Push - Claire Wallis

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      After a morning filled with personnel introductions and discussions involving various H.R. formalities, I am assigned my first project. And my first project partner. His name is Matt, and he’s been working here for a little over two years. I have my suspicions that his job is really to keep tabs on me. I’m sure they want to make sure the new girl isn’t a complete fuck-up. But I won’t fuck up on this, or any other project, for that matter, because this...this, I am good at. This I know.

      * * *

      Soon enough, my first day at work has passed, and I am walking back to the bus stop. The sun is starting to sink behind some of the taller office buildings, and I’m enjoying watching the city move. It’s invigorating, really, to see all the life happening here. I love it.

      On the bus ride home my iPod keeps me company. I have managed to escape thoughts of David for most of the day today, and I’m pleased with myself for it. But now I am wondering if he ever made it home last night and if he made it to my kitchen today. I wonder if he read my note.

      The bus drops me at the corner, and I walk into the building and up to my apartment. The first thing I notice is the absence of the gigantic boxes in my living room. So he was here. The second thing I notice is that someone has used the vacuum cleaner. My visual of David running the sweeper while wearing his tool belt nearly makes me laugh out loud. Then I walk around the corner and into the kitchen. Oh...seriously?

      I slide open my phone, touch the text messaging icon, then David’s name.

      

      

      What the fuck, David.

      

      

      His reply comes almost immediately.

      

      

      What the fuck, what?

      

      

      Seriously?

      

      

      Quite.

      

      

      This is crazy. Carl is going to kill u.

      

      

      No he won’t.

      

      

      What is this?

      

      

      It’s your fine-ass kitchen, Emma.

      

      

      It’s too fine for this shitty apartment.

      

      

      I know.

      

      

      I don’t understand. How did he do all of this in one day? He must have had help. The cabinets are hung and the countertops placed, the walls have been painted a beautiful blue, and a lovely blue-and-white backsplash of hand-painted tiles lines all the counters. And...all the appliances have been replaced. A shiny new stainless steel fridge, dishwasher, and gas range are all staring back at me. Not to mention the new light fixture and the ceramic tiles on the floor. It is indeed a fine-ass kitchen.

      

      

      Are you going to come down here and teach me how to use it?

      

      

      Less than a second after I press Send, there’s a knock at the door, and I know it’s him. I take a quick look out the peephole just to be sure, and then open the door.

      “Emma,” he says, standing in my doorway. He looks at me carefully from head to toe. His expression is both flustered and surprised. “You look...really great.” Before I can respond, his phone buzzes in his hand. He glances at it quickly and smirks at me. “I don’t think I’m the best person to show you how to use your new kitchen. I just make them. I don’t actually use them.”

      “Well, you can come in anyway,” I say. “Did you eat yet?”

      “No.”

      “Me neither, and I’m starving.” I close the door behind him and walk towards my new kitchen. “I just got some chops at the store yesterday—that is, as long as they were moved to my new fridge. Do you want to stay and have dinner with me?”

      “Yeah. That’d be great. But you should know that I’m carrying my pepper spray, and I know how to use it.” He’s flirting again. But I am not in the mood for flirting. I’m itching to know about where he was last night. I only briefly consider my words before I speak.

      “Yes, but I’m no half-naked whore, David, so you have nothing to worry about.” It comes out sounding way angrier than I intended. “And, you can rest assured that I will never sit on your lap again. At least not until I know you’re not fucking any of the half-naked whores. I don’t share.” And here I go turning a nice conversation into something else yet again. I have no reason to be, but I’m angry at him for doing whatever it is he did yesterday. But, hell, I don’t even know what exactly he did. And maybe that’s why I’m so pissed. I don’t know anything about this man, and I have already laid my cards on the table. He could be playing me so much more than I already think he is. It makes me feel vulnerable...and there’s nothing I hate more than being vulnerable.

      “You’re pissed off that I did something with my friends yesterday? Jesus, do you know how wrong that sounds? We’ve known each other for four days, Emma. Four days.” He’s right and I know it.

      “This from a man who wouldn’t even introduce me to his friends because they’d want—and I quote—’a crack at that’.” My skin is getting hot, and I feel a lump of rage growing in my throat. And he is standing there so calm and reasonable. It is making me want to scream.

      He stares at me for a minute, and I can see that he is thinking carefully about what to say next. I suddenly realize what a clever man he is. After knowing me only four days, he has figured out that he has a choice. Either he can play his little game and say something that is going to send me over the edge, or he can say something that pulls me back from the brink. My cards really are on the table.

      He catches me off guard though, because instead of making one of those choices, he walks away. He sits on the couch, facing away from me. He leans back, clasps his hands behind his head, and crosses his ankles out in front of him. What is this? Because I don’t know what to do, I decide to mimic his actions. I turn my back to him, walk into the kitchen, and start to cook.

      Ten minutes later, I have the chops in the grill pan and I’m cutting up some veggies for a salad. I’m bewildered about what happened and why he is still here, sitting on my couch. Not saying a word.

      Then he walks into the kitchen.

      “I think maybe we’d better just run with this,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to think so much about it.” What the fuck does that mean? “I know why I don’t want to introduce you to my friends, and I know why you don’t want me around any half-naked women. Because we are two of the same, Emma. Because neither one of us likes to share. We shouldn’t have to think about it—the jealousy, I mean. We shouldn’t have to put energy into all that bullshit.”

      In my mind, my jaw hits the floor. In reality, I am standing in my fine-ass kitchen holding a pair of tongs, trying to fathom what he has just said. Do I want to do this? I take exactly three seconds to decide if his words mesh with my own feelings.

      I drop the tongs, grab his face, and kiss him.

      He

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