The apartment is still the same as I left it this morning. I take the bottles of wine into the kitchen and store them in the cupboard. Trish dashes to the bathroom. At least that room's walls are thick enough so sounds don't come through as much. I take a quick look in the fridge to see what we have on hand for the barbeque and what I'll have to pick up. Trish will handle the guest list; she's much better at people handling than I am. I'll still have to do some inviting, though.
The bathroom walls don't muffle the flush of the toilet, especially when the door is opening. Trish joins me in the kitches, an expectant look on her face. "Well?" she prompts.
I hold back the sigh. No use delaying; Trish would hound me anyway. I have to find the card with Steve's number on it, though. I walk to my room, Trish on my heels.
"Well?" Trish repeats.
I search my nightstand. "I'm looking for his number." His card isn't on the nightstand. I try to remember what I did when I got home Saturday night. All I remember was feeling sick to my stomach.
"Did you put it in your pocket?"
"I don't know, Trish. I was trying not to throw up when he gave his card to me."
"What is it with you and business men?"
I glare at Trish. "I didn't choose them. I haven't chosen them. I barely know them."
Trish holds her hands up in surrender. "I was just joking. You don't have to go off on me like that."
"You aren't allowed to go strange this week, okay?" I resume my search.
"How boring."
I must have shoved the card into a pocket. My skirt is still hanging over my chair. I walk over to it and start searching its pockets. Bingo! I pull the card out and show it to Trish. "There."
Trish snatches it out of my hand. "Fancy." She flips it over to read the front. "Steven Carter. Ooh, Jackie, he has a MBA. Never heard of where he works, though. Brannen Holdings? Senior Manager, though. Impressive."
I reach for the card. "He said he had a grad degree. Give me that." I retrieve Steve's info from Trish. "Unless you want to make the call."
"Oh, no, you're not getting out of it that easily."
Damn. Time to get everything over with. Hey, maybe he won't want to come. Dare to dream. "Okay, okay." I get out my cell phone and punch in Steve's home number, the one he wrote on the back of the card. His end rings once, twice. I look over at Trish and shrug. After the third ring, I'm dumped into his voice mail. "Hi, Steve, it's Jackie. We met on Saturday, if you remember me. I guess you're not around, so I'll call back later. Thanks. Bye." I disconnect.
"I don't believe you. Jackie, that was lame."
"What was?"
"That message. Surely you could have said something else."
"Like what? 'Hi, I'm hot for you?'"
"That'd be better. At least you'd sound interested in him."
I set the cell phone down on my desk. "I don't know if I am."
"Could have fooled me Saturday. You spent all your time at the club with him. All your attention was on him."
"It was?" I don't remember that. I don't remember much of the night, though. "Weren't you dancing with your friends?"
"And leave you to the predations of strangers? I checked on you. You would have seen me if you weren't so preoccupied."
"Oh, come on."
Trish crosses her arms. "I know what you're like in a crowd, Jackie. You're always looking around. You weren't doing that with Steve. In fact, you spent more time on the dance floor than any other time we've gone to a nightclub."
That doesn't sound like me, being in rapt attention of some guy I'd just met. Trish has a point, though. I don't remember anything else from Saturday other than being severely nauseous and spending time with Steve. Oh, and that he's a great dancer. "Okay, I was taken with him."
"Call him back. Now."
My phone vibrates, launching itself across my desk. I grab at it before it falls to the floor. "Hello?" I answer.
"Jackie, it's Steve. I got your message and saw your number on my call display. You got home okay?"
"Steve, hi, yeah, am I disturbing you?"
Steve laughs. "No, not at all, Jackie. I'm glad you called. I was wondering if you forgot about me."
I cover the mouthpiece. "It's Steve," I tell Trish.
She rolls her eyes. "Duh."
I return to Steve on the phone. "It's been busy the past few days, that's all. School work and all that. How are you?" Trish smacks me on my arm for that last line.
"I'm doing well. Work's keeping me going, but probably not as bad as your homework."
"Ask him," Trish hisses.
"Is there someone with you?" Steve asks.
"Just my roommate. You've met her. She was at the club with me."
Trish smacks my arm again. "Ask."
I jerk my arm away from my roommate. "Steve, I called earlier to see if you wanted to come by Friday for a barbecue."
There's a short pause before Steve replies, "Sure. What time and where should I be?"
I pass along my address. "Anytime after five o'clock is good. Just buzz the apartment when you get here."
I can here a pen scratching on paper at Steve's end. "Is there anything I should bring?"
"Anything you don't mind grilled to a charcoal briquette and anything you like to drink. I'm picking up a two-four of beer before the party, but if there's something else you prefer, feel free to bring it."
"Okay. I'll be there." Another phone at Steve's end rings. "I have get that. Work line. You understand."
"Oh, sure. I guess you're never really away from work when you get to management."
The phone in the background rings again. "That's why I get paid decently. See you Friday." Steve hangs up.
I fold my phone and place it on my desk. Trish somehow restrains herself from asking questions, though I can see that she's bursting to. "He's coming," I say.
"That's it?"
"You heard my end of the conversation." I pick up my skirt from the chair so I can hang it up properly.
Trish huffs. "What happened to your romantic side?"
"It got rusty. Just as Mr. Engagement." I take the skirt to my closet and hang it up.
Trish shakes her head in disappointment. "Whatever, Jackie. You're missing out on a lot, you know." She leaves my room, closing the door behind her.
I close my closet door and sit down at my desk. Trish doesn't get it; I'm not ready to be rejected again. Besides, I've got other things to do, too. School. Finding a co-op placement. Playtesting. Oh, crap, I left the game running.
A quick tap on my keyboard clears the screen saver and lets me log back in. The game is still minimized. I click on it. Valor Quest returns, taking up the full screen. Jacinda is sitting on the ground, drawing with her staff again. I move the mouse to get her to walk a little. With an animated sigh, she stands up and goes where I want her to. At least she's still alive.
I return her to the town. The chat window flashes in the corner. I glance at it. Since I left, many messages piled up. Most are from the system, telling me that I'm idle and that the game has placed Jacinda in a protective shield. That's nice of them, though I doubt the other gamers will need that. There's two from Lance; he's wondering if I've returned home. The rest are from other gamers asking about Jacinda's robe. I didn't miss much here.
With Jacinda safe at the inn, I sign out of the game. My earlier instant messenger chat with Lance is still open. Maybe he's still on. I reconnect to the chat server. He's not on; it looks like he signed off shortly after I contacted him. For the best, really. I have no idea of what we could talk about beyond, "Look, I'm doing magic!"
Speaking of doing magic, I look at my mouse. It's still purple. That really makes it hard to deny that my understanding of the fundamental nature of the universe is being shaken. If I changed the colour, though, couldn't I just unchange it? I must have turned the mouse purple when I was playing around with Jacinda in the wheat fields.
I close my eyes, trying to blank my mind of worries, fears, nervousness, anything that might either cause the magic to fail or make my mouse blow up in my face. I don't know which would be worse. I bring my hands together in front of me, my fingers forming an upside down heart. A menu appears in my mind, the same one as when I changed the wheatfield. Good, I'm on the right track. There must be an undo option. It's bad programming to not have one. I scroll through the options. Naturally, undo is the last in the list. I select it, my mouse hand mimicking the single click needed. A tingle builds in me chest, then runs through my right hand. It's not quite like a shock from static electricity.
I open my eyes. On my desk, the mouse is back to its silver and grey sleekness. I pick it up, turning it over so I can examine it. I even run my fingernail on the buttons to see if anything flakes off. The mouse is as normal as a mouse gets.
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