Chapter 3

Emory-

 After a minute, I realize I'm not dead. I wish I was, because Mr. Anatomy only looks like an angel and he's staring at me like he's two seconds away from calling an ambulance. No way I can afford that, in my wallet or my pride. Attempting to think fast, I say “Can I help you?” The only reply is a raised eyebrow, because what the hell does that mean? I can already feel myself blushing, an unattractive brick red climbs up my chest into my hairline. I know exactly how it looks. I’ve seen it in videos and a mirror. It’s unfortunately common for me.

“Can I... Help you? You alright?” No. No I’m not. I wish I could melt into the floor, through the foundation of the building, the center of the Earth, and out the other side to a place where no one has ever met me before and I can disappear. Forever. I wonder how hard it would be to learn Mandarin?

“Yeah, I’m good. Just taking a minute– I was running the stairs for an hour or two before work and I guess I overdid it. I’ll cut back on the cardio in the future.” That was believable, right? It sounded believable to me. People work out before work all the time.

“I imagine you wouldn’t usually do cardio in a blouse or heels. Perhaps you’re used to working out in clothes that are better suited for it and underestimated the difference they would make?” God, that was way more believable than what I said. I don’t want to confirm or deny so I just say something like “Probably!” in a stupid, squeaky voice.

Mr. Anatomy– I should probably get his name sometime soon before that slips out in conversation– smirks at me and makes a faintly disbelieving grunt before holding out a hand to help me up. “If you’re ready? We should probably both get to our desks.” Oh shit, I am so late. This is not the way to be the best at my job. I grab his hand and try unsuccessfully to ignore how nice it feels in mine. There’s a jolt of… recognition, almost. Like our hands belong together– holding each other and getting married in a hand church and having hand babies and getting age spots and wrinkles together, but that’s crazy. Hands wouldn’t get married. They’d handfast.

 My mind is wandering again, so I tune back in just in time to see Mr. Anatomy’s dark eyes widen and his nostrils flare, like he just smelled the beach, or maybe chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, while standing in the middle of a garbage dump. He looks like he thought I was a ghost and I am surprising him by being corporeal. I’ve never been mistaken for anything other than solid or sturdy before– I’m not, like, heavy, but I could stand to lose fifteen pounds.Okay, twenty pounds if I’m going to be really honest. Add that to my wavy red hair and penchant for heels even though I’m five feet and eight inches already and it all ensures that I’ve never faded into the background, no matter how much I want to sometimes. Maybe he smells my perfume? Or, more embarrassingly, my sweaty hands? Unfortunately, they only get sweatier as he pulls me back to my feet and I realize he’s still taller than me in my three inch Louies. 

To try and take his mind off of the possible sweat levels and unfortunate coloration of my skin, I use the moment to introduce myself. I shake the hand he’s already holding, earning myself a confused expression. “I’m Emory, by the way. Thanks for the hand up.”

 I get one slow blink before he replies “Logan. Anytime,” and walks around me to sprint up the stairs ahead of me. Well, the way he moved looked like a jog but he was way faster than anything I could’ve pulled off, even before my ‘hours of cardio in heels.’ I can’t believe I tried to play off something that stupid. He probably wanted to get out of the stairwell and behind the desk before he caught the crazy from me. Now that I've been hoisted back to my feet, I make the last three flights fueled by mortification alone. I can only hope I make it through the rest of the day before the remembered embarrassment sends me into cardiac arrest.