Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy

“Studies show that keeping a ladder inside the house is more dangerous than a loaded gun. That’s why I own ten guns. In case some maniac tries to sneak in a ladder.”

— Gravity Falls (2012–2016)

The man in black was too far away for me to discern the lower half of his face clearly, and his chin was tucked low, inside the neck of his hoodie. I thought about walking over and confronting him, but what would I say? I wasn’t even sure he’d been—or currently was—watching me. His crouching behind a giant potted plant was suspicious. And yet, so what? This was Chicago. There were odd ducks everywhere.

Even so, and since my phone was in my hand, I took a quick photo of the reflection. I’d show it to Grace later and ask her what she thought he was doing.

Then I turned back in the direction I’d been walking. Nothing exciting ever happened to me. Why would some rando be following me? In public. At 9:30 a.m. On a Friday. With a ton of people around to help if I screamed.

You really are a drama queen, Ava. I rolled my eyes at myself but also picked up my pace, jog-walking to the main entrance of the building, knowing my feet would punish me later.

Opting for the revolving door, I walked toward the security desk while juggling the folder and my briefcase. I had my cell handy but also withdrew my wallet from the zippered pocket on the outside of my briefcase, in case the credentials stored on my phone wouldn’t work.

Before I made it all the way across the huge all-white marble lobby, someone called out what might’ve been my name. The syllables echoed in the massive space, causing me to pause and listen, unsure if the voice had said Ava Archer or something else. Likewise, I didn’t know from which direction the voice came.

Turning over my shoulder, I found six individuals in black suits, white shirts, and black ties on an intercept course. They looked like guards rather than white-collar lackeys, and as they drew nearer, I spotted wired earpieces down the collars of their shirts. In front of the guards was a man in a very dapper navy blue suit, reminiscent of the bespoke suits at the secret society marriage meetup two weeks ago. He also had an earpiece, but didn’t look at all familiar, his gaze fastened on me.

I faced them fully and waited.

“Ms. Ava Archer,” Mr. Blue Suit said, like he knew who I was, and extended his hand.

I took it, shook it, and smiled at his slight frown.

His eyes moved over me again and he seemed a wee bit out of sorts. I hoped it was because I was two inches taller than him. Heh heh.

“Yes,” I confirmed, dropping my hand. “And you are?”

“I’m here on behalf of Mr. Quail, he’s expecting you. Please, follow me.” He lifted a hand toward the elevator bank.

I wanted to ask what the deal was with all the guards and whether or not I’d be frisked, but instead asked, “Don’t I need to check in with security?” while putting away my wallet and phone.

My mother’s job as an executive at Uncle Quinn’s security firm had inured me to the presence of guards in black suits. They used to follow her and the other executives at the company everywhere. I knew the type, I’d grown up around them, and I’d been the flower girl at more security guards’ weddings than I could count.

“Not necessary. Please.” He lifted his hand higher and took a step forward, bowing slightly. “Follow me.”

I nodded, zipping up my bag. He led the way. The gaggle of guards fell into step behind us and our footsteps echoed. One of the black suits stepped up to the security checkpoint and scanned a card. The gate opened and we walked to the farthest elevator in the bank. Likewise, the same black suit scanned a card, the elevator opened, and we all filed in.

Mr. Blue Suit punched a button, pressing his fingertip against it for a prolonged period of time. I guessed it was coded to his fingerprint. Uncle Quinn had done something similar in the apartment building where Des had grown up.

When Mr. Blue Suit stepped back, he glanced at me. “Did you find the building okay?”

I nodded.

I felt his eyes on me, again moving over me. “We will send you home in a car, Mr. Quail insists.”

“Sure. Sounds good,” I said, my eyes on the elevator doors. It was probably cheaper for them if I took their car, considering the tip I’d left the rideshare driver.

“Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee? I’ll have it brought to Mr. Quail’s office.”

“No, thanks.” I checked my watch and then searched for the floor readout or a control panel, finding none. Other than the single button, an emergency alarm, and an intercom, there didn’t seem to be anything else in this elevator. It must’ve operated exclusively for Mr. Quail’s business.

“Are you sure?” Mr. Blue Suit asked.

“Yes.”

“Preference for lunch?”

Now I did look at Mr. Blue Suit, and I lifted an eyebrow. “It’s not even ten.” Was it me, or was this guy overly solicitous? Maybe he thought I was someone else?

He smiled without showing any teeth or mirth or personality. “Mr. Quail’s chef is standing by.”

I felt my eyes narrow, his statement confused me. “Uh, I doubt our meeting will take longer than an hour. I can grab food back at the office.” Tell that poor chef to stop standing.

Our cafeteria was serving pizza today, and Pizza Fridays were a highlight of my week. Chicago-style deep dish, need I say more?

Inspecting me, he smoothed a hand down the front of his suit and turned toward the doors in time with the chime announcing our arrival. “We’ll circle back on lunch. Please”—again, he lifted a hand and bowed—“I’ll show you the way.”

Nodding, I lifted my eyebrows, hopefully conveying, Okay, go ahead. I’ll follow.

Mr. Blue Suit stepped out first, I followed, and the guards brought up the rear, following us as we navigated a labyrinth of plain white hallways and doors with no signs. Every now and then we’d walk by a ladder or a toolbox in the hall. Perhaps Mr. Quail and his staff were still moving in.

I thought I heard one of the female guards behind me say something like, “We’re approaching.”

Finally, we turned a corner and a set of large honey-colored wood doors stood open at the end of the hall. Within was what looked like a secretarial area, four individuals each sitting at a desk arranged on either side of the room. They were very quiet and didn’t look up as we entered.

At the far end of the space was another set of big doors. These were two-toned, walnut and honey, and Mr. Blue Suit paused to knock but didn’t seem to wait for a response before opening them.

He walked a little ahead and I followed, leaving the guards behind. I didn’t see anyone, so I surveyed my surroundings. The most prominent feature was, of course, the floor-to-ceiling windows with much of Chicago laid out beyond. We must’ve been on the top floor. The view was unreal, like being on top of the Willis Tower, aka what locals still called the Sears Tower.

“Ms. Archer has arrived.”

I turned my head from the view and searched for the mysterious Mr. Quail, taking quick note of the office’s décor. The primary colors used were dark gray for the walls, carpet, and bookshelf behind the desk; mustard yellow for the leather couches and chairs; and various shades of white for sparse accents like the art on the walls, throw pillows, and a sculpture of a woman’s face sitting on a glass coffee table by the couches. The walnut-and-honey-colored desk in front of the shelves also had a glass top and was absolutely massive.

Mr. Blue Suit bowed and stepped to the side, revealing a man. The first thing I noticed was that he stood by a bar cart pouring himself a refreshment from a crystal decanter filled with light brown liquid. I did my best not to react to the fact that he was drinking so early in the morning and before our business meeting.

But then I looked at his face and I blinked, my spine straightening in surprise. Blond hair, angelic features, bespoke suit. This guy wasn’t Mr. Quail. His last name began with a W or a Y, I was sure of it.

“Ava.”

The man who greeted me with a sardonic smile was Henri, the guy I’d met two weeks ago at the fancy party, the one Des had wanted me to never contact.

“It’s . . . you,” I said, making no attempt to hide my confusion. What is he doing here? And where is Mr. Quail?

“Did I surprise you?” he asked, sipping from his crystal rocks glass and blatantly studying me over the edge of it.

Mr. Blue Suit bowed again and backed out of the office without a word.

“You—you did.” I twisted at the waist in time to see the doors to the office close, and then turned back to Henri. “I’m here for a meeting. What are you doing here?”

He lowered his glass, holding it at chest level. “We have a meeting.”

“Who does?”

Lifting his index finger from the glass, he fluidly gestured to me and then to himself as he strolled forward. “Us.”

“But I’m here for—wait. You’re Mr. Quail?”

“You should call me Henri.”

I huffed, nonplussed. “Okay, Henri. Are you Mr. Quail?” I felt like I needed an answer to this question before asking anything else. If he wasn’t, I didn’t want to be late for my meeting with the real prospective new client by misunderstanding the situation. My boss had seemed adamant in her memo that I needed to meet with Mr. Quail.

“I am . . .” His words trailed off like he had more to say. Staring at me, he took another sip of his drink.

Again, I tried not to judge him. It was five thirty somewhere.

When he didn’t continue, I gathered a deep breath and said, “Huh. I thought for sure your last name started with a W or Y. Doesn’t it?”

He smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. “You know who I am.”

“Yes, we were introduced. But I honestly forgot your last name. Is it really Quail?”

The pretense of his smile fell away and he glanced at his drink, tilting it side to side, swirling the remaining liquid. When he spoke, he spoke to the glass. “I don’t like being ignored, Ava.”

I nodded. Seemed fair. I didn’t like being ignored either. But why he was sharing this with me, I had no idea.

When I said nothing, he lifted his eyes, a lock of his blond hair falling forward on his angelic forehead. “Well?” he asked.

I stared at him, still bewildered. Clearly he expected something from me. I wanted to say, I don’t know, man. I’m here to onboard a new client.

Instead, I stalled, searching for something not rude to say. “Uh . . .” I looked to the left. Then I looked to the right. Then I gave up and said, “Well, I don’t like Funyuns.”

Henri lifted his chin and frowned. “Pardon?”

“Funyuns. I’ve never tried them, but I feel like it’s terribly presumptuous to name your product fun-yun. That’s a big job, making an onion fun when onion rings already exist. And what if you fail? What then?”

His frown disappeared. Now he just looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you didn’t like to be ignored, so I thought we were sharing things we don’t like.”

Henri made a short sound and glared at the window briefly before setting his drink down on the glass-topped coffee table. Fiddling with his cuffs, he sent his glare directly at me. “You have been ignoring me.”

I had no choice. I reared back again. What was he⁠—

“I—” I glanced around the room, checking behind me to ensure he wasn’t talking to someone else. When I found no one, I faced him and pressed my fingertips to my chest. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“I have? I have been ignoring you?”

“Yes.”

My mouth opened, then closed. I racked my brain. When would I have ignored this guy? We met, like, two weeks ago. I hadn’t seen him since. But what could I do? He was staring at me, watching me flail in confusion. I guess I could’ve argued with him about how odd he sounded, accusing me of ignoring him when I’d only met him the one time.

I knew better, however. I’d been a waitress once. Foodservice had taught me the value of an apology regardless of whether it felt warranted. Who cared? They were mere words.

So I said very calmly, “Uh, well, that is not my intention. But since you feel ignored, I apologize.”

He smirked, his gaze warming as it moved from my eyes to my chin to my chest, then lower. “How will you make it up to me?”

Henri was now blatantly checking me out. It took me a moment to realize he was quoting me from the first time we met. Surprised he remembered the conversation so well, I stood straighter, tilting my head an inch to the side.

Huh. Look at you. Making an impression on the angelic, handsome Mr. Quail.

“I have so many ideas,” I said, walking to one of the chairs in front of the massive glass desk. This would be a good segue into the reason for our meeting. “And—look—I brought paperwork!” I held up the folder.

Henri caught my arm as I passed and gently brought me to a stop. “Wait, let’s sit here.” He lifted his chin toward the couch, guiding me backward and to the leather cushion as he spoke. “Much more comfortable. What can I get you to drink?”

“Nothing for me, thank you. I’m very hydrated.” Dutifully, I sat where he indicated and placed the new client packet on the table in the middle of the sitting area. My bag and jacket I placed on the couch to my right.

I busied myself opening the folder and arranging its innards. I imagined some people liked to start with the welcome letter. I would not. No one reads welcome letters. At least, I’d never read one. I always skipped straight to the rate information and the services page.

Switching fully into work mode, I asked, “Not to be as presumptuous as the makers of Funyuns, but I’m assuming you already have representation. May I ask why you’re thinking of changing firms?”

Henri didn’t answer. He’d walked back to the bar cart, finished pouring himself another drink—I guess he’d downed the first when I’d been arranging the paperwork—and then took a seat on the couch next to me. Holding his glass, he faced me, placing his other arm on the back of the sofa.

“You’re not wearing my gift,” he said, sounding a little hurt but not looking hurt.

I blinked at him. “Gift?” Really. This guy. What was he talking about now?

“The earrings.” His attention pointedly flickered to my left ear.

Still not following, I gave my head a small shake. “What earrings?”

“The ones I sent along with the matching bracelet.” He glanced at my wrist.

Once more, I had no idea what he was talking about, nor could I tell if he was serious. A small, mischievous-looking smile tugged his lips to one side. Maybe he was teasing me?

Which, weird. But also, fine. I was good at rolling with the weird, even if this guy’s brand of weird made me wonder if he was hallucinating or thought I was someone else.

Regardless, I decided to play along. “Ohhh! Yes! The earrings. Yes. I put those in the shrine.”

His lips stopped tugging and surrendered to their smile. “The shrine?”

“Yes. Your shrine.” I almost bopped his nose with the tip of my index finger. If he was going to behave like a weirdo, then so would I. I didn’t do it, but never let it be said I did anything half-assed. “I dedicated it as soon as I got home that Thursday night, the only time we’ve ever met. Or spoken to each other. Or seen each other, until now.”

Henri stared at me, then he breathed a laugh. The erratic movements of his eyebrows told me he was completely confused. Welcome to the club, buddy.

“Your shrine is in my bedroom closet, so I can be close to it when I sleep. By the way, I think you’re out of milk at your house.”

He made a single short choking noise, then tossed his head back and laughed in earnest, like I was the funniest person on the planet. So of course I smiled, pleased with myself. I’m always pleased when I make people laugh on purpose rather than on accident.

“Are you trying to scare me, Ava?” he asked, eyes bright.

“No. Why? Am I scaring you?” I said on a sigh. For the first time in maybe my whole life, I was tired of someone else’s oddness.

I don’t think I’m an impatient person, but I only had an hour and a half at most for this meeting if I wanted to make it back to the cafeteria in time for Pizza Friday. I wished he’d let me go over the new client packet.

“It’s just, I’m used to being the scary one,” he said. “This is rather fun.”

His tone had dropped, making the statement “I’m used to being the scary one” feel like a challenge. Or a dare. And his eyes sorta, well, it was difficult to explain. They’d turned hard, and paired with “This is rather fun,” came off as creepy.

Surrendering to my frown, I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose. What the heck?

What was even happening here? Accusing me of ignoring him? Asking about earrings that didn’t exist? Telling me he was usually the scary one? For the record, I believed him, especially if this was how he talked to people he didn’t know, all the while drinking hard liquor before ten o’clock in the morning and checking me out like I was crab salad on sale at the grocery store.

My mother, ever the pragmatist, had made all of us take at least one martial art growing up until we made it to black belt and I was thankful. If I wasn’t a black belt in Brazilian jujitsu and confident I could take Henri down easily, I likely would’ve been alarmed right now.

Having enough of—of—of whatever this was, I said, “So, first of all, that’s a creepy thing to say. Why are you going around being scary? Don’t do that.”

The hardness in Henri’s eyes abruptly morphed into surprise.

But I wasn’t finished. “And secondly, what’s going on here? I was told you were a prospective new client and you asked for me by name. Why would you do that? We don’t even know each other. Which”—I held up a finger because he looked like he was about to interrupt me, and I wasn’t finished—“brings me to number three. Were you being serious with that ignoring talk? Because, what the heck? How did I ignore you? I met you once. Once. And now I’m here, two weeks later, as soon as you reached out to my firm. What about this is me ignoring you?”

While I spoke, Henri’s features went through several changes, but eventually his eyes narrowed, becoming both distracted and intense. “Are you telling me you”—he placed the crystal liquor glass down on the table with a thud—“didn’t receive my gifts? None of my messages?”

“Gifts? What gifts? Messages?” I gave my head a quick shake, taking a second to inspect Mr. Henri Quail.

He seemed entirely sincere, like someone who believed what he was saying, and now he was at a loss, like he didn’t know whether or not to believe me. Like maybe he thought I was the strange one.

Hmm. Perhaps he was hallucinating. Perhaps he actually needed help.

I covered his now-empty hand, leaned toward him, and lowered my voice even though we were alone. “Henri, seriously, are you okay?”

Henri stared at me for a long moment before realization sharpened his eyes. Then he snatched his hand away, his back going straight. “I’m—I’m fine. I—” He huffed. Loudly. His gaze never leaving mine. “This makes no sense.”

You’re telling me, pal.

“What, precisely, makes no sense?”

“Ava. I’ve been sending you gifts for the past two weeks.”

He didn’t seem to be lying, or think he was lying.

“Well, Henri, I haven’t received any gifts or messages. Where did you send them?” I kept my tone calm, hoping to impart I believed that he believed what he was saying, but the simple truth remained: I hadn’t received gifts from anyone over the last two weeks.

What I didn’t ask was, Why are you sending me gifts?

“To your office,” he ground out, visibly frustrated. In the next moment, he stood, pulled out his phone, tapped through screens, and brought it to his ear. Someone must’ve answered because he barked, “Get in here,” then hung up.

Not two seconds later, Mr. Blue Suit burst through the door and made a beeline for Henri, making me wonder if he’d been standing directly outside the door.

“There’s a problem,” Mr. Blue Suit said, looking quite harassed.

“Why are you here? I called Ignatious. And yeah. There’s a problem. I thought you⁠—”

“Mr. Wickford. There’s a problem.” Mr. Blue Suit stepped closer to Henri. Really close. His eyes wide.

Henri grew still and inspected him. “What is it?”

Mr. Blue Suit opened his mouth but then snapped it shut, glancing at me, then at the carpet, then back to Henri, his mouth in a firm line.

Studying the two men, I offered, “Maybe I should go use the bathroom?”

Henri waved my suggestion away, then placed his hands on his hips. “No. It’s fine. What’s the problem? Just say it.”

“That—uh—person is back. And there’s a fire in the server room.”

I stiffened. A fire?

“What?” Henri snapped.

“An accelerant was used.”

Henri’s hand came to his forehead and he looked truly stunned. He breathed in and out a few times, his stare moving around the room aimlessly before settling on me. He blinked, as though surprised to see me there.

Meanwhile, I began gathering my belongings.

“Ava, where are you going?” Henri frowned at me.

“Well, there’s a fire. Shouldn’t we evacuate?” I wondered if the elevator would still work during a fire.

Henri bent and covered my hands, stilling my movements. I fought the urge to jerk my fingers away. He waited until I gave him my eyes before straightening, smiling warmly down at me, and saying, “The fire is out. No need to evacuate.”

“Oh . . .” I sat back in my seat, the unsettled feeling in my stomach growing. How could he know whether the fire was out or not? He just found out about the fire. Even so, I set my things back on the couch, at a loss. What should I do?

“There’s more,” Mr. Blue Suit said, tilting his head toward the office doors. “We can’t get the backup loaded and diverted to the Caymans without your passkey.”

Henri nodded thoughtfully and turned to me again. “I’m so sorry. Can you—can you wait here? I’ll return directly.”

I nodded, having no plans to wait here. “Yeah. Sure. Go on,” I said. But as soon as they left, I’d count to twenty and then get the heck out of here.

Staring at me for a protracted moment, Henri added, “Don’t leave this room,” making me wonder if he could read my thoughts.

Lifting an eyebrow at the command, I said nothing. I wasn’t going to agree to that. But some instinct told me contradicting Henri to his face would be a bad idea.

Giving me one last lingering look, Henri departed with Mr. Blue Suit, leaving me alone in the office. I leaned back on the couch and sighed. This guy was very strange, slightly creepy. Obviously his interest in me extended beyond legal work, and apparently someone wanted to set fire to his server room. So not at all the type of guy I usually agreed to date.

Maybe you should date a new type of guy? I thought about dating Henri for three point four seconds before my nose instinctively wrinkled with distaste. There was a reason I never dated “nice view” guys. The view was nice at the top, sure, but elevators don’t always work, and it’s a lot of stairs between a great view and the safety of the ground floor.

Picking up my phone, I set a timer for one minute. I’d leave after one minute. Using the time to study Henri’s office, I noticed a door along the wall behind his desk and to the left. Uncle Dan told me all rich assholes had their own private bathroom off their office.

The timer went off and I collected my things, realizing as I stood that I did actually need to use the bathroom, which is what I would tell the secretarial staff as I left. A true and good excuse.

Curiously, when I tried the handle to the office door, it was locked.

“Excuse me?” I knocked on the door, juggling my bag, phone, and coat. “I need to use the bathroom. Could you unlock the door?”

No response.

I knocked again, harder this time. “Hello? This door is locked.” I danced from foot to foot, the matter becoming urgent. I hadn’t been lying when I’d said I was well hydrated.

“Hey! If you don’t open this door, I’m going to pee in one of the potted plants!”

Still nothing. I kicked the door and screamed long and loud. Dammit!

I would call someone. The police maybe? My mom? Uncle Quinn? But first I needed to go to the bathroom, I wasn’t going to be able to hold it much longer. And you know what? I shouldn’t have to hold it. Locking someone in a strange office is plain rude.

Frowning, I speed-walked to the couch, dropped off all my belongings except for my phone, and jogged to the door-that-might-be-an-asshole’s-private-bathroom. To my eternal relief, it was a bathroom. And so I used it rather than squatting in one of his big ficus plant pots, which hadn’t been a bluff. It had been plan C.

Irritatingly, the door to the bathroom didn’t lock. Or there was no way to lock it, as far as I could tell. So I rushed, breathing out a sigh of relief as soon as I righted my underwear, stockings, and skirt. After I finished doing my business, and could therefore think, I vaguely noticed the interior of the private bathroom. It was very nice and looked like something one might find in a craftsman-style home.

“Huh,” I said, studying the light fixtures as I washed my hands. They were tiger oak with geometric slag-stained-glass patterns arranged within cast iron or lead. The design reminded me of the stained glass in Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater home. Very masculine and pretty. Henri has good taste.

Well, of course he did. He liked me, didn’t he? I smirked at that but then frowned. Lest you forget, weirdo, he locked you inside his office and is creepy.

Grabbing my phone from the bathroom counter after drying my hands, I decided to try the office doors once more. If they were still locked, I’d call Uncle Quinn.

I’d taken one step out of the bathroom when I spotted something, some movement to my left, and my head whipped in that direction.

A man in all black—black pants, boots, hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head—was crouched behind the desk and was currently reaching inside what looked like a safe.

I gasped, stumbling back, instinct telling me to lock myself in the bathroom. But then I remembered that the bathroom door didn’t lock and swung outward—not in—so I wouldn’t be able to brace myself against it to keep the man in black out of the bathroom. If I retreated into the bathroom, I’d be completely trapped.

Just as I was coming to this realization, the man’s head snapped toward me and up. Beneath the hoodie he wore a black baseball cap and dark sunglasses, and black gloves concealed his hands. A black mask hid his nose and mouth, but I knew his eyes were locked with mine.

Call it intuition, whatever. He stilled. He saw me. And he was less than five feet away.

What the hell do I do?