The Space Between

“You could have asked her” or so I told myself every time I had an opportunity to speak to her but passed on it because of others present. Every time I could have asked her to lunch but took the safer choice instead by asking one of the guys. There was nothing wrong with her; she was polite, kind, decent really. Sure, she did not put up with disrespect or people talking down to her and honestly, when she was not smiling or her voice came out flat, she was a little scary.

But I kept trying. I wanted to bridge that gap and see if there might be something. I wanted to be able to call her a friend. There had been short conversations when it was just us and those flowed smoothly. She remembered my kids and their activities, remembered things I had mentioned, even the boring things like visits to the doctor or car repairs. I tried to remember things that might be important to her like her hobbies or her pets. I asked about her friends once and she paused. I saw a brief flash of sadness and felt awful for hitting a nerve.

“They either live out of state or overseas.”

“None close to home?”

“Either not allowed to see them, schedules never line up or they-.”

She had cut herself off, but I heard the tremor.

“I’m sorry that you are having to deal with that.”

“It is all right, I will manage. Thank you.”

She went back to her procedure, and I left the office with a strange sort of knot in my stomach.

That night, when I got home, I took out a notebook left over from somewhere and began to write. I did not pay attention to spelling, grammar or much of anything, just let the words do what they wanted. I wrote to her, telling her how she was the nicest person in the office, how I appreciated her looking out for me. I told her how she managed guests and our food demands with grace, even when we were difficult and fussy and said there was no way I could manage that like she did. I wrote that I was sorry for poking at her friends, that I felt bad when she cut her sentence off and the way her eyes looked like she was about to cry.

“You looked sad when you said those words, and I felt like the biggest fool for hurting you. You are a good person and should have all kinds of friends. I cannot believe there are people out there who claim to like you but never make the time for you. They do not have the first clue what they are missing. 100 percent their loss. You are amazing, you are kind, and I hope you find people who want to be there with you, who give back the good energy you give. I hope you find people who lift you up, who cheer for you, who fight alongside you…. “

I skipped a line and in the next, I wrote.

“I wish I could be good enough to be in your circle.”

The ink smudged and I realized I was crying. I had not poured this much emotion out in months or maybe years, but I felt lighter for having done so. Carefully, I blotted away the tears but left the ink smudges and watermarks. It felt more real this way. I closed the notebook and headed to bed.

Weeks passed in the same routine: meetings where I would crack jokes and act silly, moments where she would shake her head over something I had done and would try to hide the smile or laughter. There were moments when she would come outside and just watch us work, occasionally tilting her head to one side in silent inquiry. I channeled my inner crow and left decorated rocks on her desk. I left one on her desk and hid in a nearby office to wait and see how she reacted. She saw the rock, and I saw her smile.

“Thank you, rock whisperer” she whispered softly into the empty room.

I never admitted it but there was something about the simple act of leaving a rock that made me smile. It made me feel like I might just be able to bridge the gap between us.

Then he arrived, the earth beneath my feet shifted and I fell.

He was tall, slender, good looking sort and had the advantage of being a coworker from a place before. I watched the live feed from the cameras, pacing the floor and cursing this intruder. How dare he smile at her and hang onto every word she said? How dare he make her laugh? The rage when he embraced her before leaving was more than I could stand.

I learned that not only had they been coworkers, but they had military experience in common. That was a bond I could never compete with. It explained why her interactions with the lab were slightly different compared to ours; he had served too.

“Would I ever be good enough to be in your circle? I know I’ve never served, and I admit I’m not sure I could. I know you are not much of a sports fan, and we have very different ideas of what it means to “be outdoors”. I suppose I should be lucky to share office space with you but that isn’t doing it for me anymore. If I asked you how to close the space between us, would you tell me? Would you know the answer?”

As quickly as he appeared, he vanished, leaving her hurt, angry and confused. She had said it was his personal business and that she didn’t have any details beyond that. I could see the hurt and the anger in her eyes, so I escalated my rock campaign.

The office noticed and asked her about it. She just smiled and said that she didn’t mind them, they made her smile, and she appreciated the thought.

Then I made a mistake.

I left the notebook in my truck, having taken it with me to write in one weekend while I was out of the house. I offered to help her with something, so we took my truck. She handed me $40 to cover gas and insisted I keep it. She was quiet on the way there, didn’t say much. She was nervous about being in my vehicle, about being seen with me, even in an official capacity. At some point, the notebook fell out, she picked it up and held on to it until she could find me, thinking it was important. What I had not known was when it fell out, it opened to the page where I had written about how that visit from her friend had made me feel and how envious I had been of him. She didn’t say anything when she handed it back to me, but her expression was different.

I took it home and when I opened it to write, I noticed the dirt and dust, and it clicked what had happened. But had she read anything? If she had… I was ruined. Would she tell anyone? Would she dislike me? Would she pretend she knew nothing? I wrote to her again, telling her I was sorry she had seen this book, how stupid I was to leave it in my car. But maybe, in a way, I wanted her to see it, I wanted her to understand. She had been sitting right there next to me. I could have spoken, could have reached over to assure her she was safe with me.

“Why didn’t I?”

My work took a hit, and it was noticed. I found it hard to cut up and crack jokes, to be present for meetings. It was hard to look at her, afraid of what she might know, what I might see in her face.

The tension built up to a late Friday afternoon. A meeting that lasted longer than it should have so I waited in the parking lot to make sure she left. I saw her leave and walk to her car, letting her hair down to signal she was done for the day. I heard the engine and the sound of drums and guitars as her music came to life. She stopped in front of me, waved and left. As she rounded the curve and vanished, my phone buzzed.

“Thank you. Have a good weekend! 😊”

Close. Still far away but not as much.