“And for the love, when this is over, don’t analyze every word you said and then beat yourself up for years to come about any small statement or tiny infraction you dream up.”
I laugh despite myself. “It’s like you know me or something.”
“I do.” She scrunches her nose at me. “That’s why Iknowyou’re going to kill it and everyone will love you.”
I wish I could say the pep talk erased my nervousness, but even before we step off the elevator, I’m back to sweaty palms and my pulse pounding in my ears.
Jesus, I have faith that You can take this spirit of fear inside meaway. I know it doesn’t come from You becauseYou are Love, and the Bible says love casts out fear. Cast it out of me now. Replaceit with power and a sound mind like You promised in SecondTimothy.
The prayer does little to calm the anxiety bubbling within me like a hot spring. How many times in my life have I prayed a similar prayer? Too many times to count, that’s for sure. And yet here I am. Still a bundle of live-wire nerves. I know the problem isn’t with God. I know He has the power to take my anxiousness away and calm my hyper-productive mind. No, the problem isn’t God. It’s me.
“If you have faith as smallas a mustard seed...”
If. The key word there. IthinkI have faith. I mean, I pray and I read my Bible and I believe that Jesus is Lord and all powerful. But I must not haveenoughfaith. If I had enough faith, then I wouldn’t still be struggling with the tightness that cinches like a band around my chest or the bully of worry that chases all other thoughts out of my head and causes my heart to race for its life.
I have faith. Ihave faith.
A wall of spicy citrus hits me in the face as soon as Keri and I walk into the office. I recognize it immediately as the same scent that had clung to Jeremy in flirtatious hints on Friday. Why was his smell permeating the entire office now?
“Hey, guys.” Rosa greets us. “Come look what Jeremy brought everyone.”
She walks to one of the communal desks, and we follow. There, all lined up like rotund soldiers, stand a line of pomander balls studded in intricate designs. I know their proper name because of a class field trip to Colonial Williamsburg when I was ten. If I remember correctly, people started making and wearing them to stave off the stench of sickness.
Which is good, because I think I might hurl.
Not until this moment do I realize I harbored a hope that Jeremy wouldn’t participate in Sofiya’s little game. I’d secretly crossed my fingers that he’d come to the same realization that Ihad—that if neither of us jumped through Sofiya’s hoops, she’d be forced to promote one of us based off our work alone.
I guess that isn’t the case.
But maybe I can still get away with not turning the next few weeks into a full-blown Christmas competition. If I ace this presentation—
“Don’t you just love the way these smell?” Sofiya holds up a studded orange and breathes it in. She exhales, then looks at me. “Ready for the meeting?”
I swallow, and the lump in my throat tastes a lot like trepidation. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She beams. “Good. Lincoln is already in the conference room. If you give him your jump drive or laptop, he’ll set everything up for the large wall monitor.”
I scurry off toward one of the only rooms with a door, hoping I can shut out the reminders of Jeremy and the conflicting feelings he’s stirring inside me.
Lincoln is quick to set up all the required technology, and before I’m ready, my coworkers trickle in. Soon Sofiya arrives, escorting a grey-haired man with a bushy but well-groomed mustache into the room. He’s tall and lean with a navy-colored suit that fits his shoulders just right.
Sofiya thinks so too, if the way her hand lingers on his forearm is any indication.
“Good morning, Mr. Mitchell. It’s a pleasure to have you here with us today.” There. Nothing too awkward or embarrassing in that, was there? Although maybe I shouldn’t have used the wordpleasure. Yes? No?
I shake his hand and offer him the seat at the head of the oval table. I jump into my practiced presentation, my voice solidifying from its shaky start as I progress. So far, things are going relatively smoothly. The slides help me stay focused, and Mr. Mitchell asks questions. Questions are easier to answer than keeping a running monologue going.
“That’s why I think we should go with something sleek and modern for your logo.” My favorite mock-up is on the screen, and Mr. Mitchell studies it.
He leans forward. After a few moments, he smiles. “I have to say, I’m impressed. I didn’t think I’d love something so simple, but your design is flawless. Well done.”
My neck heats under his praise.
First brain cell:Respond by commenting on what a lovely compliment that was.
Second brain cell:No. A simple thank-youis best.
The message they send down to my mouth, the one I actually say: “I love you.”
