Page 8 of Finding Mr. July

T he atmosphere in the office between the five of us has changed over the weekend.

The only interns who interact ongoingly through the day are Ashley and Eric.

Everyone else keeps to themselves, hunched over keyboards or on their phones in a corner somewhere.

It’s not hostile—we still say hi in the lunchroom—but if there was ever any doubt about it, we’re in the competitive homestretch of our time here, and we feel it.

I make lists and timelines. What I’ll need, when each step has to be completed, people to talk to, projected expenses.

I’m giving myself this first week to recruit models, and then two weeks for the photo shoots.

The rules of the contest state that we can only fundraise at our events, when a service is provided, or with a finished product, but if I start marketing and registering interest as soon as I have a couple of pictures, I’ll at least have a list of sales leads for when the calendar is done.

I also stay far away from the rec room, doing my best to pretend Friday night didn’t happen. Rachel is in meetings all day, but she DMs me after lunch to tell me that Jonathan hasn’t accepted her meeting request for tomorrow yet, which means I can’t delay seeking him out any longer.

He has his back to me when I approach the office he shares with Jacques, who I spotted with Letitia in one of the conference rooms on the way over, looking deep into planning mode.

I knock lightly on the doorpost, suppressing the nervous flicker in my belly at how his shoulders tense at the sound. “Hello?”

“Oh hi,” he says after he turns around, almost sounding friendly. His fingers curl into his palms in his lap.

First small obstacle cleared.

“Getting a lot done?” I ask, stepping into the room.

“You know.” He gestures to his desk but doesn’t say anything else.

His space is tidy, with two monitors lined up in front of him.

There’s a plant in a white pot adding ambiance in one corner, and a cup with a swirling piano key motif holding a handful of pens in another.

To-go mug, orderly stack of papers, and a framed photo of him and an older man by the pyramids of Giza, and that’s it.

On the wall to his left are two framed black-and-white photo prints that look like aerial shots of mountains.

Like his own face, his workspace doesn’t reveal nearly enough about him.

I force myself to stop my visual snooping. “To be honest, this department is probably the one I know the least about,” I say. “What exactly do you do?”

“Um.” He glances at his monitors where a document labeled “GCL Design Style Guide” sits open. He clicks his mouse, and the screen goes black. “Nothing interesting. Did you want something?” His tone suggests curiosity despite the brash question.

“Rachel sent you an invite for tomorrow to talk about my fundraiser. Are you free?”

“What time?” He spins back to his computer and opens his calendar. “Never mind. I see it. Yeah, that should work.”

“Cool.”

His hands flash across the keyboard.

Soft fingertips dancing over the pounding pulse on my neck.

I swallow hard. “And so you know—I mean, so we’re clear—I haven’t told her or anything. About… you know.”

He clears his throat. “Ah.”

“I was hoping we could agree to keep it to ourselves?”

“Of course.”

“My judgment has never been great on tequila.” I give him a self-deprecating frown.

He watches me for a moment. Then he nods. “Yeah, no. Me neither.”

“Which is why I usually stay away from it.”

“Mmm.”

He’s still intent on me, and it makes me want to keep talking for the sake of it. I bite down on my tongue.

“So, how was your weekend?” he asks after the silence stretches.

“Good. Fairly productive. Rachel and I brainstormed an idea we’re excited about, actually.” He looks interested so I volunteer what we have so far about the calendar idea. “Basically dogs, hot guys, and nature,” I summarize. “What’s not to like?”

If I had paid closer attention to him while talking, I might have ended on a less chipper note because his eyebrows have lowered into a scowl.

“And let me guess—you assume I’ll take the pictures for this calendar?”

I’m not sure why he suddenly sounds so irritated, but I decide to ignore it. “I don’t know who’ll do what yet. My phone has a good camera, so I figured I’d use that.”

“A phone camera for a professional print product?” His jaw is tense.

“No?”

“Well…” He stands. “As it turns out, that will be up to you. I’ve changed my mind. Photos of ‘hot guys’?” He does air quotation marks. “I’m too busy for a stunt like that. You’ll have to find someone else to help you.” He opens the door and ushers me out in front of him.

I think he’s going to shut me out of his office, but instead he starts walking as if physically wanting to get away from me.

“Why?” I follow him down the hallway. “Did you not hear the part where we plan on selling them all over the country? It’s a great idea.”

“Says who?” He opens the door to the elevator vestibule.

“It will raise a lot of money for GCL, I know it will.” He reaches for the handle to the stairwell door, but I’m faster and block his way. “You know there’s no one else I can ask, and we made a deal.”

“It’s a cheap attention grab, and I don’t want anything to do with it. No offense.” Not able to get past me, he eyes the elevator button for a moment before pressing it. “And we don’t know that you won the deal, do we?”

“I remember more of the night than you.”

“Oh yeah? Care to share?”

Just then, the elevator doors open, and he hurries inside. We look at each other through the doors.

“Didn’t think so,” he says.

Last second, I jump inside with him. The doors close behind me.

“You’re wasting your time,” he says.

I block the button panel so he can’t press one and cross my arms.

“Bottom floor, please.” His nostrils flare with each determined breath.

“Not until you explain why. Where are you going anyway? Cutting out early?”

“If you must know, I’m going to check if I left my jacket downstairs. The bar just opened.”

Oh.

“And it’s because I have standards. A pinup calendar? No.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Now you’re a prude? Come on.”

“Please push the button or move.” He shifts his weight as his eyes bore into me.

Maybe it’s the enclosed space and how its limited air supply has become infused with our clashing energies, but as the seconds tick, the temperature seems to increase by a couple of degrees.

I blame every sexy movie elevator scene I’ve ever seen for my surging heart rate as I hear him exhale and feel the weight of his gaze on me.

Is this what happened Friday at the bar?

Is this how it began? I don’t like how my body has started to betray me since then.

I inhale the thickening air, the traces of his familiar cologne curling my toes. “Not until you agree to be at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Holly, I’m not joking,” he growls. “I need to get downstairs.”

That voice triggers a thrill in the pit of my stomach. Without thinking, I press my palm to it. His gaze follows my movement, his fingers tightening on the handrail he’s holding on to. Maybe he’s about to cave. I can drag this out all day.

“What’s the hurry? They’ll be open until midnight.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He takes hold of my shoulders, moves me aside, and then hammers the ground floor button with his fist before leaning his forehead against the wall.

I stare at him as we start descending. I’ve missed something here—something beneath the surface. “Are you okay?”

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do I look okay?”

Now that he mentions it, his complexion is sort of pasty. “What’s going on?”

He turns to face me, his jaw working. “If you must know, I’m claustrophobic.”

The word takes a second to compute, but then several pieces fall into place. Why we took the stairs up here Friday night. Why he had such a strong reaction to me being stuck in the pantry closet.

“Then why are you in an elevator?” I ask.

“Because you blocked the stairs.” Exasperation tinges his voice.

That’s right, I did. “Sorry,” I say, my voice small. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He runs a hand through his hair and mutters something.

“Sorry what?” The elevator passes the second floor. Almost there.

“It fucked up my last job,” he says. “So I prefer not to talk about it.”

“How?” But I’m too late. The doors open to the lobby, and Jonathan is out of the elevator before I have a chance to react. “Hey, I’m sorry,” I call after him. “Please come to the meeting tomorrow.”

He doesn’t acknowledge me, and at this point, I’m not sure I blame him. Crap. Did I screw this up before it even began? (And by “this,” I mean the fundraiser. Just to clarify.)

As I ride back up to the fifth floor, my so-recently runaway pulse settles into a sheepish patter. I’m going to have to change tactics and start over because I definitely need a designer to create a calendar.

I sit down at my desk and take stock of what I know, my churning thoughts accompanied by the tapping of my pencil against the wood.

Jonathan hates small spaces and thinks my hot-guys-with-dogs calendar is crude.

He prefers black clothing and reposado tequila, which lowers his inhibitions.

Judging by the picture on his desk, he might be close with his dad.

Something happened at his old job, whatever that was.

I spin a full circle in my chair, scanning the workspaces around me.

All this tells me is that I still have countless questions left to answer.

I simply don’t know enough about Jonathan to know what might convince him my calendar is a good idea, which means I’ll have research to do tonight when I get home.

Some might call it snooping, but in the legal world, the preferred term is data gathering .

After driving Ava to a friend’s house and scarfing down a spaghetti dinner, I nestle into the pillows on my bed and open my laptop. I’ve had hours to justify what I’m about to do, but I’m still contemplating locking my door like I’m seventeen again and about to try my first (and last) cigarette.

I type Jonathan Sommers into the search engine.

A slew of random social media links pop up along with Wiki info on an Australian singer.

I click on a Facebook link, but it’s not the right person.

That’s also when I spot my spelling error, so I change the o to a u in his last name and add design as a tag.

This time, his face is the first one I see along with headline after headline that further underscores how little I know about him.

Award-winning photographer arrested!

Picture not perfect—the truth behind Jonathan Summers’s fall from grace!

National Geographic cuts ties with Summers!

I scan the text of the first article. The accompanying photo shows a man with a jacket over his head being led away from a plane by police.

A few words stand out—“drunk and disorderly… held on bail… the end of an illustrious career…”—but I’m still having a hard time reconciling what I’m reading with the reticent GCL web designer I’m trying to convince to do a fundraiser with me.

Do you know if Jonathan used to be a photographer? I text Rachel.

She responds right away. I forgot about that, but yeah. Hey!!! That’s PERFECT!

I shake my head. So that’s why Jonathan assumed I’d want him to take the pictures. More pieces fall into place. Why does he have to be such a puzzle?

The rabbit hole takes me deeper and deeper into his past career.

He really did win awards for his photos.

Many of them are available online, so I can see why.

Buried several pages into the search results is a photo from a local bar of a band playing.

I recognize a younger Manny right away, and off to the side in the picture is a dark figure bent over a piano, eyes half closed, fingers splayed, his mouth curled into an introspective smile.

I suppress the urge to reach out and touch the screen.

“What happened to you?” I whisper.

Then, finally, I close the laptop and add these new pieces of information to my list: photographer, involuntary career change, music makes him happy. The question is—how does that help me convince him my fundraiser is a worthy cause?

The answer comes to me while I brush my teeth. I can’t convince him, but there is someone who knows him better who could. Someone who shares his happy place.

A quick email to Manny later, and I go to sleep confident I’ve set us on the right path again.