“What do you want to make happen?”
It wasn’t merely the question, but the way he asked it that resonated. He asked it like he couldn’t understand how I didn’t already know the answer. Like he was confident in my ability to act, not simply be acted upon.
What do you want to make happen?
Make, nothave.
Looking around the office at the peeling paint, popcorn ceiling, and flickering fluorescent light that hums like a fly at a picnic, I have to laugh.
Is this what I wanted to make happen?
Four months ago, I was presenting a sustainability initiative in a boardroom that overlooked the Thames. The week before that, I was in Italy—or was it Prague? Wherever it was, the air in the room was crisp and filtered and didn’t smell vaguely of chili dogs. And in my tailored silk suit, I fit in beautifully.
Unlike here, where I stick out like a vegan at a barbecue.
I spin in my chair and glance out the window, where the team—myteam—is practicing. All those fit, handsome men running around, hitting and catching and throwing. But because I feel like their mother, I can’t even enjoy it.
Thanks a lot, Dad.
A knock sounds on my office door, and I spin my chair around. “Come in!”
My new assistant, Prescott, walks through the door.
She is the cutest thing. Twenty-six, with tortoiseshell glasses. Always wearing smart pencil skirts with fabulous heels that make me think she’s dressing for the job she wants. She’s from Pennsylvania, has two older brothers, and lives with her cat.
Prescott from Pennsylvania loves pencil skirts and pet cats named Pinto.
And she goes by Scottie.
Yes, I do recite facts about people in my head to help me remember them. Why do you ask?
“Miss Carville? You have that call with the league rep now.”
“It’s already 2:30? Remind me who I’m speaking with.”
Scottie takes a few steps farther into the office. “Gordon Voss, the VP of Minor League Affiliations. Should I take notes?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I roll my desk chair closer to my gorgeous Arhaus executive desk, the one luxury I’ve slipped into this room with no one knowing. It’s simple, understated—like something you could pick up at Ikea (well, maybe Pottery Barn. I’ve never actually been to Ikea. Evidently, people get lost there regularly.). It’s solid oak with a weathered gray finish and softly beveled edges that look run of the mill but that could make you cry over the craftsmanship. And the interior of the drawers is lined with a suede that’s as smooth as butter.
Sometimes when I get overwhelmed, I stick my hand in a drawer and just rub the suede and breathe.
It’s odd.
I fire up my computer and click on the calendar link Scottie shared with me. She gets off screen, and a second later, I’m waiting for the organizer to join the call.
I take a quick moment to look at my appearance. My long auburn waves are nicely tamed. My makeup looks clean. No flecks of mascara to be found on my ivory skin.
Then my eyes flash to my background, and my stomach drops.
Peeling paint. Faded rust brown carpet. Outdated furnishings. A single, dying fiddle leaf fig.
Naturally, it’s at this moment that the league representative chooses to start the zoom call, right before I can find the filter that blurs my background.
And worse still, the rep isn’t the only person on the call.
“Aldridge?” I ask, my stomach dropping somewhere around my knees. I put on my most polite smile as I look at my ex-fiancé, the man I broke up with only two months ago.
