Erasing Faith(8)
Margot was the one who’d convinced me to apply at Hermes when I’d been understandably resistant to the idea of working as a bike messenger during the summer months in a city I was almost entirely unfamiliar with. She’d had an answer for my every objection.
We’ll get to sightsee the whole time we’re working, she’d argued.
But I’ll get lost every single shift!
You’ll have GPS. Plus, what better way to get to know the city?
It’ll be 90 degrees outside — you really want to ride a bike in that heat?
We’ll meet so many cool people while we’re out making deliveries!
No way.
We’ll be in the best freaking shape of our lives! Riding for five hours a day will make you so fit.
Five hours straight?!
The pay is insanely good. You’ll make more money cycling than you would at any entry-level office job.
Well…
You’ll thank me later. Just apply and see what happens…
Given the fact that I was about to start a shift at Hermes, it wasn’t too hard to figure out that I’d caved to Margot and conceded to interview for a position. After several rounds of questions and the most thorough background check I’d ever been subjected to, we were both offered jobs the following week. I’d had no good reason to turn it down – it wasn’t like I had seventeen other offers waiting. Plus, I could really use the cash. After two weeks of nonstop shopping and indulging, my tourism funds were rapidly dwindling.
As it turned out, the job wasn’t so bad. I didn’t love it, but Margot had been right — I did get to see the whole city, and I certainly met some interesting characters while out delivering parcels. Plus, after only three weeks of work, my legs had never been more toned — Carrie Underwood had nothing on me, now.
We’d lucked out and snagged adjacent lockers. As I approached, I could see she was already in uniform, the bright green, form-fitting Hermes t-shirt doing nothing to flatter her porcelain complexion. Her yellow, spandex bike shorts weren’t going to win any fashion awards, either.
“You’re late, loser,” she called, grinning at me.
“Not you too,” I moaned, spinning my locker combination.
“Let me guess…” Margot said, raking her short blonde hair into a mess of spikes. “Irenka already bitched you out?”
“Mhmm,” I hummed, whipping my sundress over my head and sliding the strappy espadrilles off my feet. Within seconds, I’d traded my cute summer outfit for the garish lemon-lime uniform we were forced to wear. Lined with multiple reflective patches that caught the beams cast by street lamps and car headlights, the ghastly getups also prominently featured the company logo — winged sandals — on the shirt-back. Matching, fluorescent green helmets and neon yellow tennis shoes completed the look.
I could only imagine how Anna Wintour might describe it.
“What’s your guess? How many today?” Margot asked, tying her sneakers into neat bows so they wouldn’t get caught in her gears. I slammed my locker closed and spun the lock, deliberating for a moment before giving an answer.
“Hmm… maybe forty?”
We played this game before every shift, each guessing how many deliveries we’d have that day. Whoever picked the closest number won — and loser bought post-work drinks.
“Final answer?” Margot asked.
“Yeah, I think it’ll be pretty busy tonight.” I sighed as I scraped my hair into a low ponytail that would fit beneath my bulky helmet. “You?”
“I’m gonna one-up you and guess… fifty-five.” She grinned. “Go big or go home, right?”
I winced as we headed for the doors. “Let’s hope not. If I have to do more than fifty deliveries tonight, I’ll be going home, all right… in a wheelchair.”
Margot laughed as she shoved me out of the break room and we headed to pick up our bikes.
Chapter Five: FAITH
A LITTLE FAITH
I wrung out my soaked hair as soon as I darted through the café doors.
The storm had come out of nowhere. One minute, there’d been nothing but blue skies and balmy heat; the next, lightning was flashing and rain was pouring down in sheets, immediately drenching my thin cotton blouse and sending me rushing for the nearest open coffee shop. Sunday was my only day off this week, and Margot had picked up an extra shift, so I’d been sightseeing alone at the historic Parliament building. The guided tour had lasted about an hour, but I’d lingered long after, exploring the huge basement-level library, taking pictures of the distinctive architecture and lamenting the fact that I’d forgotten my sketchbook at my apartment across town.
Praying my camera hadn’t been destroyed by the sudden deluge, I used the semi-damp hemline of my shirt to wipe at the screen, but it didn’t seem to do much good. I cradled my Canon in one hand and ferreted out my wallet with the other as I approached the counter and ordered a cappuccino.
A few minutes later — steaming cup in hand, camera strap slung over one shoulder — I was making my way to an unoccupied table by the window, when I heard it.
“Do I need to upgrade you from stranger to stalker?”
Chills licked down my spine as I turned toward the sound of his voice. In the instant before my gaze swung up to meet his, I found myself hoping it would be him – my stranger, as I’d come to think of him during the past few days while replaying our first interaction over and over in my mind. I wished, with every part of my being, that he’d be the one sitting there, taking shelter from the rain.