Chasing Wishes (13 page)

"Columbus! Fridge!"

The dog leaps to its feet and bolts through the door into the dining room, and I drag Terrence along for the ride. First comes the dining room with its massive, imposing ebony dinette set, then the living room with its long-neglected sofas and noticeable lack of a television. We pass through the sitting room, its seldom-viewed collection of oil paintings and grand piano slowly gathering dust, and then finally arrive at the kitchen.

Columbus sits patiently in front of the fridge, wagging his tail and frantically begging for a snack as I hunt through cabinets for bagels, and once I find them and finally reward him with a slice of turkey, he flops over on his side and goes back to sleep.

"So... I forgot to mention something," Terrence tells me once I’ve finished toasting his cinnamon raisin bagel. "There’s something I need you for tonight, if you don’t mind."

"What is it?"

"I have a dinner meeting at Verta tonight—seven o’clock, I believe. I’ll need to have an escort for it. Sorry about throwing you straight into the fire like this."

"Like, what kind of meeting? Formal? Party? Any dancing?" I ask nervously.

"Just stuffy people talking to each other and pretending they’re important for most of it," he answers. "I have to give a presentation on our research efforts, but I’m already prepared for that—you'll just need to control the computer and advance the slides. Oh, and my lawyer is coming along as well. You’ve met Charlotte, right?"

"Oh, I remember her alright. She threw me out of the lab yesterday while I was trying to find my way around the house."

Terrence sighs and shakes his head.

"Sorry. I’ll have a word with her. She’s always worried about contracts and security, but it doesn’t apply to you, especially if the scientists are in there. Just don’t touch anything and you’re fine."

He takes a huge bite and munches contentedly on his bagel before continuing.

"So in short, it’ll be a lot of people in suits speaking entirely in company jargon while sucking up to high-ranking executives."

"What a wonderful time," I deadpan, helping him up as he finishes and guiding him back toward the foyer.

"It’s my least favorite part of the job and honestly, I understand now why Marcus never moved beyond a lab head role at any of his old companies. I hate meeting with executives. What sane person would ever voluntarily deal with that kind of job?"

I drag open the heavy doors dividing Terrence’s luxurious estate from his laboratory, and every researcher’s eyes are suddenly on us as we walk down the central corridor. The soundproof glass walls lining the corridor make it feel really creepy in here. Terrence’s employees are standing all around us and I can’t hear a damned thing. The only sounds are the quiet hiss of the ventilation system overhead and my nervous pulse pounding in my veins.

At the end, the corridor opens up into a meeting room with standard, cookie-cutter office equipment, computers and a coffee maker. As we approach, Marcus looks up from his work at a table centered in the office and waves to me.

"Seven steps to the table," I whisper, but Terrence is a full foot taller than I am and it’s only four steps for him. He slams painfully into the table and swears under his breath.

"Oh no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to... it was seven for me," I babble in embarrassment.

"Jesus, how short are you, Irene?" he asks, rubbing his hip and frowning.

"Five feet, two inches."

"Huh..." he trails off, freeing his arm from my grasp, and then he leans heavily on the table as Marcus hurries to my side.

"I did the same thing when I started, too," Marcus whispers in my ear. "He has a long stride. Two of his for three of yours, okay?"

"Got it," I whisper back, and I scoot out of their way as they get down to business. Two more scientists come out of the lab on the far side of the room and join in on the conversation.

"Any updates yet?" Terrence asks. "What’s going on with the implantation system?"

"Charlotte followed up with one of her colleagues in DC and confirmed that her patent plan will work just fine," answers Marcus. "We’re running a rejection test on the retinal surface implantation next, checking for CD45 markers and performing inflammation kinf poumonitoring..."

Terrence stares off into space, nodding occasionally as Marcus describes the project. How is he absorbing all this? He can’t see anything his scientists are pointing at on the giant blueprint of an eyeball—at least I
think
it’s an eyeball—rolled out across the table. Does he actually understand what they’re saying?

"Why are we looking for inflammatory responses in an immune privileged zone?" asks Terrence. "CD45 markers don’t even express unless..."

Jesus... he knows
exactly
what they’re saying, doesn’t he?

"True, but we’re interfacing into the optical nerve in Process A," explains one of the scientists, "There’s a chance that an inflammatory reaction from the wiring might migrate back into Process B and—"

I’m completely lost, but Terrence somehow follows along as his scientists point out all sorts of strange, complicated schematics on the blueprint. It’s almost as if he can picture the diagrams in his head purely from what they’re telling him. When I glance up at him again, his eyes are closed and he’s swaying gently back and forth, clearly lost in thought.

"Process B is connecting in where, exactly?" he asks. "I’m not quite sure where it is."

It’s all I can do not to let my jaw hit the floor. He can see it in his head. He’s piecing a stupidly complicated...whatever that thing is... entirely from words.

"Terrence!" screeches a voice from the corridor behind us, and I nearly leap out of my skin. "What on earth is
she
doing in here?"

I spin around and Charlotte’s cold glare hits me like a truck.

"She’s my personal assistant," answers Terrence, turning away from the table and facing his lawyer. "I need her help to—"

"You can't have her in here! This is still Verta’s intellectual property—it’s not yours yet," she snaps at him. "You’re violating your own contract if you let her in here. Get her out, Terrence."

"Okay, fine," he says, raising his hands defensively. "Good timing on you getting here, by the way. I need a quick favor from you."

"What is it?" she snaps impatiently.

"We have a dinner tonight at Verta, and Irene’s going to need something to wear."

I hold my tongue and remain silent. As much as I want to pipe in and ask what’s wrong with the clothes I’m wearing, Charlotte is clearly in no mood to deal with me.

"Sorry, but I don’t think anything of mine will fit someone as tiny as her," she answers snidely, eyeing me up and down dismissively.

"Of course they wouldn’t. That’s why I need you to take her over to—"

"No," Charlotte cuts him off, shaking her head vehemently.

"But..."

"Absolutely not! You’re sending your lawyer to go
shopping
for you? Where the hell do you get off?" she practically spits at him, abandoning any pretense of civility.

"No, I’m sending my good friend, the queen of fashion sense, and—this is important—the only other woman on my staff to help her find something elegant for tonight," says Terrence, somehow m kce, senseiraculously staying calm through all her nastiness. "I can’t exactly send Marcus, you know."

"You know, I can just go on my own if you’d like," I interject, but Charlotte rolls her eyes and scoffs at me.

"You? You wouldn’t know elegant if it slapped you in the face."

"That’s enough, Charlotte," growls Terrence, shooting her a look that could kill kittens from one-hundred yards. I could swear he just grew to twice his normal size, too.

"Terrence, she has no business being here," argues Charlotte, her face flushing with anger. "She's a cafeteria worker, for God's sake! If you need someone to assist you with things, at least pick someone with a little class. Honestly, all you needed to do is ask me and I'd do—"

"Don't you
dare
start lecturing me on class, Charlotte," he snarls at her, matching her anger notch for notch and stepping in between us as if trying to protect me. I stand rooted in place, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open in shock at her hostility toward me.

"Terrence, come with me
right now
," hisses Charlotte, and she grabs him by the arm and drags him into one of the soundproof glass laboratories. It’s so surreal to watch them screaming at each other in silence as if they’re actors in a muted soap opera.

Marcus pokes me in the shoulder and pulls my attention away from the fight.

"They’re going to be in there for a long time, I think. Let’s just go without them," he tells me, rolling his eyes at their ludicrous argument.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"You’ll do fine picking out a dress," he answers with a warm smile. "Besides, would you trust anything she picked out for you after seeing her reaction?"

"Good point. She’d probably try to put me into a clown costume."

"It’s settled, then," says Marcus. "I'll put it on Terrence's account since it's for a meeting, of course, but you're going to have to tell me where we're going. I'm not exactly up to date on the latest in ladies' fashions, you know."

"Wait a second... I already know the perfect dress expert! I don’t need Charlotte at all," I say. "Why didn’t I think of her sooner?"

"Who?"

"My old roommate Cassie," I answer as I pull out my phone and send her a text message. "She’s absolutely nuts about fashion and she’ll know exactly what I need to wear."

"Works for me. I’m just the chauffeur," says Marcus with a shrug and a smile, and he starts for the door.

"So... is Charlotte usually like this?" I ask as I follow him down the corridor.

"She’s always been a handful to deal with, but this is a little...
extreme
even for her," he answers, choosing his words carefully. "Let’s hope you grow on her."

The silent screaming contest is still going at full strength, but Charlotte stops just long enough to shoot me a hateful glare as we pass. I haven’t seen a glare like that since I was at Woodbridge Academy.

I don’t think I’m going to be growing on her any time soon.

"L
ike, seriously Irene?" gasps Cassie, her mouth open so wide that I could stick a pork roast in it. "Your boss is
buying you clothes?
"

Somehow, now that Cassie’s put it that way, it sounds a little awkward to me as well.

"No no, it’s not like that!" I counter. "It’s for a board meeting and I don’t own anything good enough. It’s not like we’re—"

"Irene, that’s fucking awesome," she squeals, almost dancing in delight as we stand out front the store. "What’re you looking for?"

"Terrence is presenting his research updates at the Verta board meeting tonight, and he said I need to be dressed well. It’s a professional event."

"Terrence? Isn’t he the cute guy you were telling me about? The one from the library?" she asks far too loudly. Marcus raises an eyebrow at me and I turn bright red.

"Oh just hush yourself and find me some clothes, okay?" I answer with a groan. "I need a nice, elegant dress for tonight."

At least, I
think
that’s what I need. I’ve never had enough money to think about buying nice clothes, so I’ve never really bothered looking at them. I didn’t want to know what I was missing out on.

"Elegant? You’ve come to the right girl!" exclaims Cassie with a wide smile, and she claps her hands together. Marcus chuckles, shakes his head and wanders off to the frozen yogurt shop next door. He knows when he’s met his match, and he’s getting out while he still can and abandoning me to Cassie’s whims.

Cassie drags me into a shop called ‘Stonewear on Main Street.’ Stonewear? Is looking like a plate in vogue these days? I don’t get the pun at all, but that doesn’t stop my jaw from hitting the floor the second I’m inside.

If it weren't for Cassie, I’d turn and run screaming for the door. I could never shop here, not with this kind of variety. I can’t tell they organized the shop by brand, style or color, and I don’t even know where to start in here. The full summation of my clothing knowledge can be summed up as ‘dress or pants’ and here I am in a shop with six different types of neckline cuts. A dazzling array of colors, styles, patterns and sparkly sequins hits me no matter where I look—total, colorful, absolutely gorgeous sensory overload. I don’t even know how to pronounce a good half of the brand names stenciled onto the shop’s pastel-colored walls, and I’d be willing to bet that I can’t afford them either.

"Can I help you find anything?" asks the girl behind the counter, but Cassie shakes her head.