Hate Notes

I hadn’t planned on showing up.

At least that was what I’d told myself. The fact that I’d set up an appointment with a prospective seller in the Cobble Hill section of Brooklyn had nothing to do with open tryouts going on twelve blocks away the very same day.

My meeting happened to end at six thirty, and driving up Smith Street took me right past a certain massive church. Next thing I knew, I had parked and was following a herd of people like a mindless sheep.

“Welcome to the Tabernacle.” An older man at the entrance handed me a brochure with a warm smile. “Talent is a gift from God. Sharing it here is your gift back. Good luck tonight.”

While the inviting gesture should have made me feel at ease, it made me feel the exact opposite. I wanted to run the hell out of here. But since I’d come this far, I tamped down the urge to flee, took a seat in the very back row, and watched all the excited faces pile into the front pews of the church.

“Mind if I sit next to you?” The guy who’d greeted me stood in the aisle at the end of the pew I sat in. I glanced around the church. There had to be thirty completely empty rows in front of me.

He read my face. “I like to sit next to the door in case there are any interruptions or latecomers that make a ruckus.”

I nodded and slid over in the pew to make room. It was after seven. People had stopped piling in, but auditions hadn’t started up yet.

“You new? Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”

“I just stopped in to . . .” What the hell was I doing here? “. . . to check things out.”

“So you don’t sing?”

“No. Yes. No. Yes. I mean . . . I used to. A long time ago.”

He nodded. “What made you stop coming to church?”

I hadn’t said I’d stopped coming to church. I’d only implied I once sang and didn’t anymore. “How do you know I don’t go to a different church?”

He smiled. “Do you?”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “No. I don’t.”

He motioned to the back pews. “When people first come back after a long absence, they tend to sit in the back rows.”

I nodded. “Makes the escape easier.”

“How long’s it been?”

“Since I sang?”

He shook his head. “No. Since you’ve been to God’s house.”

I knew the answer without having to think about it. The last time I’d stepped foot inside of a church had been with Allison. We’d gone to mass before our scheduled meeting with the deacon. It had been two weeks before our wedding day, and we’d given him the readings and song choices we’d picked out for the ceremony. Ironically, the day we’d gone to God’s house had been the night that she’d chosen for her come-to-Jesus moment. “It’s been a while.”

“I’m Terrence.” The man extended his hand. “Welcome back.”

“Reed.” I shook. “And I’m not sure I’m actually back.”

“Every journey begins with a first step. You planning on trying out for the choir?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. Figured I’d watch tonight and see how things go. There’s a second tryout night next week, isn’t there?”

“That’s right.”

The church doors opened, and a guy in a maintenance uniform walked in. Spotting Terrence, he said, “Got an issue with the boiler in the basement. Could use a few hands to help me move the file cabinets that Miss Margaret made us store down there. They’re blocking access to the system.”

Terrence nodded and turned to me. “A volunteer’s work is never done around here.” He stood and patted me on the shoulder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

A few days later, I still hadn’t decided if I was going back for the only other audition night at the Brooklyn Tabernacle. But when I went into my online calendar, I noticed that an appointment had been booked for that night. The scheduler showed that Charlotte had entered the appointment, although the only information on the blocked-out time was a bunch of letters that spelled nothing: SFBGITS.

I picked up the phone and called her extension.

She answered on the second ring, “Bonjour, Monsieur Eastwood. Je peux vous aider?”

What the . . . “Charlotte?”

“Oui.”

Then it dawned on me. When I’d stalked her Fuck-It List online the other day, Learn French had been added. I’d seen her in the break room earlier, eating her lunch with earbuds in while mumbling to herself. Now it made sense. Well, sense for Charlotte Darling. She’d been listening to phrases and practicing speaking them.

Luckily, I’d taken some French myself. “Ne tenez-vous pas la langue anglaise assez?” Translation: Don’t you butcher the English language enough? I covered the phone and chuckled, because I had no fucking clue if my own translation was even correct.

She responded, “Umm. Huh?”

I chuckled. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m still learning.”

“I never would’ve guessed . . .”

“Shut up. Did you call for a reason, or did you just get the urge to poke fun at someone so you automatically dialed my extension?”

“Actually, I called for a reason. You just make it so easy to poke fun.”

“What did you want?”

“There’s an appointment on my calendar for Wednesday at seven. It’s labeled SFBGITS. Do you know what that is?”

“Of course. SFBGITS—‘Sing for big guy in the sky.’ I wrote it in code so no one would figure it out except us.”

I shook my head. “Except you, you mean.”

“Whatever. Are you excited? Have you been practicing?”

“I’m not auditioning, Charlotte.” Even if I’d decided to do it, there was no way I’d have let her know about it. I hadn’t sung in years, and the people at those tryouts were really good. I doubted I could even make the cut. Besides, if by some long shot I did make it through tryouts, I envisioned her sitting in the first row of every performance. She’d probably invite the entire office staff and a few janitors I’ve never met from the building, too.

I could imagine the pout on her face when she spoke. “Why not?”

“Just because I made the list doesn’t mean I’m planning on attacking it like it’s a race.”

“Oh.” She was quiet for a moment. Then again said, “Why not?”

“Just take the appointment off my calendar, Charlotte.”

“Fine.”

After I hung up, I felt slightly bad about being a dick toward her. So I opened up her calendar, called up all her appointments and reminders for the next week, and began to translate them all from English to French for her to work through.

One appointment read “Iris flight landing at 5pm. Call to confirm at 4.” So I translated it to: Le vol d’Iris atterrit à 17h. Appelez pour confirmer à 16h. Then I decided to add a few tasks of my own for her to do:

Prendre rendez-vous avec rétrécis. Translation: Make appointment with shrink. At least that’s what I attempted to write.

Another reminder she had read “Victoria’s Secret sale ends. Order new unmentionables after getting paycheck!” I laughed out loud at that one. Charlotte was definitely the only twentysomething-year-old I knew who would use the word “unmentionables.” I gave her a good translation for that.

Commandez des pantalons et des soutiens-gorge. Order granny panties and support bras.

I was enjoying myself, getting into screwing with her, until I came to the next appointment. “Blind Date at 9.”

An unexpected anger bubbled up inside of me. Even though I had no right to feel that way, it didn’t cool the burn in my throat. Some asshole was going to take full advantage of Goldilocks. I wasn’t jealous—I was . . . protective. Deep down, buried underneath all that crazy, was a woman who believed in fairy tales. Her asshole fiancé had been dipping his pen in the company ink at the place she worked, and Charlotte still posted shit on Facebook like Just keep swimming and Create your own happiness. Some people never learn. She wouldn’t see that her knight in shining armor was an asshole wrapped in tinfoil until after he screwed her over. And it pissed me off that she was so blind. That feeling became immeasurably worse when I realized that her little Victoria’s Secret shopping spree likely directly correlated to her big blind date.

“Leave it on my desk,” I bit out without looking up. I’d smelled her walk into my office. And that only served to irritate me even more—that I knew her scent. That I liked the way she fucking smelled.

Charlotte placed the report she’d been working on for me down and turned around to walk out. Only she stopped in the doorway. “Did I do something wrong, Reed?”

I’d been giving her an attitude for a few days—since the afternoon I’d made the mistake of opening her calendar. “Nope. Just busy.”

“Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“Nope.” I motioned to the door without looking up from editing the brochure I was working on. “But you can shut my door on your way out.”

After my door clicked closed, I tossed my pen on the desk and sat back in my seat. The goddamn entire office smelled like her now. A few minutes later, I was still unable to concentrate, so I opened my laptop and fired off an email to my annoying assistant.

To: Charlotte Darling

Subject: You.

I would be most appreciative if you could reduce the quantity of perfume that you bathe yourself in. My olfactory receptors set off my allergy sensors twenty feet before you arrive in a room. Besides, a woman wears subtlety best.

Getting that off my chest, I was able to return my focus to actual work. Until a few minutes later, when a soft chime notified me a new email had arrived. I knew who it was from before waking my computer from the screen saver.

To: Reed Eastwood

Subject: Your olfactory receptors

It’s a shame your olfactory receptors are so sensitive. Have you tried exposing yourself to the allergen in order to desensitize the effect? Perhaps it might help if on occasion you would stop and smell the roses instead of trampling on the garden? The world is filled with bouquets of women. Besides, a man wears manners best.

The next evening, before I left for the night, I stopped by Charlotte’s office to drop off some receipts so she could prepare my monthly expense report. It was nearly eight, and I’d assumed she’d left already. Her voice stopped me right before I reached her door.

“And what’s the price of a sleeper cabin?”

Quiet, and then, “Hmm. Okay. And how big are the beds in the cabin?”

More silence.

“Wow. You don’t have something to fit two? Maybe a queen or something?”

She laughed. “Okay. Well, I guess that’s always an option. I’m not ready to book at this time. But thank you very much for the information.”

I didn’t want to get caught eavesdropping in the hall, but I also couldn’t resist being an asshole. Strolling into her office, I dropped my expense envelope on her desk and said, “Using a company phone at work to make vacation plans. Not very professional, Charlotte.”

She glared at me. I found her wrinkled nose, squinty eyes, and the pink heat rising in her cheeks to be cute. Wisely, I kept that thought to myself.

Charlotte picked her cell phone up from her desk and waved it in my direction. “I was using my cell phone, not the company phone. And my workday ended three hours ago. So technically, the only company thing I’m using is this chair.”

I hid my smirk. “Taking a trip somewhere? I didn’t realize you had earned vacation time already.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was only getting information for a train ride in Europe. I like to daydream about things I want to do, and sometimes the visual of what that looks like helps.”

It clicked. Under the Tuscan Sun. Yesterday she’d added Make Love to a Man for the First Time in a Sleeper Cabin on a Train Ride Through Italy to her Fuck-It List. If she knew I’d been stalking her list on the server, she’d take that to mean I was interested in being her bucket-list buddy, so I didn’t mention I knew what she was talking about. Instead, I chose a different path to walk. One that surely led straight to hell. “Perhaps if you spent more time working and less time daydreaming, you’d be more productive and wouldn’t have to stay until eight o’clock at night.”

Her eyes flared wide. She stared at me for a moment, then opened her desk drawer and ripped her purse out of it, slamming it down onto her desktop before banging the drawer back closed. Shutting her laptop, she stood and tugged her purse to her shoulder. She then proceeded to march toward the door where I was still standing. Not expecting her to stop when she reached me, I took a cautious step back, anticipating getting reamed out.

Instead, her eyes closed, hands raised, and her fingers frantically began typing in the air.

Seriously. Fucking. Nuts.

And so beautiful when her nostrils were flaring.

She hit what I presumed was the imaginary “Enter” button, took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and walked out of the office without another word.

I might’ve watched the sway of her ass the entire way out.

We both needed goddamn counseling.