Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

Vincent: “Jules, did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits that he is wrong, that he is immediately forgiven for all wrongdoings? Have you ever heard that?”

Jules: “Get the fuck outta my face with that sh**! The motherf***** said that sh** never had to pick up itty-bitty pieces of skull on account of your dumb ass.”

— Pulp Fiction (1994)

My coworkers had taken the sudden appearance of my security detail in stride. I certainly wasn’t the first lawyer to have a team of guards following them around. Our firm, famous for taking controversial cases, often dealt with death threats against senior partners. Even my boss hadn’t batted an eye when he walked past them as he entered. They’d been lined up outside the conference room like an unwelcoming committee, features stoic, silent and staring.

Fifty-five minutes after the meeting started, my boss asked, “What do you think, Ava?”

I required a second to recall what I’d decided fifty-five minutes ago, which was, “If our client wants to ensure their current noninitiated contracts aren’t in jeopardy during the IRS audit, they need to demonstrate a good faith effort that reflects the verdict in Hillston v. McDowant, ideally before the official notice by the IRS. Otherwise, they open themselves up to a wave of court petitions.”

I’d zoned out about five minutes into the hour-long meeting when my preferred solution to the current issue under debate became clear. It had taken me two months of frustration when I first started this job but, since then, I’d learned to keep quiet while my coworkers argued.

Toward the end of the allotted meeting time, if a solution hadn’t been decided, and sometimes, even if one had, my boss would invariably turn to me and say, What do you think, Ava?

And I’d say what I thought, and he’d go with that if he felt it was the best solution. Five minutes of task assignment would follow before the meeting ended.

Today, I’d spent my zone-out time remembering my morning with Des. I couldn’t think about my afternoon and evening with Des without blushing and smiling like a besotted fool. Keeping my thoughts limited to this morning seemed safer for my reputation as a non-blusher.

I’d pretended to be a morning person when Des surprised me with breakfast in bed. He’d assembled all my favorites from when we were teenagers, which also happened to still be my favorites. Then, along with the guards Uncle Alex had assigned, he drove along with us to my office and loitered outside the building until I went inside.

He didn’t kiss me goodbye.

At first I’d fretted about this. But now, as I considered the situation, I decided I would use the boyfriend lessons to bring up the lack of a goodbye kiss. I’d tell him, in order to be a good boyfriend, he needed to kiss me goodbye every time he left. To my mind, this wasn’t exploitation of our arrangement. This was simply facts. Good boyfriends kiss their girlfriends hello and goodbye. He wanted lessons on how to be a good boyfriend. Facts.

Anyway.

“Hillston v. McDowant?” My boss turned to Chelsea Albrecht-Walton, probably because she worked in the contract law department, and raised an eyebrow.

She gave him a small shrug. “Don’t ask me. I look like Ava. We don’t share a brain.”

He faced me again. “Remind me, Hillston v. McDowant.”

I liked my boss. Other than finding that sudden memo on my desk Friday with instructions to meet Mr. Quail, he never surprised me with arbitrary assignments or expected me to randomly work overtime due to his poor planning. I hadn’t found a moment to give him an update about Friday’s events at the Harding Building, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. Since Des had turned out to be the masked man in black, I hadn’t reported the events to authorities. But I did send an email informing my boss that we needed to discuss the situation with Mr. Quail and I would be having four guards with me for the foreseeable future.

Looking at my boss now, I doubted he’d read my email yet.

“Ava?” he prompted again. “Hillston v. McDowant?”

I would have to tell him about the meeting with Quail at some point, but obviously not now. “McDowant Corp lost the rights to manufacture due to a delay caused by an IRS audit. They couldn’t prove good faith effort prior to the audit, and Hillston—since they could prove a need for expediency due to the nature of the patent and undue delay—was able to cancel the contract without penalty. Several petitions were filed after the ruling to cancel uninitiated contracts with McDowant, all of which were quickly granted.”

“That’s right,” my boss said, nodding like he was now remembering the details of the case. Chelsea and I shared a look. He was funny.

“We need to prepare a good faith effort defense. Wilson, I need you to . . .” And the meeting continued, adjourning five minutes later with action items assigned.

But before my boss could make a quick getaway, I stepped in his path. “Sir, I need to talk to you about the email I sent earlier today. Do you have a minute?”

He blinked at me, frowning in concentration. His features eventually cleared and recognition sparked in his eyes. “Ohhh. Right. The email. I wanted to ask you about that.” Leaning an inch closer, he frowned again. “Who is Mr. Quail?”

I stiffened. “Excuse me?”

“Your email mentioned a Mr. Quail. Who is that?”

Now I blinked, frowning in confusion. “The memo you left on my desk Friday? The new client.”

My boss continued staring at me like I’d just quoted a movie, he didn’t understand the reference, and he had no idea what I was talking about.

I asked point-blank, “Did you or did you not leave a memo on my desk with an address directing me to the Harding Building?”

“I did not,” he said. “Is this what the voicemails were about? I got those too but I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what you were referring to.”

Staring at my boss, my mind working sluggishly, I eventually realized—or rather, came to the logical conclusion—that Henri Wickford hadn’t just lured me to his offices using a false name, he’d also planted the memo on my desk.

What. A. Creep.

“I see,” I said. “Okay, thank you.”

He inspected me. “Is this something I should know about?”

“No. I think I know what happened. Sorry. It’s my—I was misinformed. Sorry.”

“No problem.” My boss inspected me for a moment longer. “Maybe take a vacation, Ava. Have you taken a vacation since you joined the firm?”

“I haven’t. You’re right. I should take some days off.” I would definitely take some time off. As soon as Des left town—which I guessed would happen sometime during the next month—I would take at least a week off to be sad and pitiful.

My boss gave me an encouraging single head bob and then left. I waved goodbye to a few of my loitering coworkers still in conversation after the meeting, then meandered toward the elevator, my four guards in tow.

Grady Wilson, one of the aforementioned loitering coworkers, walked around them and sidled next to me. Another second-year attorney, his specialty was contract law. Jacob—one of my guards—looked like he was going to shove Grady away, so I shook my head and mouthed, It’s fine. Jacob nodded once and stepped back.

Grady, oblivious to or ignoring the interaction with my guard, bumped my shoulder as the elevator doors slid shut. “Why don’t you save us all some time and tell us what to do at the beginning of the meeting instead of waiting to be asked?”

“Hear, hear.” This came from Dawn Peckner, another second-year in tax law, who was currently sizing up Jacob. “I’m starving.”

I smirked. Jacob was very handsome, and I was fairly certain Dawn wasn’t hungry for food.

One of my other guards selected the correct floor while I turned to Dawn. “I like to listen to other peoples’ solutions before offering my own,” I lied. But what did they want me to say? I liked to argue when arguing made a difference. When it didn’t—or when the outcome would be the same regardless of whether or not I argued—I sat back and waited.

Contrary to my childish preferences for escapist media, movie quotes, and kid jokes, I was an extremely patient person. Or maybe I was a stubborn person. Whatever. Same difference.

The door opened and I waited for my coworkers to file out before stepping forward. Two of my guards stationed themselves in front of me, two behind, and a text arrived when I was a few feet from my hallway. I glanced at it, stopping in my tracks and grinning like a lunatic when I saw who it was from.

Des: I read online that a guy should wait three days after seeing a woman before texting her. Is this true for boyfriends? Do they need to wait three days? If so, sorry I’m texting several days early

“What? Who is that?” Grady tried to lean over my shoulder and read my phone’s screen.

Jacob placed a hand on his shoulder. “Back off.”

Wiping the cheesy grin from my face, I pressed the cell to my chest and walked faster toward the hallway. “None of your business, Grady.”

He shook off Jacob and jogged to catch up with me, sending a side-eye in my direction. “It’s probably your sister.”

Shrugging noncommittally, I gave him a shooing wave when I reached my office. “Well, fair thee well, peasant,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. He didn’t, even though my four guards arranged themselves in front of the doorway once I’d entered, blocking his path.

“What are your plans this weekend?” He tried to peer around the human wall of guards. “Want to come hiking with me?”

“No.” I pulled my door forward to close it, being more abrupt with him than I typically was with coworkers. Grady was always asking me out even though he knew my rule against dating people from the office.

“How about dinner⁠—”

“Goodbye.” I shut the door. I locked it. Then I rushed over to my desk, giggling.

Yes, I giggled. I was so excited for Des’s text, I could barely contain myself.

Luckily, Jacob must’ve stopped Grady from knocking on my door or making any other attempt to prolong our conversation. Once I calmed down enough, I reread Des’s message a few more times before crafting a response.

Ava: A boyfriend can and, in my opinion, should text his girlfriend multiple times every day

Des: Why didn’t you tell me? I didn’t mean to shirk my duties

Ava: I didn’t know we started your lessons already

Cheesy grin back in place, I set my phone down and sighed happily. I didn’t know how long I would have Des for, but I planned to make the most of it. I wanted to⁠—

My phone chimed, announcing a call. I answered it without checking the number, assuming it must’ve been a doctor’s office or something similar. Who else would call without texting to check first?

“Hello?”

“Of course we started.” It was Des, and the fact that he started speaking as soon as I picked up, like we were in the middle of a conversation, made me cheesy grin all over again. “We started on Monday, when we pinky promised. We’ve been doing this thing for twenty-five hours.”

“Oh. Okay. Then yes.” I cleared my throat and leaned back in my chair, trying to sound very serious and official. “You should plan to text me multiple times daily, as my boyfriend.”

“Then I will.” He also sounded serious, like maybe he was taking notes.

I had a worrying thought, wondering if perhaps this request was too much pressure, so I said, “But this is really only at the beginning of the relationship. Most people can’t sustain the same level of conversation and interest during the entire relationship. It usually wanes after about three weeks.”

“Why three weeks?”

“From what I’ve been told by my sister, that’s when the novelty of the other person wears off.”

“When we were teenagers, we texted multiple times daily and talked on the phone. We did this for years. What does communication have to do with novelty?” He seemed honestly curious, wanting to truly understand how most romantic relationships worked.

“But you were a best friend, not a boyfriend. There is no novelty with best friends like there is with a committed romantic relationship. Best friends aren’t a—a—a person you have to remind yourself to pay attention to. You pay attention to your best friend because you always want to, no reminders necessary.” Even as I said the words, they sounded discordant and inadequate to me, and basically revealed the reason why all my attempts at dating had failed.

In the past, I’d needed to remind myself to pay attention to my boyfriends, I’d set reminders on my phone. But I’d never needed to remind myself to pay attention to Des. Or my sister. Or my brother. Or other people in my life who I truly enjoyed being around, who accepted me and all my strangeness, exactly as I was.

“Should I stop texting as much in three weeks?”

“No, no. Not at all,” I rushed to say, knowing I needed to adjust my earlier statement. “I’d say, ideally, you let it be a natural progression. Reduce your texting as your interest in your girlfriend decreases.”

He seemed to require time to think about this before asking, “What if it doesn’t decrease?”

“Then that’s a good sign that the relationship is healthy.”

“Okay. How often should I text? Three times a day?”

“I’d say, as often as you think about her.” I picked up a paper clip and fiddled with it, wanting to do something with my free hand.

He made a short sound, then laughed. “What if I’m always thinking about her and have trouble thinking about anything else?”

My heart squealed and I scrunched my eyes shut. My heart had never squealed before the last twenty-five hours, but it kept squealing over and over, ever since Des and I had made that pinky promise. Everything he did seemed to make my heart squeal. How gentle and careful he’d been with me at my place, how skilled his hands were, how he looked at me, how he let me tease him and appeared to honestly enjoy my company, and how reluctant he’d been this morning to see me go when he dropped me off at work.

My heart had squealed so often, I was a little worried it would become fatigued. So far, not at all.

“Ava?”

“Yes. I’m here. I’m thinking.” I wasn’t thinking, I was trying to stop dancing in my chair.

Okay, think. THINK!

“Uh, so . . .” I cleared my throat again, this time to stall for time. “So, text me—uh, her—as often as you want, but let her know you’re open to reducing the frequency and amount if it’s troublesome for her. Oh! And don’t get mad if she doesn’t respond right away or leaves you on read. Sometimes being left on read isn’t a bad thing, it means she really wanted to see your message, but didn’t have a moment to respond yet.”

“Okay. Good to know. Thanks for the tips.” He sounded so earnest. How could one person be so adorable?

“You’re welcome,” I said, grinning with so much cheese, France would’ve accepted me as an honorary citizen (because they have a lot of cheese). “Anything else?” I asked. “Any other questions I can help with?”

“I think that’s it. I’ll try to text instead of call. I know you’re busy at work.”

“Totally fine.” I caught myself before gushing, I love hearing from you anytime!

“Bye, Ava.”

“Uh, bye Des.” I hung up quickly, flustered, and dropped the phone to my desk. I pressed my palms against my cheeks because they were hot and I couldn’t stop smiling.

Not a minute later, my cell buzzed. I glanced at the screen. Another text from Des. It was a photo of a newsstand floral bucket with several bunches of yellow roses. More messages followed.

Des: Your boyfriend saw these today on the way to a meeting and he took a photo because they made him think of his girlfriend

Des: *kiss emoji*

Des: PS Are emojis okay? Or what do you think? Tacky?

A dreamy warmth bloomed in my stomach and smothered the earlier flustered agitation. Without thinking too much, I typed out a response.

Ava: It needs to feel natural. Compatibility matters most of all. If you like sending emojis and your girlfriend really dislikes receiving them, maybe you’re not a good fit. That’s why you date. Be yourself. If you fit, you keep dating. If you don’t, maybe she’s not the one for you.

I reread the message a few times, hit Send, and then on a whim, sent another text.

Ava: *kiss emoji*

“Aaah!” I set my phone face down and folded my arms on my desk, plopping my forehead against my forearms.

It felt like we were actually dating. Or rather, it felt like what I’d always thought dating should feel like. Butterflies in the stomach. Anticipation for his messages. Happiness when one came through. Giddiness every time I thought about him. This was so much fun!

But . . .

I straightened as a depressing thought clamped a silencing hand over my still-squealing heart: it also felt like I would probably regret agreeing to give Des dating lessons when he used them to find himself a real girlfriend.

“Ava.”

Mid-step, I turned toward the sound of my name coming from somewhere close to the door I’d exited. I scowled. Henri Wickford.

“Ouch. If looks could kill, huh?” Henri Wickford placed a hand over his heart, the movement clumsy since a big shopping bag dangled from his fingers. His other hand held a giant golf umbrella, presumably to protect his bespoke suit from the rain. Despite the busy sounds of Chicago traffic and the light, distracting drizzle beyond the building’s awning where I stood, he was close enough that I could hear him fine.

After a day full of meetings that could’ve been emails, I was more than ready to go home. Except I wasn’t going home. I’d promised my mom I would meet her at Aunt Janie and Uncle Quinn’s place for wine night—er, I mean knit night—with her friends for the next few weeks. I think she was worried about me, how I might react to Des’s sudden reappearance.

Every Tuesday since before I could remember, my mom and whichever of her friends were able to make it gathered to knit, crochet, cross-stitch, or whatever fiber craft they were into while drinking various cocktails. But mostly wine.

I’d promised I’d go, so I’d go. But I was tired. And the last thing I wanted to do was speak to Henri Creepypants Wickford while getting rained on.

“What do you want?” My attention moved beyond him to the wet sidewalk and street. Patrick—the guard who usually drove—had left my office early to go grab the car. He should be pulling up at any minute. I didn’t have an umbrella—nor did my guards—thus I was more or less trapped under the awning until the car arrived.

“Ava,” Henri said softly, drawing my attention back to him. Smiling, he moved closer. “I was hoping to apologize⁠—”

Jacob stepped forward outside of the protection of the awning and into the rain, blocking Henri’s path.

Henri, slightly shorter than Jacob, took several steps back. “Oh. Pardon me,” he said, the words sounding reflexive, like good manners were part of his DNA. Leaning to the side to peer around the wall of Jacob, behaving like the picture of pure, angelic innocence, Henri lifted the large white shopping bag. “I’ve come to return the items you left behind on Friday.”

My scowl moved between him and the bag. “What is it?”

“Your bag and jacket. And your phone.” He sounded appropriately remorseful and contrite. “And please accept my deepest apologies for the unpleasantness.”

Unpleasantness was an interesting word choice for locking me in an office and nearly ending my life.

Jacob glanced over his shoulder at me, his eyebrow raised in question. I lifted my chin toward the bag, silently requesting that he take it for me. He did, but then he passed it to the guard at my left.

Without removing his eyes from Henri’s, he stepped back under the awning and instructed, “Take these to Alex when we leave.”

“Alex? Who is Alex?” Henri glanced between me and Jacob. “And why would he be interested in your belongings?”

Jacob said nothing, and I noticed Patrick had arrived with the car. Since I also had nothing to say, I turned to walk around Henri and started for the black SUV waiting for us on the corner, the rain turning suddenly heavier, like it had been waiting for me to leave the safety of the building’s cover.

“Ava,” he called after me. “Please. Give me a moment. Please. What can I say?”

What the heck was with this guy? I’d talked to him once weeks ago for like, ten minutes. I hated that his preoccupation with me was now my problem.

Spinning around, I sent Jacob a look I hoped communicated that I needed a second. He nodded, but stayed close.

Great. Now my guards were also getting wet.

I would make this fast. “We don’t know each other. And after what happened on Friday, I never want to see or talk to you again. Got it?”

“I am sorry you were put in danger. I’ve fired the security company and canceled the contract for all my properties. You have to believe me⁠—”

I waved away his apology, lifting my hand to my forehead to keep my face from getting drenched. “No. You’re not listening. It doesn’t matter. The fact that I went there for a business meeting, and you used a fake name to get me there, is a giant red flag. And then, on top of that, you have people shoot at me.”

“In all fairness, you used an assumed name to meet me at the Haewthorn event.” He drifted closer, but not close enough to share the protection of his ridiculously huge golf umbrella, I suspected he was compensating for something, his gaze all warm charm and interest. If I hadn’t witnessed his creepier side—and also, you know, been locked in his office where I almost died—I might’ve been swayed by this performance.

“I wasn’t at the Haewthorn event to meet you, I was there to help a coworker—” I stopped, lifting my eyes heavenward, so frustrated that I’d allowed myself to get rained on to talk to this a-hole. Why was I explaining myself to this man? “It doesn’t matter. No amount of apologies or politeness are going to matter. Is that clear enough?”

Ignoring my question, he asked, “I do wonder why you didn’t reach out to any official channels about the events of Friday. And how did you get away from that man? You left with him, didn’t you?”

That brought me up short and a spike of concern, for Des, kept me rooted in place. Stalling my answer to his second set of questions by responding to his first, I said, “How do you know I didn’t call the police?”

“I’ve received no visits from the fine men and women in blue.” He moved to the side and Jacob matched him, like he was Henri’s dance partner.

“That’s surprising. I would’ve thought you’d call them yourself, since it was your server room that was set on fire.” This guy was shadier than a redwood.

“Well.” He smiled. It looked stiff. “No matter.”

“Indeed.” I shook the gathering water from my fingers shielding my face. It was time to go. “Good⁠—”

Henri lifted a hand, as though to stop me. “I really am sorry. That man didn’t hurt you, did he? I don’t suppose you want to grab a drink, or⁠—”

“I think she’s busy,” a voice said, and we all turned toward it.

Des walked to us—or rather, sauntered—his left hand holding an open blue umbrella, his right hand holding what looked like a closed black one. His eyes weren’t on me, and they weren’t on Henri either. He seemed to be staring at Jacob. If I wasn’t mistaken, a silent communication passed between the two men.

Jacob moved to my right, accepting the black umbrella from Des, and then a little away as Des stopped next to my left side and covered me with the blue one. And I mean he was right next to my left side, bumping my shoulder with his chest. I dropped my hand and shivered.

He bent, placed a kiss on my temple, and slid a hand around my back to my waist, pressing my body to his. “Hey. I missed you,” he said. “Are you okay? Why are you standing out here in the rain?”

I could only stare at him because I was incredibly confused. His words were right, the placement of his hand was right, but this didn’t feel like my Des. He struck me as strange, off, and this version of him brought to mind that night weeks ago at the secret society marriage meetup. I realized this guy next to me was that person. He was Desmond Sullivan, gorgeous and ditzy rather than gorgeous and shrewd, and I had to assume this performance was for Henri’s benefit.

Facing our audience of one, Desmond’s features seemed to adopt a vacant, naive quality, as did his voice when he spoke. “Henri! I just came from your office. I didn’t know you’d be here. How lucky am I?”