Page 8 of Parallel

Not that I expected her to ask how I was after yesterday’s hospital visit. In six years at this magazine, she has never even managed to say good morning. For her to inquire about my health would require stronger mood stabilizers than modern medicine has discovered.

Her nose crinkles. “The layout, Quinn,” she says between her teeth. “Where is it?”

“I made the changes from home last night. I just need to print it out.”

“And where’s the Resort Wear preview?”

I sigh deeply. Lots of the people I graduated with love what they do and salivate at the idea of beginning a project. But graphic design was never my first choice, and I’m reminded of that every time Dee assigns me something new. “It’s not due until next week.”

Her mouth tightens. “Just because I give you a due date doesn’t mean you have to wait until the due date.”

“Hmmm,” I reply, walking past. As in, hmmm, how interesting you think so. I’ve learned over time that the best way to handle Dee is mostly by pretending she hasn’t spoken at all. I should have expected it, really. Do anything so egregious as take a vacation or a day of sick leave, and Dee will always come after you with sharpened fangs when you return.

Trevor, Dee’s lovely but beleaguered assistant, and my closest friend here, appears at my desk moments after I’ve opened up my Mac.

“Hmmm,” repeats Trevor, imitating my airy tone before he gives me a wide smile. “You already aggravate her enough by being so cute, you know, without also failing to kiss her ass.”

“She’ll fire me eventually.”

“Never,” he says decisively, perching on the edge of the file cabinet. “You know what she wants before she knows what she wants. What I don’t understand is why you stay.”

“I stay because she pays me more than any other graphic artist I know.” The move to D.C. has been hard on us—Jeff’s quit two jobs since we arrived six years ago and was let go from two others—and it’s made my tenure at Washington Insider last far longer than I’d have liked. For the foreseeable future, I need to know I can pay our bills by myself, because there’s no reason to think I won’t be doing so again.

Trevor generally manages to keep his opinions about my personal life to himself, but I see the response he’s holding in flash across his face—you wouldn’t have to stay here if Jeff could keep a job—before he blinks it away and grins at me. “Anyway, aren’t you going to ask me about my date?”

I groan. Trevor always shows me his dates’ Grindr profiles before he goes out—in part, because he’s excited, but mostly so I can avenge his death if something awful happens. Last night’s date—the guy with five different photos of his greased-up chest, the one whose profile read simply I’m here to fuck—actually looked slightly less creepy than most.

“I’m scared to ask, but how was your date?”

He closes his eyes, the smile on his face absolutely indecent. “You know when you’re messing around with someone and you want him so much you think you’ll die if you don’t get it?”

I assume the question is rhetorical, but when I don’t answer, he elbows me. “Come on. Jeff’s boring, but he’s still hot. At some point in your relationship, he’s had you ready to beg.”

I stiffen. “Not everyone is like that, Trevor. And Jeff isn’t boring. You just prefer guys who oil their chests over guys who call when they’re supposed to call and show up when they’ve promised they will.”

He pets my hair as he leaves, like it’s a fur coat or a cuddly pet. “Pretty, pretty Quinn. You break my heart sometimes.”

It’s nothing Trevor hasn’t said before, but given that I’ve been fantasizing about an absolute stranger for the better part of twenty-four hours, it’s sort of poorly timed.

After he leaves, I send the most recent layout to print and call my mother, who’s already left three messages so far this morning. Because she tends to handle uncertainty poorly, I told her yesterday’s blackout was the result of a pre-wedding diet. Only now do I realize this means I’ll spend the next seven weeks being interrogated about my food intake.

“You had breakfast, right?” she asks.

“Yes.” A nice big breakfast. Of coffee, but it had creamer, so I assume that counts.

“What are you having for lunch?”

I laugh. “Mom, it’s not even nine a.m. I’m not thinking about lunch.”

“But you’re not going to forget to eat, right?”

“I promise I won’t.”

“Why on earth would you be on a diet anyway?” she demands. “You don’t have a pound to lose. Just please stop doing whatever it is.”

“Okay, I promise.”

She hesitates. “When you woke yesterday, you asked for someone named Nick. Do you remember?”