April shot her a raised eyebrow. “My point being that you can work all weekend since you’re not seeing anybody anymore.”
She scrolled down the page, scanning the questions.
Your guy is:
Tall
Short
Either, as long as he’s taller than me
Size doesn’t matter
Your guy likes:
Books
Movies
Museums
Artsy-fartsy stuff nobody understands
An NCIS marathon on his big-ass TV
“I notice they don’t say ‘anything happening on the two-by-five screen in his palm,’” Macy quipped.
“Quiet. We’re getting to the essay portion.” April took the phone from her hand and held it so they both could see while she scrolled faster. “What are you going to tell them about you? ‘Hates technology. Wants undivided attention. Will dump you at the drop of a hat.’”
April laughed, but Macy folded her arms. “Hey. That’s not fair. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to not play second fiddle to an electronic device.”
April rolled her eyes. “Enough with the cell phone stuff. There had to be other stuff wrong with Jeremy or you wouldn’t have dumped him, right?”
Macy paused, considering for the hundredth time that she might have been hasty. Then she recalled the feeling of sitting there while he searched for someone or something more interesting than her to interact with.
“Right?” April insisted, suddenly looking appalled.
“Of course! The phone was indicative of so many things. It meant . . .” She didn’t want to put it into words.
“It meant . . . ?” April insisted.
“Well, that he couldn’t sustain a conversation. That he didn’t understand proper etiquette. That he was inconsiderate, rude, oblivious.”
“He didn’t understand proper etiquette?” April’s brows were at her hairline. “You’re kidding, right?”
Macy paused, feeling the words back up in her throat. “All right, here it is. He couldn’t stop going for his phone because he wasn’t interested in me. Okay? You said it yourself before. The fact that he hasn’t called means he was done too.”
She took the phone back, moving her thumb up and down on the screen and once again fighting the urge to cry. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this upset over a breakup. They were usually a relief. Where was the relief?
“Hey, careful, you’re going to lose our place.” April took the phone from her again, smiling gently when Macy looked at her. “We can do this like an interview, okay? I’ll ask questions and you answer them, and I’ll put them in. What the heck, it could be fun. And you never know. You lost a guy because of a phone—who’s to say you can’t find a guy because of one too?”
* * *
Jeremy retreated to his cubicle, pondering Mrs. Hartz’s response to his question. If you don’t pay attention, nothing happens. True enough, in general.
He sank down into his office chair, wondering if it was supposed to be a meaningful message, like something that should be helpful. He gazed at his screens. Was sitting in this box surrounded by his virtual life considered paying attention? The others all seemed to think so.
It was good in one way. He could contact people, maintain his work, make sure people didn’t think he was dead so his life wouldn’t be a total mess if he ever got out of here and back to it. Which would be when? How long could he have purely virtual relationships before his real life started breaking down? He couldn’t even consider the question without freaking.
Had Macy really done this to him?
Okay, he was crazy. Macy couldn’t have done this to him, because it was clearly some psychotic episode going on inside his brain. It couldn’t be real. And if it wasn’t real then Macy couldn’t have done it. Not that he believed she would have even if she could.
But she could have been the reason for his psychotic break. How could he have gotten things so wrong? He’d thought they were . . . falling in love.
What a sap he was for getting choked up. He stood up and bounced on the balls of his feet a few times, then brought his hands up to boxing position and jabbed at the air, once, twice, threefourfive. Get a grip. Be strong. You can get over this—over her. And hopefully that’ll get you back to reality.
He reached for his phone again, then rolled his eyes at how slow he was to break the habit when he knew it wasn’t there. It was like constantly flipping light switches when the power was out.
He decided to leave his cubicle—Mrs. Hartz be damned—and, on a whim, started to jog. He sprinted for ten cubicles and slowed for ten, going back and forth between the two while keeping an eye on what was inside each cube as he passed. Which was still one hypnotized person after another. But the exercise was invigorating, made him feel more like himself, so he continued running.
Jeremy’s heart was just beginning to race again with anxiety when a break in the wall suddenly opened up on his left. He stumbled to a halt in front of it and found himself looking into a marbled alcove that housed a bank of elevators.
“Yes.” He moved swiftly to the call buttons, pressed the down arrow, and looked above the sets of doors for illuminated numbers. Nothing, he thought, figures. Still, elevators went to ground floors and ground floors led outside. If he could get out onto the street, he could figure out where he was.
After several minutes with no change in elevator status, Jeremy pressed the “up” arrow so that both were lit. Immediately he heard movement behind one of the bays, the familiar lurch and roll of an elevator car moving in the shaft. Finally there was a ding and the far left doors opened, the up arrow shining red in the dim alcove.
Squelching a moment of fear that this might not be an improvement over his current situation, he boarded the elevator. After all, any change would be a good thing, wouldn’t it? He wasn’t going to get anywhere trapped in that cube farm with the Queen of Hartz breathing down his neck.
The elevator offered thirteen floors, something he decided to scoff at instead of hyperventilate over, and he pressed 1. So what if the elevator said it was going up? He stood back, waiting for the doors to close. When they did nothing, he moved forward and pressed 2. The elevator indicated that he was on the fifth floor, so anything below him would be a step in the right direction, but it didn’t take long to realize nothing was going to happen if he kept pressing the lower numbers. So he tried 6. Still nothing. Frustrated, he pressed them all—all thirteen of them lit up except for 5, the one he was on—and the door groaned shut.
The trip was short, the doors moaning open again on 7. He stepped into an alcove just like the one on the fifth floor and turned, fully expecting to see a cube farm exactly like the one he’d just left. What met his eyes, however, was more like a giant, humming casino. There were cubes, all right, but each one was brightly lit and pulsing with color and sound. He walked slowly forward, into the din, squinting against the glare of the lights. Apart from being the circus version of his floor, these cubes had aisles between each one so it was easy to walk to whichever blinding set of lights most intrigued you.