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Sighing, I head toward the restroom, forcing my wistful feet to move. I can already picture Brice LOL’ing me tonight if I message him about the pot again.
He said, “Mr. Cuticles probably doesn’t even know it’s a Pride symbol.”
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I need another sign. Short of making excuses to venture to the eighth floor and frequenting the cafeteria where I’ve seen Pete, enough times to know he orders skim milk lattes with cinnamon sugar, I have no other way to look for signs without appearing like a stalker, unfortunately.
I wish Brice was here, so he could see him in person and just tell me what he thinks. I’m worried that either my gaydar is broken or Pete was never meant to be a blip on it, which would mean I’m still at square one.
CHAPTER 3
Pete
My Bakery Boys staff watch on intently as we wrap up a quick morning session. These ad hoc meetings accomplish more for team continuity and productivity than scheduling formal meetings with mind-numbing presentations that waste work hours to create. Corralled in a semblance of a circle in the center cubicles, my staff is more attentive in this relaxed atmosphere, sipping their coffees and picking at breakfast snacks than they would be squashed into a conference room.
Greg Tarwell gives me the monthly sales wrap-up for Bakery Boys, which should impress even old man Fairway. Sue Leavey goes over the new distributors her team had acquired for the holiday lines, informing us that while we lost two, we gained four new ones.
“Excellent. We’re looking good for the holidays,” I tell them, folding my padfolio closed where it’s resting on the cubicle wall. “There’s still time to try to make this our biggest year yet. Let’s see if we can knock this one out of the park.”
Tearing a chunk off his muffin, Matthew Davies asks coyly, “Are you having the holiday leave raffle again this year?”
“Matthew! Stop,” Sue scolds, swatting his arm with her report. “Pete never takes a day off. Don’t ask him to do that again.”
Since John Fairway doesn’t believe in incentives, it’s been up to me to get creative to reward my staff. Clearing out the conference room to make a three-person office was the incentive two years ago. Last year, when HR informed me I would once again need to either use vacation time or cash it out, I was able to get approval to give it to my staff—at their pay rate, of course. If there’s a dime to save, John Fairway will find it.
My incentive plan, however, certainly helped us exceed our quotas by awarding several days of leave a piece to each member of the top-performing section. I only need two days to see my family through the end of the year. Since both Thanksgiving and Christmas are paid holidays, and Mom and Dad’s place is within driving distance, I won’t miss the vacation I wouldn’t use. My bank account won’t suffer either.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Three days each to the top five performers from the accounts I oversee.”
“Yes! Let the games begin,” Matthew cheers, fist-pumping the air and spinning his chair back around to face his computer. “You’re the best, Pete!”
Mission accomplished. Everyone scatters like ants to sugar, invigorated to get back to work. I can only hope they’ll remain this motivated through the rest of August. People who wonder why Christmas comes early in stores every year probably have no idea that it comes even earlier when you work in manufacturing and distribution. The preparation is an all-consuming time crunch.
Depositing my pad in the file holder on my desk, my eye twitches at the sight of the birthday gift Miranda and my niece sent last month for my thirty-fifth. The little handmade succulent pot looks obscene in my workspace, completely misshapen and non-symmetrical, but I still don’t have the heart to remove it. Why I had to be the lucky recipient of the results of their Mommy/Daughter ceramics class they attended, I don’t know.
“To brighten your office and so you know we love you,” my niece’s note had read.
They sent it here. Since I spend more time at the office than at home, I figured it was logical for it to stay. Plus, I don’t want to be a plant-killing uncle. At least, they picked something low maintenance. I will, however, never become one of those people with crap all over their desks and walls. When its misshapen sides start agitating me, I tear my gaze away before I have the urge to toss it in the trash.
It’s good for me, I remind myself. It’s a test for the intrusive behaviors that ruled my youth and ruined every relationship I’ve ever had. If I can’t tolerate one hideously shaped little pot, people will notice my cracks, and I can kiss goodbye any esteem my workers feel toward me.
Checking my watch, I have seven minutes until the top of the hour. I like working from the top of the hour. It feels…right.
It’s not an unusual habit. It’s not.
It’s just… a preference.
I have an ugly pot, for Christ’s sake. I’m as normal and disorderly as everyone else here.
Once I’ve settled that internal argument, I decide a restroom break will be the best use of my seven minutes. Our floor’s bathroom is usually empty this time of the morning, and it’s a bonus that the cleaning crews just finished before our wrap up.
Exiting my office, I nearly run smack dab into Mark. “Hey! I was hoping I’d catch you after your huddle.”
“Do you ever set foot on your own floor?” I snark.
“Yes! I’m on my break, and I decided to spend some of it with you. You’re welcome.”
“Lucky me. Well, I’ve got to take a piss, so I bet you’ll change your mind real quick about that decision,” I tease, starting to step away, but he catches my shoulder.
I’ve worked with him for ten years at Fairway, since we were both entry-level. I’ll admit it’s nice to have someone who shares my work history and vent with over drinks on occasion, but he’s never been able to separate friendship from the workplace.
