"I could say the same," I muttered as the redhead squeezed himself in, which was made more difficult thanks to the sizable cardboard box he carried. "Do you work here too?"

His innocent question caused panic to grip me. It hadn't occurred to me that perhaps you knew this man through work. He just didn't seem the type. In fact, he didn't seem like you at all. I couldn't fathom how you two were related.

"No, I do not, thank goodness," he said, with a roll of his eyes. "I could never spend all day in front of a computer as it sucks my soul out of me." He laughed, but most of the other occupants in the elevator groaned with disapproval while the elevator doors shuddered closed. As we began our climb, he reached into his pocket, elbowing a sour faced gentleman behind him, before he pulled out a card and extended it to me, reaching across a woman who stared daggers at him in return. "Here, this is where I work."

I mouthed an apology to both the woman and the man, and really to everyone else on the elevator, since most of them seemed to blame me for the addition of Quinn to our tight confines. I then looked down at his card as a couple of people shouldered their way out of the elevator, giving Quinn a good push on their way to the third floor. Your friend, however, is built like a tank. His thick trunk sits on two sturdy legs and supports a pair of broad shoulders. I think the two men that pushed their way out were more damaged by their collision with Quinn than he was. And his cheerful disposition didn't help the matter. I'm not sure he even noticed it happened.

"You're a contractor?" I asked, after glancing over the fairly basic business card in my hand. It had a very simple illustration of a hammer sandwiched between the words 'Connor Contracting.' Next to it was the name Quinn Connor, Co-owner and Chief Project Manager at Connor Contracting.

"Yep, it's a family business," he said, brimming with pride as the rest of the car reshuffled to make use of the space left behind by those who had vacated the car. "My dad passed on the company to me and my sister, Ashlynn — I told you about her, she's the one that gets angry. I handle the construction aspect and she handles design. She makes the floor plans and picks out paint colors, that sort of things. She also manages the clients when they don't pay. Hell hath no fury as Ashlynn on a good day..."

He sighed and looked over at the lighted panel that showed our steady progress up to the next floor.

I thought of the beautiful woman, her hair so vibrant within a sea of black at your funeral. Even as tears poured from her eyes and mournful cries shook her lean shoulders, she still couldn't dim the fire that she exuded. And then, when I saw her at the lacrosse game, I felt that fiery bite that Quinn was keen to point out whenever he had the chance. I wondered how a fierce woman like her was brought to her knees at the funeral. How did you render her so fragile and exposed before your casket? Were you the only one who could tame her wild spirit? Were you the special person in her life? Was she yours?

"Hey, you okay?" A hand gripped my shoulder, the fingers rough and firm, though the touch was soft and warm. The scent of sawdust and fallen leaves brushed my nose, and I suddenly wished I was back out at the park watching the sun rise over the city skyline.

"Yeah," I mumbled, turning to find Quinn standing a lot closer to me than I had thought. Apparently, the elevator crowd was more than happy to have him step away from the door, and so they gave him ample room to draw close to me in my quiet corner. "I was just..." I tried to think, but a slight blush touched my cheeks and my head swam with the rich smells of hard labor and chopped wood that clung to Quinn.

"Thinking about John," he finished for me with a sigh. He wasn't wrong, so I didn't answer him. Instead, we stood in silence as a couple of people departed for floor six. Once the doors closed, he continued. "I'm sorry about the other day. I just assumed you were a frazzled older sister or something trying to find one of the youth games. It never occurred to me you might be in a haze because of... because of John."

I cleared my throat and nodded, but I still failed to find words to answer him. I still felt his weight on my shoulder, his hand both tender and strong. However, in that moment, he took a breath and with it, his hand slipped away. I felt the loss of his touch and I wondered if Quinn's quieter, gentler side was what endeared him to a sweet, elegant guy like yourself. Maybe you were more alike than I realized.

"I don't know how long you've known him, not that it matters, mind you — I know it hurts no matter how long — but, anyway, what I'm trying to say is that you're not alone in this." He turned his greenish-brown eyes on mine, his usually rough, square jaw softened by the rise of his brow and the pout of his lips. "I try to put up a good front, but I've known him since third grade and the hole left inside me is deeper than I can fathom."

"I didn't know you were childhood friends," I said, watching him from the tops of my eyes. I gazed up through my eyelashes, afraid he might see something hiding within my stare if I looked at him directly. Though, even I am not sure what he would have found there. Perhaps I worried the truth of my relationship with you might be bare before him as he stripped away his own armor.

"Yeah, Ashlynn and I both are. We all met after I punched him for pulling Ashlynn's hair."

And like that, the awe and appreciation I had for your callous friend disappeared. How could anyone bring themselves to hit you?

"You punched him?" I gasped. From behind Quinn's shoulder, I saw a couple of our neighbors no longer seething over Quinn's intrusive nature. Instead, they looked delighted to have a bit of a show during their slow climb up Carmichael Tower.

"Yeah," he said with a hearty laugh. "Ashlynn did him one better by smashing his foot with her heel and then telling me off for not letting her handle this herself. John and I both lost a lot of playground cred that day thanks to a pint-sized first grader telling us off. Of course, Ashlynn and I both felt terrible when John said he was only trying to get a spider out of Ashlynn's hair. She's always worn her mane long and wild, so it picks up things along the way."

I struggled to find words as the elevator reached its next stop. By the time we arrived on the ninth floor, only a few of us remained, and Quinn had put some space between the two of us so that his earthy scent no longer clouded me.

"Looks like our stop is next," he said with a sigh before looking down at the cardboard box he now dangled by his side.

"Our stop?" I asked, not considering what his words implied.

"Yeah, the tenth floor is next." He inclined his head to the lighted panel, and then I realized his meaning.

"Oh, I'm, um, I'm not..."

The elevator binged as we arrived at your floor, which sat a couple floors below my own. The one other person who was getting off gave me a passing glance of uncertainty, but didn't comment on my foreignness to your company.

Quinn followed up behind the man, but instead of stepping fully onto the floor, he leaned against the elevator's frame, keeping the door from shutting. He looked at me with expectancy in his eyes while the few remaining passengers in the car glared at me with impatience. For a moment, I honestly thought about stepping out into your office and pretending I belonged there. However, my better senses eventually took control.

"I, uh, I don't work on this floor," I said, my words stilted and forced, but at least they were also honest.

"Oh? Look at me making assumptions again," he said, taking my admittance to mean we simply worked in different offices instead of deducing that it also meant I barely had any contact with you at all. "Well," he continued with a sigh, "I won't have a chance to properly ask you out then."

"What?" I gulped, my skin bursting with color.

"Ashlynn and I are throwing an Irish wake for John. He wasn't Irish, as you probably know, but if it wasn't apparent in the names and the hair, the Connor family is. Since he was so close to Ashlynn and I, we felt it only right we hold a party in his honor to celebrate his life. You are, of course, welcome to attend. I have proper invites to hand out to his coworkers since I was coming by to clear out his desk today, but why don't you just text or call me at that number on the card and I'll give you the details then. I think these folks might call security if I don't get out of the door."

He laughed, but the other occupants mumbled in a way that indicated the thought had crossed their mind.

With that, he stepped out of the door's way and onto your floor. As the elevator closed, he gave me a wave before calling out to me one last time.

"Wait, I never got your name!"

But, before I could decide whether I really wanted to answer him, the doors shut, and we headed towards my floor.

What should I do? Of course, I want to go and hear stories about your life. I want to learn all I can about you. I want to meet the people you cared for. But should I really be allowed? Would you have invited me if you knew that you'd need a wake in the near future? What will happen when I have no stories to share?

John, why aren't you here to tell me how you felt about me?

Then again, maybe it's easier not to know the truth.

Respectfully yours,
Bailey Kincaid

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