Three rings and the answering machine picked up. Again. I hadn’t left a message yet, but this time I took breath to say something, then hung up. Chicken. And now Jonathan would have a breathing hang-up message. Nice going, Noelle.
“You weren’t trying to call him again, were you?” Maria stood in the doorway to the small office we shared, her arms pressing some papers against her chest like a shield. We had been friends for a few years now, but I still paused every time I saw her. Her hair, black and flowing around her shoulders, her light brown skin and her smart business attire –I had much to learn. I’d always been somewhat of a tomboy, my curly blonde hair always a rats nest and my clothes somehow always wrinkly or stained, no matter how I ironed or washed. She was so pulled together, where I was completely not.
“He’s not picking up,” I said dumbly.
Maria shrugged. "So he's giving you the brush-off," she said and walked to the desk. She held out the papers she'd been holding and eyed my feet that were on our shared desk.
"Sorry," I mumbled and moved my legs under the desk.
"These are the financial statements for the first quarter." She pushed the papers in front of me. Maria stood, arms folded again, waiting for my response.
"Nice," I said, trying to concentrate on the numbers that were dancing on the paper. Why hadn't he called me?
"Nice?" Maria took a step back. "Our profits went up over fifty percent and all you can say is nice?"
I looked up at her. Of course she was right. We'd started our gift basket business two years ago, more to make some extra money while we finished the last few classes for our business degrees. I was incredibly broke and Maria, who used to have some savings her parents had put aside so she could go to college, had run out of money prematurely herself. To both our surprise, the business took off, and now we even had an office and a room where we could assemble the baskets, with storage space for our supplies. We'd come a long way from when we started in my little one bedroom apartment.
Maria rolled her eyes. "Stop by his place. Maybe he's trapped under a bookcase and can't come to the phone." She turned abruptly, swinging her hair on her way out.
"Very funny," I grumbled, but I already reached behind me for my jacket. I grabbed my car keys and left, determined now to find out why Jonathan Allen wasn't calling me anymore.
I'd met Jonathan only two weeks before, at the hole-in-the-wall neighborhood bar and grill where Maria and I liked to go on Fridays to eat a greasy burger and shrug off the week's stress with a drink. That night, Maria was having dinner at her parent's house, and I was drinking alone, feeling sorry for myself for no particular reason. Or no, there was a reason: I was alone, yet again. I hadn't had a date in over a year, and at twenty-eight, I felt like a spinster.
"You look like you're about ready to cry in your beer," he said, suddenly appearing right by my table. I hadn't even heard him coming. "Hi, I'm Jonathan," he said and extended his hand, while gliding in the seat across mine. He was tall, with dark hair smoothed back, and a big white smile, contrasting with the skiers tan. You could still see the ski-goggles outlined on his face. Rich boy.
I didn't shake his hand. "I'm fine, actually," I said, sounding primmer than I'd intended.
"So aren't you going to tell me your name?" He leaned on wooden table, making it wobble and slosh my beer. We were close enough for me to smell his cologne, stinging my nose but in a nice way.
"My mother told me never to talk to strangers," I said, going for sassy but sounding like a bore instead
He leaned back, his smile still wide. He stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head and stood. "Sorry to bother you," he said and started to walk away.
"No." I grabbed his arm. "Sorry. I'm Noelle."
He sat back down and smiled again, like he'd planned it that way all along.