All This Time

36 ⦿ in which i wait

I once read that human beings are the weight of their memories. Thinking of all the memories I share with Wolf, I have to admit that it is a pretty poor arsenal.

I keep thinking back to what he said about wishing he could make a second first impression. I can't untangle the skeins of the truth of his regret from his callous personality.

His intensity and passion is attractive, for reasons that elude me. Maybe it's because I'm a glutton for punishment. Maybe it's because I'm no better than all the girls I once sneered at for falling for the proverbial bad boy.

I grit my teeth and stare at the door. My computer screen fades to black from inactivity and I release my hold on the mouse.

My office feels like a waiting room. I'm always waiting for something. Right now it's Diana. Last night, it was answers.

I lean back in my chair, feeling rather than hearing, the leather stretch and pull. My office is a few degrees  cooler than usual, sending soft prickles up the sides of my bare arm. The sleeveless turtleneck and houndstooth ponte pants suddenly seem like an optimistic outfit for the winter.

"You've been staring at that door like you want to skewer the first person who comes through it," says Brett, cutting into my thoughts.

With a rueful smile, I tear my eyes away from the door. "Just thinking."

"Penny for your thoughts?"

I roll my eyes before remembering—too late—that the juvenile gesture is Wolf's trademark. That brings a scowl to my face. I don't want anything of mine to be reminiscent of the van der Waals.

"Uh oh," Brett cackles. "I know where I've seen that look before. You look like Wolf. That thundercloud over your head. The same mutinous expression."

Seeing the furrow in my brow deepen, she backtracks, leaning backwards in the chair opposite my desk. "I mean, not at all like him. He's an ogre." She pauses, pursing her lips at me. "Do we hate him this week?"

A sheepish grin flashes over Brett's face. "I'm not really sure what my role here is. Like, do I defend him? Do I trash talk him? Do I politely change the subject to something innocuous and safe? Because let me tell you, I suck at talking about weather."

Her frank speech coaxes a chuckle out of me. "I don't hate him."

She looks relieved. "Oh. I'm getting whiplash from trying to keep up with this soap opera." Brett pauses. "No offense."

"None taken." I run my fingers over a black ballpoint pen. "Did Dash—"

"Yes!" bubbles out of Brett and she brings her legs up to fold them under her, sitting cross-legged. "It's so great that all the stars aligned for him but the concept of the show itself seems kind of"—she bit her lip—"I don't know, duplicitous?"

I nod and let her continue talking while I gently extricate myself from the conversation. My thoughts travel back to Wolf and Levi and Xander and Graeme, the volume of the thoughts nudging Brett's voice from my consciousness.

It occurs to me then that I am a girl who waits. For the weekend, for the new season of Game of Thrones, for a sequel to a book, for a boy.

I've been waiting for Wolfram van der Waals for five years and I didn't even know it.

The two of us move in circles, neither ready to just stand still and be.

Five years ago I told him I didn't really like him, but that I wanted to. Today, I rethink that. Can love, trust, and friendship be acquired tastes, like aged scotch or smelly cheese?

I want to say yes, but I'm not so sure. We are nowhere near the point of exchanging true love's kiss and heartfelt declarations of undying adoration - and maybe we won't ever be. But I hesitate to think that in the future, when we're ready to be together, it will be because we had to teach ourselves—and each other—how.

Does prolonged contact and forced interaction make you like something more? I think back to reluctant trips to my piano teacher's house and exhaustive laps at the YMCA trying to prove to my mother that she'd done her duty in expanding my horizons. Time did not make me enjoy those activities. Why should it be any different with me and Wolf?

The elevator dings and Brett lurches to her feet, back on the clock. "Diana's here!"

I rise from my seat in a somewhat more dignified manner than Brett's madcap scramble. "Game face on," I say, pulling a face.

Brett hides her giggle by masking it with a broad grin, moving towards the open door. "Hi, we are so glad you could make it," she says.

Diana, still obscured behind the door, says something in response that makes Brett guffaw. I wonder how much—if at all—Diana Carnegie has changed over the years.

"I'm Brett Bailey, and my parter, Charlotte, well, I guess you've met already." Brett whips her head around with an engaging smile. I mirror her enthusiastic expression and plaster a welcoming look on my face the split second before Diana enters the room.

"Charlotte!" Her beautiful face splits into a genuine smile, which takes me aback.

"Hello, Diana."

She looks almost the same. Her sun-kissed glow has faded into a creamy peaches and cream and her hair is no longer Pocahontas-long. Her blunt chop grazes her shoulders as she moves towards me with a somewhat abashed expression.

"It's been so long," she says, and I almost want to snicker at the way she says it - as if we were meant to stay in touch or something?

"Uh, yeah," I say, reaching out to shake her hand.

After a brief hesitation, she gives my hand a vigorous pump. "Sorry. I just, I don't know..." she trails off. "It feels like we're meeting each other for the first time."

The smile is startled right off my face. "Is it?" I ask, curiously.

"Well, yeah."

Brett moves around Diana and gestures to the two chairs in front of my desk. "Please sit."

With an artful decline, Diana lowers herself into her seat, tugging the hem of her black skirt down as she goes. "Keeps riding up," she mutters.

When her head is angled down, Brett raises an eyebrow at me as if to say this is the girl who you were convinced was the spawn of Satan?

Okay, so maybe Diana has changed. But I'm still withholding judgment.

"So tell me about"—Diana breaks off, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead—"Liza?"

A glance at Brett gives her permission to launch into a description of our little Liza problem, and as my friend takes the lead, Diana jots down notes on a monogrammed notebook she digs out of her purse.

I chime in from time to time when it feels like they need either my input or a murmur of mhm to back Brett up.

As I tune out again, I study Diana. Is she right? Is it really like meeting again? Have Wolf and I been given a second chance to make our first impression? I worry my lower lip between my teeth, heedless of my mulberry lipstick. Have we blown our second chance at a first impression again?

Author's Note: Hi from Italy! Or rather, buon giorno! I hope you guys dig this chapter even though there's no tall, blonde and antagonistic in it ;) please leave me your impressions, thoughts, and love! Ciao (for now)! P.S. Excuse any typos. I've been typing on my phone for the past week and it's grueling, let me tell you. Lol.