Look at You

Chapter 43

43

I can't fall asleep easily. All I see is Simon—his face at the dinner table when I said what I love about him, his eyes at the end of the night as I left. Maybe it was the wine, but there was such longing. I wonder if he felt it from me too.

I can't sleep, so I pick up my phone. Because there are only so many times I can analyze his each and every Instagram post, I scroll through Spotify and start playing songs that remind me of him.

Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen, both of us shouting into the wind riding in the truck this weekend. I Wanna Dance with Somebody, Whitney Houston playing that night in the bar, Simon drunk, newly tattooed, my forehead against the back of the bar's bathroom door. Story of a Girl, from Saturday afternoon's drive to Philly. I add these and more to a playlist by his name. I add ones that aren't tied to memories but of how I feel right now, staring at the popcorn ceiling, nothing but him on my mind. Bathroom Light, Mt. Joy. When Am I Going to Lose You, Local Natives. 

I fall asleep to those lyrics. And I knew that I wanted you... when am I going to lose you.

__

Work today is grueling. Doug is in one of his moods where nothing I do—or anyone does, for that matter—is good enough. We're in the design development phase of the project, so we've put together schematics, physical pen drafts, 3D renderings for the interior and exterior of the building, all of which are hopefully still on budget. We've already been through one major round of edits from the TechNet team, none of them Doug agreed with. We're set to present the final revised design at the end of the week, and he couldn't be more on edge.

"Lewis!" My head snaps up to where he's working across from me on the giant draft table. You can't even see the table's smooth surface anymore; it's head to foot covered in paper. "What did I tell you about formatting these spec sheets?"

I eye the spec sheet in question. Doug has literally thrown it at me, but it hits my chest and floats gracefully to the table in front of me. I scan the sheet. The only thing I can even guess is off is the font. "The font is—"

"Wrong. I said size 11.5. Not 11. Not 12. 11 POINT five."

Next to where Doug stands, Paul flashes me a set of terror-stricken eyes. I roll mine, then head for my computer.

This cat and caught mouse game plays on with Doug and the rest of the office until four thirty when he deems our 9-hour breakless work day complete.

"Refresh yourselves," he announces to no one and everyone, his eyes still on the latest version of floor 1. "Eyes, ears, hearts, appendages. All to be refreshed before you step into my office tomorrow."

I have to pinch the bridge of my nose to force myself not to laugh. Next to me on our way out, Little is pressing his fingers into his sides, his top teeth sinking into his bottom smiling lip.

I get to TechNet just before five. I contemplate waiting in the truck, but then I think better of it. If I go inside, I get to walk out with him. And walk past Libby, who I know has the closing shift on Mondays. And I'll get to say hi to Callie and to see Simon in his element, all of which are good enough reasons on their own to go inside.

I take the steps two at a time to reach the elevators. No one is standing at the front desk, but I chalk it up to Libby's famously long breaks and find my way to floor 8.

He's not wearing his headphones. I try not to step toward him faster.

When I'm within an arm's length from where he sits, I reach a hand out and squeeze his shoulder. He hasn't turned around yet. "Hi Simon."