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“Did you…go to Washington State for human resources?” he asks, settling into his chair.
It takes me a second to figure out how he put together that assumption, but then, I remember my shirt from Friday and warm at the thought of him remembering. No one ever pays that much attention to me.
“Um, no. I mean, yeah. I went there, but my degree is in communications.”
“Communications? Then why did you end up working in HR?”
“I wanted to take graphic design, but my dad said the arts were a waste of time and money.”
“Does he not realize our ad campaigns are created by graphic artists?”
How awkward. I don’t want to talk about my father or anything that associates me with Fairway Foods.
“He… I…I don’t know. I tried explaining that to him, but…but he wasn’t keen on having an artist as a son. He said he had enough people to do that already. So, I compromised, or, well, I guess I tricked him, rather. I got to take some graphic design classes as part of the communications program.”
Chewing, he studies me, absorbing my embarrassing educational tale. That inadequate feeling settles in, but not in the same way it does around my brothers and my dad. I want Pete to like me, but I also want to like myself.
“I got to do a year-long internship at an ad firm in Portland,” I supply, optimistically. “It was great. Not as involved on the graphics side as I would have liked, since they had me writing ad slugs, but I got to see the process from my co-workers who worked on graphics.”
“If you enjoyed it so much, why didn’t you try to stay or find something similar?”
“I did, but they didn’t have the budget to take me on when the internship ended.”
“Surely, there were other ad agencies in Portland, or did you return to Bellevue because you wanted to move back home?”
“No, not at all,” I confess, but realize that sounds ambiguous. “I had started looking for other agencies, but it was an unpaid internship, so I didn’t have money for my apartment. I… Dad said he wanted me at Fairway Foods, so…I came home.”
He blinks, the embarrassing understanding that I’ve lived on my father’s dime my entire life registering in his eyes. Suddenly, I don’t really like myself at all.
“My Mom wanted me to move back in with them, but I got an apartment here with my first paycheck from the company,” I add in a rush. “It’s small, but it’s nice. I like Bridle Trails. There’s a little bakery just down from my place that has the best muffins on the planet.”
Shut up, Cam. Just shut up.
He doesn’t need to know I can stand on my own two feet or that I have no life, but I want him to know. Not the no life part. My word, I’m even awkward in my head.
“Contessa’s?” he asks.
“Yeah!” I confirm with way too much excitement. “I live on Briar Lane, like two buildings down.”
And you can come over and eat muffins with me anytime, I want to add, but I have to draw the line at my dorkiness somewhere. We eat in silence for a few minutes and my frantic pulse has me cursing my lack of social skills when he doesn’t ask me anything further.
‘Pleasure is two-sided.’ That’s what he said in the elevator today.
“What about you?”
His fork stops mid-air. “What about me?”
Maybe I’m not the only one who doesn’t like to talk about themselves. Remembering his phone call, I pick a topic I hope he’ll enjoy.
“Do you just have the one niece?” When he just stares at me, I remind him, “Um, the one you were talking to on the phone when I got here.”
“Yes. Bethany. My sister, Miranda’s daughter. She has a four-year-old son too, Bradley.”
“Do they live far away?”
“No. Not really,” he murmurs to his plate. “Wenatchee. My whole family lives there.”
“Oh, I drove through there once with my mom. It’s beautiful. They had all these cute little country stores with apple everything in them. She bought this giant ceramic apple cookie jar, which my dad hated. My brothers broke it fighting over some cookies once when we were kids. She was so upset, which makes no sense, since she doesn’t cook, and the cookies were made by their cook.”
