Elevators and Coffee

“Crap.” I hissed as my body went tumbling down the staircase. Bang. Crash. Bonk.

Ow, ow, and ow. I lay sprawled at the bottom of the stairwell. Could this day get any better? I swear this stupid apartment building is trying to kill me.

“Are you alright, Stacy?” Mr. Penfell asked. I gave him a noncommittal grunt as he pulled me to my feet.

“I could be better,” I sighed. “Falling down the stairs was definitely not how I imagined my morning starting.”

Mr. Penfell nodded.

“Well, I should feed my cat,” he continued. “I hope the rest of your day goes well. Don’t forget to pick up your mail in the lobby.”

“Thank you, Mr. Penfell,” I responded, hurrying down the next flight of stairs. As much as I liked Mr. Penfell, I had a job to get to.

I’m gonna be late. I’m gonna be late. I’m gonna be late.

The words pelted my brain like rocks as I wove through crowded street after crowded street. Mr. Warbler was going to kill me if I had one more tardy. But was it really my fault he couldn’t handle me being three seconds late? I didn’t think so.

The inside of the law firm greeted me with the judging rustle of papers and several not-so-furtive glares. I gripped my coffee tighter and rushed to the elevator.

I hated working as a lawyer. The pay may have been good, but there had to be more fun ways to pay the bills.

The slowing of the elevator made me groan.

The ding of doom opened the doors to allow a man with wire-frame glasses to enter. He looked slightly uncomfortable to find me already inside. He must not have been a fan of people either. He clutched a brown leather briefcase and raised his head like a martyr.

I smiled at the image of this skinny man in gladiator armor, piercing green eyes, tackling more than an annoying boss.

Snap out of it, Stacy. I told my brain. I should have given up imagining scenarios years ago. But everyone has their ways to cope, right?

The man’s green eyes found mine, and I realized I was still staring at him. My face flushed with embarrassment and frustration before I dropped my gaze to the floor.

“Rough morning?” he asked.

It seemed he had taken the time to notice my slightly frizzy hair and coffee-stained trench coat. It would be the third time this month I had to go to the dry cleaners. I smiled and was about to answer when something made me pause.

I knew that voice from somewhere. Call it déjà vu or whatever, but I’d met this guy before.

“Yeah,” I muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. “You could say that.”

He nodded, fidgeting with his briefcase awkwardly. The silence after that was almost worse than falling down a flight of stairs.

The ding of doom sounded again as the elevator reached the twentieth floor.

A steaming purple face was already waiting for me.

“Ms. Castello, may I remind you that if you have one more tardy, I will fire you?” Mr. Warbler spluttered. It was a miracle he didn’t choke on his own spit. “We are a highly praised firm, and we expect our employees to act as such, and—”

It was at that moment that he noticed the briefcase guy standing behind me. His face went from eggplant purple to milk-white in seconds.

“Mr. Reynolds! I apologize for my conduct. I was not aware you were arriving today. Please excuse my employee. I’ve been meaning to have a conversation with her.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“If it’s all the same to you, sir,” I muttered, brushing past my mortified boss, “I’ll be doing my job now.”

Warbler opened his mouth to say something else, but decided against it. By the grace of the heavens, my boss decided it was much more important to escort Mr. Reynolds—whoever he was—to wherever he was going.

As soon as I got to my office, I dropped my bag by my desk and plopped down into my swivel chair wearily.

Only 9 A.M., and I was already ready to be done with work.

My computer was still off. I had to hand in some papers to one of my co-workers. She was such a Karen, it almost wasn’t worth the bonus. On top of that, I had a meeting at noon.

Thank you, universe, for taking away my lunch break.

I wasn’t even an hour into the torture of accounting when there was a knock on my door.

I glared at it, as if it were somehow the door’s fault that it could be knocked on. I knew it wasn’t fair to the door, but I’d have to apologize later.

Right then, I had a person to shoo off. Talk to. I had a person to talk to.

“Come in!” I called.

The door opened gladly. The traitor.

And in came none other than Mr. Reynolds, briefcase nowhere in sight.

“Are you Mrs. Castello?” he asked.

I stared at him over my computer.

Mrs.? Is this guy serious? How old does he think I am, thirty?

“It’s Miss, actually, Mr. Reynolds,” I sighed. “What can I do for you?”

Something about my manner had him all flustered again. Face red, eyes on the floor. Wonderful. Now I had to wait for this guy to regain composure.

“Right,” he mumbled. “Sorry. But do you specialize in medical malpractice?”

“I do,” I responded hesitantly. So far, I did not like where this conversation was going.

“I’m sorry, but I had a meeting with one of your co-workers, and he said they couldn’t help me—but that you could.” Reynolds stopped fidgeting with his hands as he gained confidence. “I need your help suing a hospital.”

That’s better. I pressed my fingers gently over my mouth to hide my grin. I may hate the boring parts of my job, but man, did I love going to court. During my two years as a lawyer, I had only ever lost one case. What can I say? I love to argue.

“You realize suing a hospital takes a very long time,” I began seriously. “You need a strong offense and an even stronger defense. The healthcare system gets away with much more than they claim, so when you go against them, they will be prepared. There is a very high possibility that you will walk away with less than you came in with. Are you willing to take that risk?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t,” he matched my tone.

I stared at him.

Suddenly, I remembered where I knew this guy. We’d been friends in middle school, and I hadn’t seen him since my parents moved the family to Maryland.

Or maybe the guy was just a doppelgänger. There were lots of those in New York.

“Mr. Reynolds, your name wouldn’t happen to be Liam, would it?” I asked, organizing the papers on my desk.

He stiffened.

“No…” he said suspiciously.

I side-eyed him before I could stop myself.

“I mean, yes,” Reynolds continued. “But how did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” I shrugged. “Are you ready to get to work?”

I gestured for him to sit. A confused look clouded his face before he obliged.

The rest of the day was normal.

Until I got home.

Sitting at my kitchen counter, eating ramen, I had a startling realization. I never knew a guy named Liam in middle school. And my family moved to Maryland when I was seven. Not fourteen. So what was that memory? And how did I know Mr. Reynolds’ first name?