Short Story: The Office Party

 

Socializing was never my forte. I usually linger on the border of being an active participant and wandering off to an unknown corner to nurse my drink and hiss at passersby who got too close to my hidden lair. Being the center of attention wasn’t something we reader/writer types enjoyed. We like laughing at a few jokes, contributing our awkward part, and then merging into the shadows of a room while hiding behind a book.
At least I did.
It may be what I’m used to doing because I transferred colleges and now teach with a bunch of strangers that I don’t know and am now stuck at a social function for our department. The two people I know are talking to a slightly larger group I’ve turned away from to scan the room, picking up locations I could go sit in semi-peace; there are two doors to sneak out of and an area where I could probably somewhat comfortably sit and read on my kindle. I just downloaded a new Megan Quinn rom-com and got a chapter into it at lunch since no one needed a conference.
As my eyes scan the room, I come to a jarring halt halfway through and am barricaded by the warmest pair of melty brown sugar-glazed eyes I have ever seen.
They gave me the same feeling as seeing fresh chocolate chip cookies, minus the mouth-watering. We’re in public, and even we bookish writer folk have enough courage and propriety to show up on Book Tok.
What made me most uncomfortable was how he looked at me; the sheer fact that he was looking at me while I looked at him back was unnerving.
No one ever looks at me, like, ever. Well, maybe he isn’t looking at me, or maybe he is, I don’t know!
Cool, I’m spiraling.
I turn back to my group, noticing that the circle had closed off, leaving me to linger with my straw stuck in my mouth because I can’t be trusted not to completely unravel under a gentlemanly gaze set aside perfectly for book boyfriends. It’s the type of gaze I mentally take notation of in the back of my lady's brain to save for future writing expeditions since it caused some butterfly infestations in the anxiety-filled pit of my annoyingly foodless void of a stomach.
Annoyingly, even as I look over my shoulder again to make sure I am hallucinating, my stomach freefalls because mister melty eyes is headed my way. Instantly, I’m trying to determine if I had met him at another function, had food in my teeth, toilet paper on my shoe, or had an impromptu wardrobe malfunction.
Do I embody a manic goddess of overthought? A raw, lonely book-wielding heroine of English department fame!
I haven’t had enough booze to make coherent conversation yet! I am out of my league with his baby browns, wave chestnut hair, and a stylish button-down.
Don’t say anything stupid!
Don’t look at him like you’re stupid, either. You have your master's degree in the art of all things communication. Even though it’s a Master of Fine Arts in fiction writing, you are typing to be understood.
Embody THAT for the love of all that’s holy.
And don’t….
“Hey,” his smile is bright, white straight teeth, his eyes shine, and I turn, gravitating toward him, and witness divine masculinity, “are you— “
“Your next wife?” That was out loud.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Abort! Abort! Run! Existence is futile! I flush to my roots and watch as his grin widens, and he tilts his head back and laughs.

“If you care to know, I would very much like the floor to swallow me up right about now,” I murmur as he wipes the corner of his eyes with his cocktail napkin.

“Please don’t. I don’t want to be the only new teacher here scanning the room for somewhere to hide.” He takes a deep breath, melty eyes shining.

“Am I that noticeable?” I frown, shifting to look behind me, noticing everyone else grouped up and chatting casually.

“I doubt anyone noticed.” He grins. I turn back to him and pucker my lips.
“You noticed.”
“Well, my social inaptitude, noticed your antisocial prowess, and here we are in mutual antisocial, new teacher-ness.” Oh, thank God, I’m not the only dork, which makes me relax and chuckle.

“You must be Rome,” I wipe my hand on my jeans before reaching my hand out.

“And you must be Lacie.” He takes my hand in his, and it’s a nice solid shake, and his hand is warm, gently calloused. “Where did you transfer from?”

“Brown. I finished my degree over the summer.” I smile softly and roll my eyes a little. “Thought New York in fall would be so romantic.”

“Then you get here, and it’s sweating your socks off hot.” He chuckles, adjusting his empty plate as I momentarily eye him.

“You?” I ask, slightly distracted.

“Boston.” He shrugs. “Similar culture and heat issue.”

I nod slowly before looking toward the almost empty buffet line. I swing my gaze back to him.

“Hey.” I perk up.

“Hi.” His eyebrows lift.

“Want to pile our plates full of food, snag a bottle of wine, and hide with me?” I point my empty cup toward the food as he swivels to look at it curiously, then turns, grins at me, and hitches a thumb toward the lineup.

“I thought you’d never ask.”