-down in the presidential suite at the Millennium on Tuesday.” But I don’t know the time! Shoot. I have to call Mr. Peterson to find out.
“That’s quick. What time?”
“Um, the time hasn’t been confirmed yet. I’ll get right on that. I, um, I talked Mr. Peterson out of having the meeting over at Harrison Hersey and Boulder.”
“Those nasty sons of bitches. I knew they’d try that. How’d you convince Mr. Peterson to do that?”
Yeah. Um, that’s something
Corrine,
not me, would have done. “Corrine was, um, indisposed, you know, with the box jellyfish sting, so she instructed me to call him.” Well, I kind of told
myself
to call him, right? “I mentioned fairness and impartiality, and Mr. Peterson agreed wholeheartedly.”
“Good thinking, Shari. That’s the take-charge attitude you need to have to succeed around here.”
Yeah, and here I am taking charge and waving taxis away. “Yes sir.” Do I mention that we have to have the
finished
product ready to roll for the day before Thanksgiving? Mr. Dunn probably has high blood pressure as rotund as he is, so ... no. It will have to be a surprise to him. And to me. I don’t have anything finished.
“Are we ready for battle?” he asks.
No. “We’ll be ready, Mr. Dunn.”
“I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of HHB. You better be readier than ready.”
Is
readier
a word? “We’ll, um, we’ll knock ’em dead, Mr. Dunn.” If I live through this.
“I can’t wait to see those sons of bitches when we smoke ’em.”
He’ll ...
see
... their faces? “So you’ll be, um, joining us at the Millennium, sir?” Please say no! This isn’t a huge account! I mean, it’s a nice account, don’t get me wrong, but it’s nothing to brag about in
Advertising Age.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mr. Dunn says. “See me as soon as you get in the office with those ideas.”
“Um, will do, Mr. Dunn.”
Click.
He is so rude. Well, hmm. Mr. Dunn will be there. That’s okay, isn’t it? He’ll see
me
in action and ... I don’t have anything to show! I have so much to do! Who do I call next?
A taxi beeps at me. I shake my head.
I call Tia and fill her in on more of the madness. “Can you think of anything I haven’t thought of?”
“No,” Tia says. “I think you have everything covered, but I am so afraid for you.”
That makes two of us. “It’s okay. I’m good. Oh, could you call Mr. Peterson as Shari and ask if the time for the meeting has been finalized? All I know is that we’re meeting on Tuesday at the Millennium.” I give her Mr. Peterson’s number.
“Am I your assistant now?” Tia asks.
She kind of is. “I owe you big-time, Tia.”
“It is okay,” she says. “Of all the people here, I would gladly be your assistant.”
Tia is such a good person. “Um, Corrine may call the office looking for me. Shoot her to my cell, too. Oh, and if Tom calls, do the same.”
“Tom Sexton?”
How much do I tell her? I have to tell someone about Tom! I want to tell the world about Tom! “Yeah, we’re, um ... we’ve become better acquainted.”
“Why is your voice so soft, Shari? How well acquainted are you with him?”
Pretty darn well. “We’re, um, we’re ... close.”
“How close?”
I can’t tell her that. “Let’s just say that I didn’t mean for this to happen, but I’m glad it did, Tia.”
I hear nothing for several seconds. “What are you saying, Shari?”
“I might have, um, kissed on him. A lot. And he kissed back. A lot.” And we cuddled and snuggled and even spooned a little on the couch. It’s not such an evil couch anymore.
“But he is your boss’s boyfriend,” she whispers.
“Not anymore.” I sigh. I don’t have time to explain all this to her. “He’s wonderful, Tia. Amazing, truly amazing.”
She says something in Spanish. “Your life, Miss Shari, is one big carnival.”
Yes, it is, and I’m caught in the middle of a three-ring circus right now. “I’m going to need all the help you can give me, Tia. I’m going to need your help big-time for the next week or so.”
“I will do what I can. And I will pray for you.”
I love good New York Catholics. “Light some candles, too. I’ll be in this afternoon.”
“I am lighting a candle right now. I keep one in my desk for occasions such as these.”
“Thanks.”
“I hope you know what you are doing.”
So do I. “Bye, Tia. See you soon.”
I look at yet another taxi driver waving to me. What? Get on! Maybe if I move away from the curb I won’t get harassed.
Now how can I totally shut out Corrine until I really need to talk to her? If she’s in the air, she won’t be able to answer me if I call now, so I call her cell and leave a “technical difficulties” message: “Corrine.” I count to three. “Shari.” I count to three. “Dropped.” I count to three. “Damaged.” I count to three. “Broken.” I count to three. “Your message.” I count to five. “Call me.” I count to two. “Office only.” I end the call. Now if Corrine gives up on my cell phone and calls the office, Tia will redirect the call to my cell.
Sometimes I am brilliant.
But brilliance isn’t always perfection.
I’m sure I’m forgetting something.
But so far, so good.
Who’s next?
Bryan?
Bryan.
I need a clean slate. Okay, it’s more like a scorched earth, but I have far too many complications right now to have Bryan show up on Friday—or any day for that matter now that Tom and I are ... bonding? We’ve really already bonded. We’re connecting. Yeah. I can’t have Bryan break that connection even for a second.
If I can just hold Bryan off until after Thanksgiving, if I can keep him away from me for a little while longer, I can ... I can end our relationship. What sense does that make? I can’t just put him on hold and then lower the boom later! I have to end it now.
I zip my North Face jacket to the top. It’s getting a little chilly, and here I am about to do the coldest thing to someone who is, despite his small town mind, lack of vision, and inability to accept my choice of a home, my friend. And it’s the longest friendship I’ve ever had. Maybe that’s the angle I have to take. Shoot. “Let’s be friends” doesn’t mean “let’s be friends” anymore. It means, “We’re through, and I don’t want to see you again.” I just ... I just have to put him off for a few days. That’s all.
What time is it? A little after twelve. I hope he’s still working second shift at Advance Auto. He should be at his apartment. I dial the number.
“Hey, Share. What a nice surprise.”
“Hey. Um, this week has been insane, Bryan. Corrine has me busting my tail over this new account, and I’m afraid I won’t have any quality time for you until
after
Thanksgiving, so maybe it’s best you just hold off on your visit.” That should do it. Oh. He probably didn’t hear me the first time. “Um, hold off until after Thanksgiving, okay?”
“But I’ve already got my ticket, Share. I got it real cheap. It’s one of those nonrefundable kinds. I gotta drive down to Charlotte to catch the plane, but it’ll only cost me about a hundred bucks to fly nonstop to New York.”
Oh, Bryan! This was not the time to show some sense. The last time he flew out of Roanoke and had to pay seven hundred bucks to fly to LaGuardia. “I’ll pay you back, I promise.” I am so warped. I’m promising to pay for a ticket to bring Bryan back to Brooklyn
after
Thanksgiving so I can break it off with him forever. How heartless is that?
“Share, I had my heart set on coming up. I cleared my work schedule and everything. I miss you.”
Don’t return the sentiment, Shari. Don’t do it.
But I have to pacify him. I have to make him see things my way.
“I miss you, too, Bryan,” I say. “It’s just that this account is so important, you wouldn’t believe how important, how
crucial
it is.” How much the rest of my life depends on it.
“No. I guess I wouldn’t believe it. I’ve never understood any of what you do.”
Which is another reason to dump your shortsighted tail. Why can’t I just let him have it now? Because I know him. He’ll fly up here Friday and harass the crap out of me. He might even pull a Stanley Kowalski on me and yell, “Shari!” all night long outside the Brooklyner.
“Bryan, I am so stressed right now. I mean, I’m late for work. I am never late for work.” And no, fool, I do not want to get in
your
taxi. Fuzzy dice
and
a hula girl on the dash? Are you kidding? You are a driving cliché, man. Scram!

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