Chapter 12

12

On Friday night, the office is dead and I've been hunched at my desk for so long that the motion sensor lights have turned themselves off.

Elaine texted earlier asking where I was, since I wasn't at the apartment; I told her I'd gone to meet some other friends—much easier than explaining I'm still at the office at midnight because I'm struggling to keep up with the immense workload I've takenon.

Being a "yes" person is seriously backfiring on me.

A tiny hammer is pounding against the inside of my skull and my eyes are feeling the strain of staring at the screen so long. I save my work and close the laptop, then get up to stretch. The lights flicker back to life; it's so quiet I can hear the low whir of the bulbs.

It's probably time to call it a night, but first I need a cup of chamomile tea to unwind, or a big glass of water. Hopefully there are some snacks left in the kitchen that I can grab, too….

I have no luck finding free food in the kitchen on my floor, but there was a big board meeting on the twelfth floor this afternoon, so there's every chance there's something left in that fridge. Worth a shot, anyway.

Upstairs, I make a beeline for the kitchen area, lights sputtering on in my wake.

And through the silence that blankets the entire floor, a voice cries out—

" Bloody hell, you scared the life out of me!"

I jump back with a shout. I think I might even black out for a second from the fright, but that could just be a result of my exhaustion. Gulping down a breath, I straighten up, eyes adjusting to the lights to see someone lying low (very literally) on the sofa in the nearby breakout area.

Lloyd's head peeks up, barely visible over the back of the sofa. His knees hook over one arm, feet dangling to the floor. Papers and files are splayed out on one of the tables, and his face is illuminated by the blue light of a laptop resting on his chest.

The light reflects off his glasses, which is when I realize aloud, "You're wearing glasses. I didn't know you wore glasses."

Lloyd grimaces. He puts the laptop on top of the sprawled collection of papers, and then he gets up in the same sort of way I had just minutes ago—stretching out his neck, his back, fingers working under his glasses to rub his eyes. He doesn't seem to notice the smudges he leaves on one of the lenses.

He looks…different. Same pair of smart-casual trousers and same shirt with rolled-up sleeves he normally wears around the office, but they look rumpled. Softer. Some of his curls spring up around his temples, unruly and tousled, and others are squashed flat from lying on the sofa. The glasses are large and squarish, with thick black frames; they suit him, complement the lines of his high cheekbones and his jaw, and make him look older—more sophisticated. A few butterflies cartwheel around my stomach, but I can't bring myself to look away.

He looks disoriented, oddly vulnerable, and more like the boy I first met.

"What're you still doing here?" he asks. His voice is thick, a hoarse quality catching on the consonants; not quite sleepy, but more from disuse. "It's gone midnight."

"I could ask you the same thing." I finish making my way into the kitchenette and Lloyd follows. I grab a mug to make myself some tea and silently offer him one, too. He nods. "I had to make a few changes to my presentation, and it's easier to rehearse when you're not worried about people overhearing."

Lloyd looks—for once—guilty. "You're not here this late just because of me, are you? I didn't think my notes were that drastic."

"It's not all about you," I say, surprised when it comes out more like a joke, and even more surprised when he smiles in a soft, unguarded way that makes me smile back. "It turns out I'm too much of a people pleaser and can't manage my workload as efficiently as I thought I could. And I'm too proud to tell my manager I've taken too much on."

"Ah," he says gently. "That checks."

"What about you? I didn't realize you had to work overtime to terrorize staff with feedback nobody asked you for. I thought that was just a natural talent."

Lloyd gives me a withering look, but he's still smiling. "I had some things to catch up on. Lost track of time."

"Wow. Wow. You realize how super vague that sounds, right?"

"You don't say?" Lloyd chuckles as he collects the milk for our tea. He stays crouched in front of the fridge before pulling out a plate with a quarter of chocolate cake on it. Ha and Bir are written on it in pale-cream icing. My stomach growls at the sight of it. "Think anybody's going to miss this come Monday morning?"

"I hope not."

As I make the tea, Lloyd unwraps the cling film covering the cake and finds two forks. I expect us to go back to his sofa, but he heads for one of the tall tables in the kitchen instead. I take a fork and dig in unceremoniously, scarfing down mouthfuls of slightly dry fudge cake like it's the greatest thing I've ever tasted. And after a self-imposed sixteen-hour workday, it kind of is.

"Big plans for the weekend?" I ask him, defaulting to the usual Friday office small talk.

He shrugs, humming noncommittally. "How about you? Hopefully you're not going to be chained to your desk all weekend."

"No. A bunch of us were going to order some pizzas and watch a movie tomorrow night. Burnley and Izzy organized it. I'll have plenty of time to catch up on the sleep I'm missing tonight," I joke, but even I can hear how exhausted I sound. I try—and fail—to stifle a yawn.

"You know, you can just tell your boss you need extra time to work on things. Or say no when they ask you to do something," Lloyd says. There's more gravity to the conversation now; it prickles along my skin and sits leaden in my stomach.

"Yes, thank you, I am aware."

"Oh, so you're just incapable of doing so."

I want to bite back, but he's not wrong. I shrug instead, conceding the point.

"Can I ask you something?"

The cute guy sitting across from me, wearing glasses and rumpled clothes, carefully picking up a large scoop of buttercream icing on his fork, meets my eyes for a moment. The harsh lights of the office are softened by the darkness that pours in from the large window behind him. And just like that, with five words, I'm back to having a strange and unexpected and beautiful night cloaked in the midnight magic of the city with a boy who said, Tell me something true.

I'm still not sure which version of Lloyd Fletcher is true.

I tell him, "I get the feeling you will anyway, so sure. Go ahead."

"It's just…The way you talked about this internship…And now, overworking yourself like this…I've just gotta wonder—why?"

"Why? What do you mean, why ?"

"You know. Why it's so important to you. Why you act like it's the be-all, end-all. Like everything is hinging on this and if you don't kill yourself for it now, it's not going to be worth it. I know you're the kind of person to ‘work hard, play later,' but…I mean, you don't think it's a little extreme, burning yourself out for a job you'll be leaving behind in another two months?"

"Okay, well, one, I'm not burning myself out." Yet. Not quite. Please ask again later. "And two, you know what a big deal this is. If it goes well…An internship like this could change my whole future. It could guarantee me a job when I graduate, or at least improve my chances of getting a really good one somewhere else."

"What does that even mean, ‘a really good' job?"

"Well. It's…you know."

Lloyd fixes me with a look as if to say no, he doesn't know—but really it says that he does know, he just wants to make me say it. There's an edge to his look, and no hint of a smile on his face anymore. The light tone of our conversation as we considered whether the leftover birthday cake would be missed is suddenly long gone.

A good job is money, but not the kind that buys nice handbags or shoes with red soles like Mom would wear. The kind that sits there for a rainy day, just in case, that means not having to worry. The kind that means I don't have to worry if buying that hideously overpriced textbook means I'll be living on baked potatoes and toast for the next month. The kind that means opportunities, being able to choose my future. Possibilities.

It's security, the kind I have to work toward now so that later, when I have my own family, I won't feel the need to walk out on them in search of something better, the way Mom did.

Instead of giving Lloyd the answer he thinks he already knows, I say, "Maybe to you it's only three months, so that means it's not worth the effort. But to me this is only three months—and if I use this time right, it might change the next thirty years of my life. I don't want to waste it."

"Yeah, I see that. But…I guess what I'm asking is, what does Annalise Sherwood want to do with her life that this internship is what's going to make all the difference?"

"Now you sound like the guy who interviewed me for this internship."

A dry smirk flits across Lloyd's mouth. "Humor me."

It would be easy to tell him to bugger off, to snatch up the plate of cake and stalk off with my head held high. I could tell him, again, that I can't expect Topher Fletcher's son, CEO in training, to understand.

But the chocolate cake tastes a little bitter and after I finally manage to swallow my mouthful, I fidget with my fork for a minute before setting it down. I can't quite meet Lloyd's eyes, but I imagine he's still the person he was that first night we met. It was easy to bare my soul to that Lloyd.

I want him to understand so he'll stop asking—but more than that, I find I simply want to tell him.

"I guess…I guess I don't know how not to work hard or give my all to things. And—so my dad's a teacher, I think I told you that, but he really loves his job. It's less like work for him and more…purpose, I think? I kind of want to find that. And if I have a good job, that sets me up, you know? Opens doors. Gives me a leg up, or whatever. It means I get to find something like that for myself, if I want. And like I said, I'm a people pleaser, so that's kind of a factor."

"What about your mom? She's…not around much, right?"

"No," I tell Lloyd. "She's not around much. She hasn't been since I was little. Dad met Gina—my stepmom—not long after. Mom was…She's…It's like life was a series of tick-box exercises and she had to make sure she got them all. Keep pushing to be the best."

One of Lloyd's eyebrows goes up slightly, his mouth tilting with it. "Three guesses where you get that from, then."

"That's different. I'm different."

"If you say so."

"I am. I'm—I don't want to stomp all over everybody else just so that I can succeed. Throw them under the bus while I focus only on myself. I want…I want to do it for other people, if that makes sense. For whoever I am in the future. Whatever family I might have."

"Is that what she did with you—threw you under the bus? Why you don't want to talk to her when she tries to get in touch?"

"Remember you told me your mom used to make costumes for you and Will for school plays and stuff? I don't have those kind of warm, fuzzy memories. Mine never did anything like that. She lived to work, and having a family was…an inconvenience, I guess? Like we could never stack up against her career. That's how it always felt, anyway. She definitely didn't fight for custody after she and my dad split up. I barely even got a birthday card on time until recently."

I say this mostly to the kettle, looking off to the side but keeping Lloyd in my peripheral vision. I notice the way his face crumples in sympathy, the judgment from a moment ago easing away in an instant.

"And besides," I confess, before I can talk myself out of saying it out loud, "my work ethic is…kind of an escape. I know how sad that sounds, okay? So you don't need to tell me. But if I'm busy with studying or after-school clubs or a job or something, then it's just…easier, to pretend that's why people didn't invite me to do things. You know how I said my ex called me cold and unlikable when we broke up? It's because I am. I've never been good at making friends. I'm not good at making people like me—but here, I don't have to be likable. I just have to do a good job."

The noise Lloyd lets out is sad and whisper-quiet, something that might be a sigh or might be my name. I keep my gaze far from him; I don't need to see the pity on his face, or worse, that he understands because, deep down, he doesn't actually believe I'm likable. Then I square my shoulders, bracing myself before I turn to face him again.

"So, to answer your question, I don't know what I want to do with my life, exactly. But I do know I want to give myself all the advantages I can, so I can choose when I'm ready—and working hard is something I can do. Not all of us have a silver-spoon life with the whole world at our feet, swanning around aimlessly in our millionaire father's offices on our gap yah. "

Lloyd has the good grace to wince, discomfited. "It's not…exactly a gap year. And I don't swan around. I've got a job to do."

"You absolutely do swan around," I say, latching on to this excuse to move on from talking about myself. I desperately, desperately do not want to talk about me anymore. "And what job, exactly? Nobody even knows what you do! You're always here, there, and everywhere, getting involved with all sorts…You probably have some gimmicky title and a nice big salary, and it's all an excuse to act like the big man and go on some ridiculous power trip."

"Okay, I'm definitely not on a power trip. And not that it should matter, but I'm not on the payroll, either, and I don't have some fancy job title."

"Then what do you do around here?"

"Act like the big man, apparently. I must be compensating for something," he jokes before laughing at himself, and it's infectious enough that I crack a smile. It breaks some of the tension, and I let go of the worry that I'll be faced with his pity or his judgment after what I just told him about myself. This Lloyd, I feel like I can trust.

Simply curious now, I ask, "What are all those papers for, keeping you here so late on a Friday night? Don't you have, like, I don't know, plans to lurk in bars spying on your interns?"

"Oh, ha-ha. My dad's a big-picture guy, so I…make sure the details don't fall through the cracks. Keep an eye on things. See that it runs smoothly. Old habits, I guess." His smile is wide, his tone flippant, but there's an undercurrent to his words that I don't quite understand. Before I get a chance to ask him, though, he takes a deep breath and says, "So I hear you ran into Will the other day," and digs into the cake again, taking a giant mouthful.

Lloyd's never been shy about throwing his weight around the office before, though admittedly always with a smile. It's weird that he's suddenly avoiding talking about whatever he's working on right now—but maybe it's above my pay grade.

"Yeah. Will seems great. Really friendly."

Lloyd cuts me a look, laughter dancing in his eyes. "Not likeme?"

"Oh, you're polar opposites for sure." There's a beat, and then I can't help but ask, as casually as I can, "So…did you tell him about us?"

I expect him to say, There's nothing to tell, or maybe try to fob me off by saying, Why would I do that?

I'm surprised when he scrunches his face up, bemused, and says, "Why wouldn't I have told him about you?" like it's that simple.

Maybe it was, for the boy with a kissable smile who falls in love with someone new every week, giving his heart away so freely.

"He called me Annalise."

"So?"

So, what did you tell him? Were you disappointed by the kiss, embarrassed by me, do you think I was an idiot? Did you feel guilty after I confronted you, and ask him for advice? Did you regret playing games with me, did you like me the way I liked you that night?

"I don't go by Annalise. You're the only person here who calls me that."

"Well, now Will does, too." He grins at me, wide and warm, eyes crinkling at the corners. It makes his glasses slip down his nose a little; I want to push them back into place and trace the shadow of stubble along his jaw, follow the curve of his smile.

Except I don't, obviously, because this is the same guy who pretended to not know me and claimed that he was doing me "a favor" by sparing my reputation from rumors that I'd been hooking up with the boss's son. And anyway, I've got more important things to concentrate on this summer.

I grip my fork tighter and poke at the cake. "Will isn't around here much, though, is he? Definitely not like you. Nobody's ever really mentioned him, which, the more I think about it, is weird. Unless he doesn't want to spend his summer hanging around here?Or—"

"He doesn't. I mean, he's just…you know, it's not his thing so much."

"But it's yours."

The pause before Lloyd says, "Yeah. It is," goes on just a little too long.

It doesn't seem fair that I gave him such an honest response when he wanted to know about me, but his own answers are vague half-truths, cryptic and leaving me with even more questions. I suppose I haven't really invited much openness from him, but that's not just my fault. He's the one who preferred to act like we were strangers instead of just talking to me; he can't really blame me for being standoffish.

I want to know what he's hiding. I want to know all the complex, messy truths he's glossing over. I want to know which Lloyd is the real one.

But I can tell tonight is not the night for that. The mood has shifted; Lloyd's earlier vulnerability has vanished, and the look on his face now is more akin to the shiny, self-important one he usually wears around the office. I see it in the slant of his mouth, the slight upward arch of his eyebrows, the way he stretches his legs out and slings an arm over the back of his chair to take up more space than necessary. Our conversation's run its course; I can't help but feel disappointed.

There's an unspoken mutual agreement to pick up our things and head back to our work. Lloyd scrapes the last crumbs of cake into the bin and takes my now-empty mug from me to wash up.

"Are you staying much longer?" he asks.

"No. I think I've run out of steam for the night."

He nods. "I've still got a couple of things to get through. I can walk you to the Tube station, though, if you want?"

"Thanks, but you don't need to. It's fine. Don't stay too late,okay?"

When I get back downstairs to my desk, I click my laptop back to life to double-check all my documents are saved before I log off, and see a new Teams message.

Lloyd Fletcher

Good night, Annalise. Thanks for the chat.

PS. Don't tell anyone how late I was here—it'll ruin my devil-may-care reputation.

Anna Sherwood

I'll add it to the list of secrets I'm keeping about you. Night, Fletcher.

And when I finally close my computer and head out for the night, I'm almost looking forward to maybe running into Lloyd on Monday.

NEW EMAIL DRAFT

Dear Lloyd,

I don't want to spend time getting to know you. I don't want to spend any time at all with you, but you seem to be making it impossible to do anything else. It'd be a lot easier if you weren't always popping up and asking me stuff about projects. (Why do you do that, anyway? Does it have something to do with whatever you were working on tonight?)

But I am getting to know you, and it feels like the more time I spend with you, the less I actually do know you. I don't know if I'm supposed to be looking for the guy who kissed me, the golden boy of Arrowmile, or someone else. I resent that you occupy enough space in my brain that I keep wondering. I resent how much I want to like you.

Who are you, Lloyd Fletcher? And why do I want to know you so badly?

So much for not letting anything distract me this summer. Consider me suitably distracted.

Sincerely yours,

Anna Sherwood