Accidental Attachment (It's A Funny Story #1)

by Max Monroe

He’s a professional suit guy, but not in the way that’s boring. Of course not. He could never be boring. Everything he wears, every pair of dress pants and every collared shirt and suit jacket, fits his body like a glove. I’m certain he gets his clothes tailored. It’s either that or he just has one of those perfect bodies where everything fits him.

“Oh my God, Brooke,” Chase croons in a way that seems both distressed and controlled from right in front of my face. I’d love to be able to focus on the perfect, passionate blue of his dreamboat eyes from this unexpectedly close position, but to be quite honest, I’m a little too occupied with using all my basic functions to avoid peeing myself.

“Dawn, get me a Coke, please. Quick!” Chase yells through the glass wall of his office from his knees beside me, not even bothering to explain. Given my little-girl crush on the Super Secretary, I’m really hoping she doesn’t take offense at her boss’s barking orders on my behalf.

She’s so much more than an anchor voice and a pretty smile, so much more than a vessel to deliver the news. She’s mustard stains and late-night I Love Lucy reruns. She’s erotic midnight swims in someone else’s pool and on-time arrivals that border on being too early. She’s the cream and the cookie, and I’ll be goddamned if I didn’t take a hammer to her just to watch her crumble. Coworkers like us aren’t supposed to be together. It’s a complication that doesn’t mix. But when I hear her laugh, I hear my own. When I think of happiness, I think of her. And I don’t know a man on the planet who’d throw that away for something less than.

“I was doing a little cleaning before you got here.” “Gotcha. Place looks great.” He nods and then waves me off with a smile. “And no worries. I popped in on you without warning and demanded your company at dinner. I’m pretty sure you could have made me wait all night if you wanted to without any foul play.” “But then we’d miss dinner.” Chase shrugs. “There’s always breakfast.” Okay, jeez. That’s a good-ass line if I’ve ever heard one.

All text messages. All from my sister. Mo: Okay, so we need an organized communication system so you can keep me up to speed on everything that happens on the tour. I want to know what Brooke says and what she wears and what she eats, etc. I want a fully detailed, nightly report. Mo: Though, I guess I’d be okay with a morning report. Mo: Or maybe you should do, like, a morning report and a nightly report. That way, you won’t forget anything. Mo: Oh, and if there’s any reader out there who tries to act like they’re her biggest fan, I need FBI-style background information on those liars ASAP. I shut my eyes, lean my head back, and sigh.

Brooke’s bent in half, her suitcase upright but undeniably precarious on the curb behind her, and Benji is circling her avidly, trying to find a way to help. He’s dressed in a Captain America costume and has his own matching backpack strapped over his service dog vest. His backpack, mind you, is more secure, compared to Brooke’s leather one that dangles from her shoulders and appears to be mucking up the works even further. Brooke turns back to her suitcase and flips it up so it only sits on two wheels instead of four, all while trying to wrangle Benji’s leash in the other hand, and I can’t help but think it looks like an intro to an episode of The Three Stooges. Moving quickly, I head for the door to my right, located directly in between the living room area and the narrow hallway that houses both the bedroom and the singular bathroom at the back. I swing it open and jog down the small metal stairs, walking swiftly in Brooke’s direction. Benji dodges left and then right as Brooke’s suitcase gets caught on a pebble first and then the curb and then rocks to a stop in an impressive crack in the pavement. Part of me wants to jump in and help—and the other part wants to see where the bag, the dog, and the woman end up, sans intervention.