Page 2 of Finding Mr. July

“Oh, come on. It’s a compliment, and you know it,” Ashley says, setting her blinged-out travel mug down on her desk. “Where’s Eric this morning?”

Eric rounds out our group of five, and I’ve suspected for a few weeks that he and Ashley have something going on.

I’m about to make an insinuating comment, but then the glass door to the elevator vestibule swings open, and my former college roommate turned nonprofit mentor, Rachel, walks in. Time to get to work.

“How is your morning going? Mine is tip-top,” she says when I join her in her office. She’s in an orange and yellow floral blouse that makes her brown eyes pop and sparkle. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood around Rachel Denofrio.

I tell her about the closet mishap while she unpacks her laptop and starts it up.

“Wait. Jonathan got you out?” she asks, pausing for a moment, power cord in hand. “Jonathan Summers?”

I shrug.

She leans back in her chair. “Well, color me baffled. He’s always struck me more as the type who’d want to lock people in a closet. Preferably the whole office so he doesn’t have to deal with us.”

“Right?” My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s my brother texting me:

Delay in a case this afternoon. Can you drive Ava to tennis practice?

“Hold on one sec,” I tell Rachel as I type out my response: Sure thing!

My niece is pretty cool for an ornery teenager, so I don’t mind spending time with her.

“Hot brother?” Rachel asks.

I glare at her. “Don’t call him that.”

She grins. “I bet you wish you’d never introduced us.”

“Is that what I did? If my memory serves me right, he stopped by to pick me up, and you inserted yourself into our conversation.”

“Details, details.”

I flick a paper clip her way across the desk.

“So cheeky for an intern,” she says, but the smile remains in place. “Where were we?”

“Let’s go over the agenda for this week.” I pull up the schedule on my laptop.

“Did he talk to you at all?” she asks.

“My brother?”

“No, Jonathan.”

We’re still on that topic? “Some, I guess.”

“Really?” She leans forward. “Like what?”

“What’s with the twenty questions? Like ‘Help I’m stuck,’ ‘I’ll get you out,’ ‘Thank you,’ ‘You’re welcome.’ Riveting stuff.”

“That’s it?”

“Oh, and he may also have insinuated I’m vain and careless, so there’s that.”

“Mmm, yeah, sounds more like it. Such a waste of a pretty face.”

“His face is pretty, isn’t it?” I agree. “Ugh. Anyway. You have a busy week, which means I have a busy week, so let’s not waste it on grumpy web designers.”

“Right.” Rachel puts on her blue-framed readers and peers at her screen. “What’s first?”

“The release on the Madagascar forest project needs to go out by Wednesday. It’s almost done. Then we have the donor breakfast tomorrow.” I scroll further into the week. “And Friday is Foundation Day, when I’ll get my final assignment.”

This will be the assignment that decides which intern will win the program liaison job in Glasgow.

GCL is opening an office there to work specifically with the preservation of the Celtic rainforest, and since our office here in Washington and our Australian branch have had a lot of success with temperate rainforest work, Manny Gupta, our executive director, is sending staff from these two offices to get the new branch up to speed and train local staff.

The assignment is for a year with a possibility for an extension, and it’s a great opportunity to jump-start a new career.

Manny is making a big deal out of the announcement of the assignment—a secret task—having saved it for the annual GCL birthday party on September 16.

“Are you nervous?” Rachel asks.

My knee-jerk reaction is to tell her no, that I’ve got it under control, but we’ve known each other long enough that I can afford honesty. “A little. I don’t like not knowing what it is, but I feel ready.”

“I’ve taught you well, my young Padawan.” She puts her palms together and bows her head.

I smile. “That you have.”

Rachel is the GCL communications manager in our office, and together with her team and counterparts in Copenhagen, Brasilia, and Canberra, she handles the flow of information for the organization.

With her as my mentor, I’ve learned about everything from managing contacts for digital fundraising efforts and creating press releases, to strategizing internal training to make sure each global office stays consistent in their messaging and endeavors.

I’ve cycled through several different teams and seen other sides of GCL, too, in my nine months here, but I started with Rachel and will end with her as well.

Her enthusiasm for her work has been a breath of fresh air.

After slogging through the past few years of legal consultancy for Fortune 500 corporations that are more interested in finding loopholes than making a real difference, her passion for the world we live in and matching expertise are exactly what the doctor ordered.

On days when I question my career switch, all it takes is a dose of Denofrio, and I remember why I’m here.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Rachel tucks an auburn curl behind her ear and rests her palms on her desk. “We’ll need to follow up with our Aussie friends when they wake up over there. They should have compiled survey results for us. Remind me.”

“I can get the stats from R&D for the press release if you want,” I offer.

“Thanks. Yeah, if you can do that before the all-hands, that would be great.”

And the day is off and running.

At 10:00, we head to the large conference room on the other side of the elevator vestibule.

GCL takes up a whole floor of this five-story building in downtown Seattle, and when they leased the space, they left the walls up that divide the floor into two separate offices.

To get from one side to the other, you have to pass the elevator bank.

In addition to meeting spaces and a rec room, the other side also houses HR and the creative team—event planning, web design, and such—so as we enter the room, I find myself looking for Jonathan.

He’s in his usual spot in the far corner opposite the windows, staring at his phone.

Typically, he stands, no doubt to facilitate a quicker exit once the meeting is done, but today he’s pulled up a chair, and his left hand absentmindedly massages his right shoulder.

Black Henley, black jeans, black leather cords around his right wrist, lips set in an impassive line.

He’s every emo kid at the back of my high school classroom in adult form.

Above this. Uninterested. Lost maybe? The thought is there unprompted.

His corner looks like a solitary bubble in contrast to everyone else milling about, abuzz with late summer revelry and speculations about the Foundation Day party on Friday.

GCL always throws a nice bash, and this one comes with a dose of suspense because of the impending intern assignment.

“Do you think he looks more miserable than usual?” I ask Rachel under my breath. I hope he didn’t hurt himself breaking down the door earlier.

“Who?”

I tilt my head in his direction.

She glances that way. “Nah. Same old.”

I nod and look Jonathan’s way again. He’s put his phone down and crossed his arms, but his gaze is still locked downward. His left foot taps against the carpet.

“Happy Monday, everyone!” Manny calls, entering the room, effectively hushing the noise. “Let’s start off with a round of applause for Margot for getting such great visibility with her piece on our collaboration with the Nature Conservancy last week. Well done!”

Once the room quiets again, he goes on to announce on-track numbers for the third quarter, areas that need attention this week, and his excitement for a potential new corporate sponsor. It’s short and sweet, like the man himself.

“And obviously I hope I’ll see you all Friday evening,” he says to wrap up before giving each of the team leads an opportunity to speak.

Sometimes they use their time to acknowledge good work, other times it’s to make requests for collaboration or to ask advice.

When the design manager, DaVon, speaks up today, it’s none of those.

“Just want to let everyone know I’ve alerted facilities of a safety issue,” he says. “It’s been brought to my attention that the pantry closet door can get stuck if you’re not careful. Apparently, there was a close call recently. They should be replacing the hardware before end of day tomorrow.”

Rachel nudges my side. “Is he talking about you?” she hisses.

He is. Startled, my gaze flicks once more toward the back corner, and this time, Jonathan is watching me.

I don’t know if I should be flattered that my “incident” has sparked this lingering worry in him or offended that he’s somehow managed to insinuate again that I was careless.

But despite my internal conflict, I’m still unable to look away. He’s so frustratingly inscrutable.

“A close call?” Manny asks.

“Yeah.” DaVon turns to Jonathan. “Did you want to elaborate?”

The question breaks our connection as Jonathan shifts and huffs out a breath. “Not really,” he says curtly. “I can fill Manny in later.”

Judging by the whispers that follow, I know I’m not alone in today being the first time I’ve heard his voice. This is rare indeed.

Rachel grips my sleeve. “What is happening?” she asks under her breath. “Did you break him?”

As if stringing a few words together in public is a feat. Most of us do it on a daily basis. I am concerned about his shoulder, though. He’s rubbing it again.

DaVon shrugs like “fair enough” before ceding the floor to the event team, and the meeting soon ends.

As usual, Jonathan is the first one out the door.

“Give me one sec,” I tell Rachel, and hurry after him.

He’s fast, but so am I, and I catch up to him before he rounds the corner to his office. “Hey!”

At first, I think he’s about to ignore me, but when I call out a second time, he spins.

“Oh, it’s you.”

“Last I checked.” I try a smile but get nothing back.

Over the years, I’ve sat across the table from countless clients, some posturing, others submissive, all needing my legal expertise for one reason or another, and if there’s one thing I’ve always prided myself on, it’s the ability to read people’s eyes.

Windows to the soul and all that. They may act confident, but their eyelids will twitch with suppressed nerves, or they’ll assure me their paperwork is in order while refusing to look straight at me.

Jonathan’s eyes are a light gray with a pronounced darker outline around the iris, but where I expect to find more clues as to his state of mind—curiosity maybe, or irritation—there’s nothing.

His expression is utterly controlled. Like he’s pulled down a shutter and padlocked it.

It makes any words I’d planned on saying dissipate.

“Did you need something?” His hand goes to his shoulder again.

“Um.” I swallow. “Yeah. Yes. I was just going to make sure you’re not hurt?” I nod toward his arm.

Finally, a tiny double-blink. He drops his hand to his side. “I’m fine.”

“Because if you’re sore, I have this muscle cream that—”

He cuts me off. “Not necessary.” He looks past me to where people are making their way down the hallway. “If that’s it, I should get back to work.”

I press my lips together. “Okay. Well, I’m sorry that I…

” My voice trails off as he turns and walks away.

Again. What the? “Have a nice day,” I call after him to no reaction at all.

“Or whatever,” I mutter to myself as I set off back to my desk.

“A miserable day works, too, if that’s what you prefer. ”

Unreadable or not, at least I figured out one thing about incorrigible grump Jonathan Summers today. If I never have the misfortune to encounter him again, it will be too soon.