The September sun peeked out from behind the gray clouds, tossing an errant ray through the conference room window as people filed in for the morning meeting. Reagan sat across the table, scribbling a note as the beam of sunshine lit her hair in a gold-tipped silhouette. Eric sat next to him and asked him how his night was. He pulled out his phone and showed him the picture. Eric whistled.
“It’s a beauty,” he remarked, “but you’re going to regret it.”
“I doubt it.”
“You’ll believe me when it’s five below without windchill. I’m telling you, you should have gotten a car.”
“What do you think, Reagan?” he asked. Her head popped up as if he had startled her, and her cheeks flushed. “Is Madison too inclement for biking year-round?” Her brow furrowed. “I just bought this last night and now Eric’s telling me it was a waste.” He turned the phone to show her.
“Is that a Rimshot?” He felt his jaw go slack and he almost staggered back in his seat, as if he’d been smitten with a fortuitous arrow. He nodded dumbly. “It’s really nice,” she said with conviction. “Eric’s right about the cold — but a lot of people tough it out.”
“And they all end up with frostbite,” Eric quipped.
“No, they don’t,” she said with a smile. “They don’t,” she insisted to Casper. He smiled back. She dodged it and looked down to study her pen.
—
At lunch the next day, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. She was looking at him shyly, holding a plastic container toward him.
“I brought you some pad thai.” He stared at her, stricken witless. She quickly set it down in front of him, then mumbled some kind of pleasantry before briskly stalking away.
It was nutty and rich, chewy noodles with streaks of tangy lime and crisp, unknown vegetables. He devoured it, savoring every taste, somehow sensing her as near as his own skin. It could have been the worst pad thai ever made, but it didn’t matter. He could see her in the kitchen, carefully measuring teaspoonfuls with laboratory precision, checking the recipe a hundred times before proceeding, standing back as the pan sent up a plume of aromatic steam. He smiled as he finished the last bite and found that he was far from satisfied.
He was desperate to thank her. He couldn’t bear her thinking he was ungrateful for the pad thai, or worse, that he hadn’t liked it. But he still couldn’t fathom why she had conferred upon him the distinction of receiving something so intimate, so precious. Of course, it was most likely nothing more than a polite gesture which she would perform for any nondescript person of either gender. He might as well have been the sweet, middle-aged lady from the front desk. Perhaps she didn’t expect anything from him — routine politeness warranted little more than routine acknowledgement: a nod, a terse smile, a brief word.
He thought of the container in his backpack. He had taken it to the bathroom and cleaned it out as best he could. Maybe that was gross. Maybe he should take it home and scrub it out with dish soap. Did he have any dish soap? She might even think he was vulgar, a brute, for wolfing down the meal and giving back the container the very same day. He might as well belch to show his gratitude.
No, he could speak to her in the morning. Yes. First thing, before morning meeting. She was always one of the first people in there. He’d get there fifteen minutes early, and even better, he’d have all night to prepare what he was going to say.
He stole one more glance at her, lingering on her face as long as he dared.
—
He realized it as soon as he reached into his backpack to get out his bike lock. He glared at the sweet morning sky and cursed. He’d left the stupid container sitting on the stupid kitchen towel back in his stupid apartment. He had spent ten minutes ensuring the plastic was impeccable, free of any residual grease or film, and had carefully dried it by hand. And now he’d forgotten it. She was going to think he was a real winner now. Not only had he brazenly gorged himself on her gracious gift, but he had made off with her container. Was it worse if she thought he was a forgetful oaf, or a thief? His brain was so frazzled, he couldn’t come up with an answer.
He slowly climbed the stairs to the eighth floor. He couldn’t avoid speaking to her. He’d have say something, or risk completely ruining the relationship before it had a chance. Not that there was a relationship.
He took a seat in the empty conference room. He found himself reciting. Praying. Familiar words he’d been taught as a child. He repeated them under his breath, whispered them in his heart from time to time. They provided some comfort, like a talisman clasped in his palm to ward off danger.
He took out his computer, opened up the report, and set out a notepad and pen which he wouldn’t use. He was straightening the angle of the pen to the paper when she came in. She froze when he said her name.
“Sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here,” she said.
“Hey, I wanted to thank you—,” he began, but she immediately waved him off.
“It was nothing.”
“Really,” he insisted, watching her as she set down her laptop and notebook. He continued, carefully, as if he were approaching a delicate animal in a trap. “It was the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a really long time. Certainly since I got here.” He wished she wouldn’t blush. “It tasted really good, too.” He thought he saw her shoulders fall, as if she were relieved.
“I forgot the lemongrass,” she admitted, sitting down across from him.
“So that’s what was missing.” She smiled, her lips pressed in a lovely pink seam. “I’m kidding.”
“I know,” she said.
“I don’t even know what lemongrass tastes like.”
“Neither do I. Still,” she said.
“We’re probably not missing anything. What even is it?” She shrugged pleasantly, then looked down at her computer. He was losing her. He needed to act fast. “I washed out your container but I left it behind like an idiot.” He said the words so fast, he wasn’t sure she understood. She looked confused. “I said I washed out your container but I forgot it at my apartment.” He swallowed. “Like an idiot,” he added.
“Oh, that. Don’t worry about it.”
“I’ll bring it back,” he persisted.
“Keep it. We have hundreds of them.”
“Oh.” So he wasn’t special. He was a nameless pint container in the unnumbered horde of grateful beneficiaries who had received leftovers from her benevolent hands. He leaned back and pretended to stretch. When people did that, they appeared to be relaxed. He banged his hand on the hard back of the chair next to him. He felt no pain. “So you do this a lot? Bring people food?”
“No, never,” she answered. He instantly sat forward.
“Then why—,”
The conference room doors opened, and a couple of people wandered in. She instantly dropped her gaze to the table. He saw her contract her shoulders, shrink her elbows to her sides, and hide her hands in her lap.
He couldn’t think about anything else during the interminable meeting. He was glad for once that he wasn’t expected to contribute in any way. He tried not to study her stillness, how her movements were tight and constricted, and her eyes were fixed on her computer or the presentation, never looking anywhere else.
He was baffled. He was humiliated. He was angry. When he got back to his place that night, he shoved her stupid container in his backpack. He’d give it to her anyway, if only to force her to acknowledge him. That she had singled him out as the most pitiful, deserving recipient of such rare, indulgent magnanimity, he could understand. That she felt sorry enough for him to condescend from her lofty pedestal to show him kindness, he could accept.
That she should so instantly regret it, that she could be so visibly embarrassed to be seen speaking with him — whatever. Forget it.
—
He strode over to her table in the cafeteria, where she sat aloof and alone, as always. He wished he could always feel so fearless. He set the container on the table with a sarcastic flourish.
“It’s clean,” he felt compelled to say, to assure her that his grubby peasant hands hadn’t sullied it.
“You didn’t have to—,” she began, but he was already walking away. The pathetic part of him wanted to whip around and catch the rest, but the cold, injured part won out. Whatever, forget it.
He stood in front of the elevator and punched the button. He felt a touch on his arm.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, almost breathlessly. She was clutching her phone in her right hand, had the edge of the empty container clamped between two fingers, and the handle of her lunchbox dangling from her wrist.
“You know there are people around, right?” he asked, pulling out his phone.
“What? Why does that matter?”
“To spare you the indignity of being seen talking to me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing.” He punched the button again. Dumb slow elevator. “I’m taking the stairs,” he mumbled, walking away. She began to walk with him. “This is the part when you go the other direction. People could have already seen us speaking.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked again. He shoved open the door to the stairwell and began climbing the stairs. She followed, and the door slammed behind them, echoing in the tall, empty chamber. “Casper, yesterday you seemed—,”
“Don’t worry, Reagan,” he said, stalking up the steps. “I didn’t tell anybody that you were nice to me. Nobody will get the impression that you and I are friends.”
“What are you talking about?” She was persisting on playing that game. Fine. He was prepared to accept her indifference to him, but she couldn’t expect his adoration at the same time. She wasn’t going to get it both ways. He paused on the stairs and turned to face her, where she was standing two steps behind him.
“It’s okay. I get it. I’m not an Olympic diver with a trust fund.” Her jaw dropped and she gazed at him in bewilderment. “But I don’t need you to take pity on me. I’ll be fine. Thanks.” He turned his back on her and began to climb the steps. There was a sharp clang of metal on concrete.
She swore. Loudly. Her voice rang through the chamber, sudden, clear, and fearless. Her face was white, her mouth clenched and livid, her hair trembling as if it were animated by the ire in her cheeks. He heard her curse again under her breath as she stooped to pick up her water bottle and shoved it under her arm.
“He never went to the Olympics! He tore his ACL before he even qualified. What else did they tell you? That I drive a Benz?” He swallowed.
“A Lexus.” She rolled her eyes and cursed again.
“It was his old Beamer,” she sighed. “He dinged it up and didn’t feel like getting it fixed, so he gave it to me. Dad said I shouldn’t take it and he was right. It was way too expensive to maintain anyway. I drive a 2010 Civic now, if everybody’s okay with that.”
Casper stared at the floor, his face red, his heart slowing, duly chastened.
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, storming past him. “We shouldn’t be friends. I was stupid to think otherwise.”
“You wanted to be friends?” he asked. She kept walking up the stairs, and he followed her.
“I gave you pad thai, Casper,” she huffed.
“I thought you felt sorry for me.” She stared at him, her brow furrowed.
“Why would I?” she asked. He shrugged dumbly, unable to apprehend the shattering realization that she didn’t consider him a charity case. “I gave you pad thai because I wanted to be friends.”
“But why not Tricia or Eric? Why me?”
“Because you asked me about the weather.” He had? When? “Nobody has spoken to me like that since—for a long a time.” He was afraid to ask her when this life-altering moment had occurred. Why would he ask her about the weather? Was he really that prosaic? “I don’t know. It was nice,” she said simply. “Ever since I — you must have noticed that hardly anyone comes near me.”
“Well, I thought —,” he shook his head. “Never mind.”
“What did you think?” she asked, her green eyes fixed on him.
“I—,” he hesitated, “I thought it was the other way around. That you were too good for anyone else.” Her eyes flickered, and he thought he saw her blush.
“Really? Is that really what you thought?”
He didn’t want to tell her what he’d heard, or admit that he had entertained any of Tricia’s salacious tittle-tattle.
“It’s just that —,” she stopped and leaned against the railing. “They—the people here, they don’t,” she blushed again and shrugged, studying her fingernails. “I’ve had a hard time fitting in here. But that day in the conference room,” she looked up at him and gave him a small smile, “you made me feel — I thought maybe we could be, you know,” she adjusted the things in her arms and looked at him, as if she were hoping he would complete the thought.
“Friends,” he said. The word tasted bitter, but he said it with a smile and nod, as if he were completely content. He wished it were an unfamiliar sensation, the crushing blow which simultaneously smote any wisp of hope, but also mocked him for ever having any.
“Of course we can be friends,” he assured her. She brightened and smiled gratefully, and he suddenly wished he had never met her.
—
He had carefully timed his entry so he would walk in while the first song was already in progress. An usher shook his hand, gave him a bulletin, and offered to help him find a seat. But the opening drum beat and poppy lead guitar were cranked so loud that the poor guy’s voice was completely drowned out. Casper politely waved off the courtesy and filed into the back row.
The song was pleasant and well-executed, but he didn’t recognize it, so he used the time to examine the auditorium. Large, dark, professionally-lit, packed with people raising their hands or clapping. He yawned and took a sip of his coffee. Not bad for a church lobby.
Mount of Mercy Community Church could pick up a trick or two from this place. If they could attract a few more tithers, maybe they could afford to replace that horrible mauve carpet.
The sermon was pleasant. The topic was kindness. People are attracted to kindness, the speaker posited. Be kind to them, and they will be attracted to you. Once they’re attracted to you, they’ll let you proselytize them. The logic was internally consistent, but everyone in that room knew it was baloney. If it were true, they wouldn’t need to spend thousands of dollars on premium coffee, stage lights, and fog machines. They could kill them with kindness.
He ducked out during the closing song and hoofed it to the parking lot, where his Rimshot Madrid greeted him from the bike rack, gorgeous and gleaming in the noontime sun.
He took her to the lake, where the early autumn breeze was golden and warm. New Heights was perfect. It checked every box. It was close to his apartment, had multiple showtimes for optimal convenience, was big enough that his presence would be neither noticed or missed, and was one of the twenty-two options on Mom’s list. It was nice to have that off his back.
The lake was a floor of blue jewels, crested with opals, lapping at the feet of the city. Over the trees, he could see the tip of the capitol building. The entire day lay before him, wide open. And empty. His stomach growled.
He could text Eric to hang out, though he wasn’t sure what they would even do. He didn’t even enjoy Eric’s company all that much, but his languid personality could be amusing in small doses.
He could call Nick, but he didn’t want to. Anyway his brother was still at church, and would likely be occupied with family obligations for the rest of the day.
He had never been someone who needed to be surrounded by people to enjoy himself. He liked his own company and his own thoughts. He enjoyed the freedom to move at his own pace, not requiring approval from anyone, not being accountable for anyone’s happiness. Not being responsible for anyone’s happiness. Not having any part whatsoever in anyone’s particular feelings, whether good or bad. Not figuring into anyone’s thoughts in any way. Existing entirely apart from anyone. Awesome. Fantastic.
She went apple-picking at Bromley’s. She went to a birthday party while her dad worked on her car. Pie for dinner. She was somewhere in that city at that very moment. All of her life, her thought, her being, was somewhere within reach of him.
Maybe she slept in on Sundays. Or maybe she liked to rise at dawn and go for a run. Maybe she was making lunch for Charlotte.
She had wanted to be friends with him. She had, in her infinite grace and loveliness, found some kind of shelter and safety in his inane pleasantry about local weather patterns. She had been so starved that she had taken his scrap of self-interested politeness and feasted on it, and then asked for more.
Kindness. Of course. It was so simple and obvious that he had missed it. He did have something he could give her. Something she couldn’t get from the failed Olympic has-been, the local news segment filler, the self-aggrandizing ribbon-cutter, Foster Bancroft.
Casper didn’t need a Breitling or a spare Maserati. He had kindness. And he knew how to use it.
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Katie Bertola 