Page 35 of Fun Together (Make Romance #1)

Eli

After picking up takeout from Faye’s favorite Indian restaurant, I head over to her place.

Based on the brief text exchange we had earlier to decide on dinner plans, I couldn’t tell if the interview went well or not.

But as soon as I give her a hug when I arrive, I notice something’s off.

She radiates tension and refuses to look at me.

By the time we finish eating, I can’t stand it any longer, and decide to try to press her for details about the interview.

“How did it go today?” I ask.

She sniffs. “It was fine, I think.”

“So, you’re feeling good about it?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, busying herself with placing the lid on the rice we didn’t eat.

I don’t push anymore, because clearly, she doesn’t want to talk about it.

I tell her about my day instead, hoping to ease some of her tension by letting her know about a call I had with a candidate that involved him forgetting to put the phone on mute while he peed during the call.

This would usually get at least a chuckle out of her.

But she just smiles in a distracted way.

“Want me to stay over tonight?”I ask.

“No, that’s okay. I’m not really in the mood.”

“I meant just to stay with you. It seems like something is on your mind. Are you sure everything is okay?”

“I think I’m just going to shower and go to bed, so I won’t be good company.”

As if that matters to me. I would stay with her if she’s breathing fire down my throat or not talking to me at all. I know something is bothering her and I hate that she doesn’t feel like she can tell me.

“You know it’s not a burden for me to stay with you,” I say.

And that was the worst thing I could have said.

“I don’t think I’m a burden,” she says shortly, grabbing the takeout containers and taking them into the kitchen. I can practically see the wall she’s put up. A wall I don’t mind scaling, if it means I can help her.

“That came out wrong. I just mean I don’t care if you’re good company. I don’t care if we sit in silence or watch a movie. I don’t care if you sleep in your bed and I sleep on this couch. If you need someone, I’m here. That’s all I’m saying.”

She doesn’t say anything, and I watch her wipe down the kitchen counters that aren’t even dirty. She’s scrubbing them as if it’s her personal responsibility to rid them of decades of invisible grime.

“I could maybe go for a movie,” she says, so quiet I’m not sure I even heard her at all.

“What’s your comfort movie?”

She folds up the kitchen towel and hangs it over the edge of the sink. “Probably Rosemary’s Baby .”

“ Rosemary’s Baby is your comfort movie?”

She smiles the tiniest bit. “I know it’s fucked up, but yes. I used to watch it a lot when I was younger.”

“Isn’t that the one where she’s pregnant with Satan’s baby? You watched that as a kid?”

She shrugs. “I know, but I used to skip the really scary parts because I mostly just loved her outfits.”

“ Rosemary’s Baby , it is.”

We decide to watch the movie in bed on her laptop. Or I guess I should say, Faye watches the movie, and I watch Faye watch the movie. She doesn’t even know she does it, but she mouths the words to basically the entire thing.

When it gets to the part where Rosemary returns from the hair salon with a new pixie cut, I watch Faye mouth along with her, “ It’s Vidal Sassoon .”

“He’s such a dick,” I say.

“Hmm?”

“Her husband. Saying that about her haircut.”

“Oh yeah, he’s the worst. Just wait. You have no idea.”

We watch for a few minutes longer and I can see where Faye’s fashion influence comes from. I can easily imagine her, as a kid, watching this and admiring the dresses.

“What would you say?” she asks. “If your wife came in with a new haircut you didn’t like?”

“I’d say, ‘You look cute, let’s make out.’”

She rolls her eyes in the way I now know means she’s trying to resist my charms. All I ever want to do is make her roll her eyes at me. “You’re so unserious.”

“I’m dead serious. I’d go down and kiss Vidal Sassoon right on the mouth for making my wife feel so beautiful.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, playfully brushing me off. “I get it.”

She moves so that her head is resting against my shoulder. “One time my mom came home with bleached blonde hair, and the guy she was married to at the time made her get in the car so he could drive her back to the salon and demand a refund.”

“That’s awful.”

“Mark. He was terrible. He used to bring me those red cinnamon candies. Who eats those?” She chews on her thumbnail. “He was some kind of manager at the local bank. I think he ended up going to prison for embezzlement.”

I’m curious about Faye’s upbringing but never know a good way to ask without making her feel pressured to talk about it. “How old were you when that happened?”

“Probably fourteen or fifteen.”

“Did your mom change her hair back?”

She snorts. “No, but that also coincided with her hat phase, which I’m now realizing isn’t a coincidence. She’s getting married again next month.”

“Really?”

“Husband number five. Marsha loves being a bride.”

“Are you going to the wedding?”

“No, she doesn’t really need me there.”

She doesn’t sound sad when she says this, but she sighs right after, like she’s resigned to it. Her mom may not need her there, but what does Faye need?

We finish the movie and lay in silence together. She rubs a circle on my chest with her index finger and I run my hands through her hair.My fingers snag a little on the waves.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“For what?”

“For the way I acted earlier when you asked me if I was okay.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“Still, I was being pouty,” she says, making a figure eight pattern across my chest with her fingertip.

I give her a little squeeze. “It’s okay.”

She moves her head to look up at me. “You seem tired, too. Everything okay with you?”

I didn’t think it was obvious, but I am exhausted.

I’ve been staying late almost every day this week to get on top of my workload.

It feels like no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get on track.

The system we use for managing tasks is almost painful to use—there is so much information to input when we have a call with someone.

“Just some work stuff I’m dealing with. Trying to get into the swing of things.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, I just struggle with it sometimes. It can be hard for me to focus.”

“Is that what happened with your last job? The same trouble?”

“In a way, I guess. I have a hard time staying motivated. You know when you know you need to do something, but it just feels impossible for no good reason? That’s how that job was.”

“What do you mean, for no good reason?”

“I just dreaded going in to work. Like, more than usual. And then I started showing up later and later, and they were so old school, we had manual timecards.” I sigh, but the flood gates have opened, and I want—need—to get this out.

“I lied on my timecard about when I was coming and going. They found out and fired me immediately. It was so embarrassing. I felt awful.”

I wait for her to gasp or express some kind of shock that I did this. Instead, she just holds onto me tighter and says, “I’m so sorry that happened.”

And I think that’s all I needed to hear.

When I told my parents, they asked me what I was thinking, doing something like that.

I told Andrew and he said nothing, but shook his head as if wondering how I could have fucked up that bad.

I knew I fucked up and when I kept hearing it from everyone else, it made it that much worse.

“Why did you dread going in so much?”

I twirl a strand of her hair around my index finger before letting it unravel.

“There’s a lot I like about what I do. That I should like about it.

I do like talking to people about the kind of jobs they’re looking for and making those connections.

But the whole office environment is something I have a hard time with.

” I playfully give her a little shake and kiss the top of her head.

“I think I like this job because I can see you every day as a distraction.”

She lifts herself up onto her elbow and looks at me with apprehension. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

I wrap my arms around her and pull her back down. “Sorry, it’s not you that’s a distraction. It’s my own brain. I’ll figure it out.”

“Based on what I know of Melissa, she’d probably want to know if you’re struggling with something. Maybe you can talk to her about it.”

That’s not a bad idea. “I have a one-on-one meeting with her later this week so maybe I’ll bring it up. She’s kind of scary, though.”

She wraps an arm around me again, locking back into place. “You can win her over, I’m sure.”

We enjoy the silence for a bit, and I must doze off for a second because I’m startled awake by her saying, “The interview was kind of weird.”

So it was the interview, then. “Weird how?”

“Everyone was nice, but no one seemed engaged.”

That seems odd, because I got the impression they were looking forward to talking with her. “I wouldn’t read into that.”

“Yeah, I’m probably overanalyzing. They also got super sidetracked, wanting to talk about you.”

“About me? Why?”

“Mary, who really shouldn’t focus on anyone but herself and her shitty parking job, kept pressing me about details about us.”

“What details?”

“Like, if we were together. Because she saw us dancing at the party.”

“What did you say?” Faye and I haven’t really talked more about what exactly we’re doing here, with each other. Not that I think she’d be totally honest about our relationship, or friendship, with a coworker. Still, I find myself holding my breath for her answer.

“That we were friends.”

“Maybe she was just trying to make the interview feel more casual.”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Did you know I would be interviewing with a bunch of people at once?”

“Didn’t I tell you that?”

She shakes her head.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I really thought I mentioned it.” How could I forget to tell her that? She was already nervous about the interview and then I added that surprise into the mix. It feels like my heart rises into my throat.

I really need to be better.

“It’s okay. It’s over now. I won’t ask about other candidates because I’d rather not know, but do you know when they’re making a decision?”

“You’re the best candidate for it, easily. I think we’re meeting on Friday since they’re eager to get the role filled.”

“If I don’t get it?—”

I stop her before she can continue. “You’re going to get it.”