“Where did you study?” he asks, unruffled, pulling at my wrist till I sit again. I end up a little closer to him than I was before, but it’s fine. It’s okay. Siri, how many times can I utterly humiliate myself in the span of thirty minutes? Infinite, you say? Thank you, that’s what I figured.
“Um, Caltech. I finished my Ph.D. last year. You?”
“NYU. Got my master’s . . . ten, eleven years ago?”
We stare at each other, me calculating his age, him . . . I don’t know. Maybe he’s calculating, too. He must be six or seven years older than me. Not that it’s in any way relevant. We’re just chatting. We’re going our separate ways in twelve seconds.
“Where do you work?” he asks.
“GreenFrame. You?”
“ProBld.”
I scrunch my nose, instantly recognizing the name—from both the plaques in the lobby of my office building and the New York engineering grapevine. There are lots of firms in this area, and he works at my least favorite. The big jellyfish that keeps expanding by eating the smaller jellyfish. Not that they’re terrible—they’re fine. But they’re old school and don’t focus on sustainability nearly as much as we do. But they do have a solid rep, and some of our potential clients even choose them over us because of that. Which: bleh.
“Did you just make a repulsed face when I mentioned my company?”
“No. No! I mean, yeah. A little. But I didn’t mean it in an offensive way. They just don’t seem to adopt a whole-systems approach to problem-solving when dealing with environmental challenges . . .” His eyes shine. Is he teasing me? Does Corporate Thor tease? “I mean, I am now over twenty minutes late for work. Realistically, I’ll probably be fired and end up begging you guys for a job.”
He nods, lips pressed together. “Good. I have an in with the partners.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m sure they’d love to have you on board. To develop a whole-systems approach to problem-solving when dealing with environmental challenges.” I stick out my tongue, which he ignores. “What name should I give when I recommend you?”
“Oh. Sadie Grantham.” I hold out my non-croissant hand. He looks at it for a long moment, and I am suddenly, inexplicably, tsunamingly afraid. Oh my God. What if he won’t take it?
Yeah, Sadie? A wise, mean, pragmatic voice whispers in my ear. What if a stranger won’t take your hand? How will you deal with the zero-point-zero impact it’ll have on your life? But the voice is moot, because he does take it, and my heart gallops at how nice his skin feels, solid and a little rough. His hand swallows my fingers, warming my flesh and the cheap, cute rings I put on this morning.
“Nice to meet you, Dr. Grantham.” My breath hitches. My heart melts. I’ve had my Ph.D. for less than a year, so I still relish being called doctor. Especially because no one ever does. “Erik Nowak.”
Well. No one ever does except for Erik Nowak.
Erik Nowak. “Can I ask you something kind of inappropriate?”
He shakes his head, slowly, gravely. “Unfortunately, I am not wearing purple underwear.”
I laugh. “No, it’s . . . when you write your last name, are there cool, fancy letters in it?” I blurt the question out and instantly regret it. I’m not even sure what I’m asking. I’ll just roll with it, I guess?
“It has an n. And a w. Are they considered fancy?”
Not really. Pretty boring. “Sure.”
He nods. “What about the k? It’s my favorite letter.”
“Er, yeah. That’s fancy, too.” Still boring.
“But surely not the a?”
“Uh, well, I guess the a is . . .”
His mouth is twitching. Again. He’s teasing me. Again. I hate him.
“Damn you,” I say without heat.
He’s almost smiling. “No umlauts. No diacritics. No Møller. Or Kiærskou. Or Adelsköld. Though I did go to school with them.” I nod, vaguely disappointed. Till he asks: “Disappointed?” and then I can’t help hiding behind my croissant and laughing. When I’m done he’s definitely smiling, and he says, “You should really eat that. Or you’ll lose your client and NASA’s next rocket will explode.”
“Right, yes.” I tear a piece away. Hold it out to him. “Would you like a bite? I don’t mind sharing.”
“Really? You don’t mind sharing my own famously disgusting croissant with me?”
“What can I say?” I grin. “I’m a generous soul.”
He shakes his head. And then adds, as though it just occurred to him, “I know a really good French bistro.”
My entire body perks up. “Oh?”
“They have a bakery, too.”
My body perks up and tingles. “Yeah?”
“They make excellent croissants. I go there often.”
The sun is still shining, the birds are still chirping, I’ve now spotted five butterflies, and . . . the noise in the background slowly recedes. I look at Erik, study the way the shade from the trees falls across his face, study him as closely as he’s studying me.
In my life, I’ve been asked out for drinks by enough random acquaintances that I think maybe, just maybe, I might know what he’s trying to get at. And in my life, I’ve wanted to say no to drinks with every single one of those random acquaintances, which is why I have learned to prevent the question from even being asked. I am good at broadcasting disinterest and unavailability. Very, very good.
And yet, here I am.
On a New York bench.
Clutching a croissant.
Holding my breath and . . . hoping?
Ask me, I think at him. Because I want to try that French bistro that you know. With you. And talk more about money laundering and a whole-systems approach to environmental engineering and purple underwear that is actually lavender.
Ask me, Erik Nowak. Ask me, ask me, ask me. Ask me.
There are cars in the distance, and people laughing, and emails piling up in my inbox, eighteen floors above us. But my eyes hold Erik’s for a long, stretched-out moment, and when he smiles at me, I notice that his eyes are just as blue as the sky.
Chapter 5
Present
According to the plaque above the floor-selection console (which, by the way, does not include an emergency button; I am mentally composing a strongly worded email that will likely never get sent), the elevator has a 1,400-pound capacity. The inside, I’d estimate, is about fifteen square feet, fourteen of which are inconveniently taken up by Erik. (As usual: thank you, Erik.) A stainless steel handrail is installed in the innermost side, and the walls are actually quite pretty, white baked enamel or some similar material that maybe dates the car a bit, but hey, it’s better than mirrors. I hate mirrors in elevators, and I’d hate them the most in this elevator. They’d make avoiding glimpses of Erik about three times harder than it already is.