So I’m taken aback when he drawls a slow, “Yeah, no. Not buying that.”
I shouldn’t argue with him, but his knowing smirk grates on me.
“My manager sat back, let me and my team do all the work, and took credit for our final outcomes. I thought this was normal. That this was the standard dynamic at this company, and hisbosses saw through his posturing and understood who really was driving our success. So I did nothing, and I let him screw me when the company made budget cuts.” I was so oblivious that I thought I was getting apromotionwhen HR called me in.
“Was that supposed to convince me I’m wrong?” His tone suggests there’s some serious malfunction in my brain. “Because all you did was tell me you lost your job because your boss is an asshole.”
My brows slam together. “Well, duh, he’s an asshole. But I enabled him?—”
“No.”
I stare at him.No?
“No, what?”
“No, you’re wrong. And no, I’m not gonna let you argue it with me.”
“I—”
He cuts me right off. “Boston, this conversation is just as ridiculous as the whole self-blame game you’re playing.”
“It isn’t a game. It’s reality. And playing victim won’t do me any favors moving forward, when I inevitably encounter more of his type.”
“So acknowledge the lessons you learned and bring them forward. But don’t absolve that piece of shit for what he did. And don’t let it beat you up. That kind of absurd thinking is shocking for someone with your GPA.” With that, he bends over to unlock the opening to the oyster basket between us.
I sputter on a come-back that won’t form. Grayson is being infuriatingly black-and-white. But he’s not the platitudes type, which means he’s also being honest, and that honesty feels a lot like the comfort I’ve been needing. Reassurance that I didn’t epically fail.
Athank youwants to tumble out, but I’m unsure if it should.
I never have to decide, either, because that is the exact moment a seagull swoops above and takes a giant shit on Grayson’s head.
His body freezes, hunched over the basket. My jaw pops open as the white blob dribbles from the crown of his baseball cap.
There’s…somuchof it. I don’t think an ounce of the bird’s droppingsmissed.
Grayson’s giant, belabored sigh tells me he’s aware of what just happened.
And just in case he isn’t, the laughter that bursts from my chest makes it very, very clear.
I can’t help it. Completely uncontrollable giggles shake my body. The irony is Shakespearean. All theshittinghe’s done on me, and now…
My fit only worsens when Grayson stiffly removes the hat from his head and observes the generous glob with utter disappointment.
“You think this is funny?” he asks slowly.
Trying to stifle my next string of laughter—and failing miserably—I shake my head.
He levels me with an annoyed look, sighs, and shakes the hat around in the water. It does nothing but make the fabric wet and encourage the droppings to spread further.
Another sigh. “Hilarious,” he mutters, sloshing it around again. The bill flicks when he forcibly pulls it out, sending a little splash of water toward me.
I jolt back a second too late. Grayson glances up at my jeans, splattered with water.
It was probably an innocent accident—a byproduct of his frustration and me standing a little too close.
But Grayson’s mouth hitches into a subtle smirk, and he says, without an ounce of apology, “Whoops.”
Whoops.
