“And they’re in decline, historically. Look at this—” He turns his phone screen toward me, and I peer at a Bloomberg article with some charts. “Ten percent of U.S. workers are unionized—only ten! Because they’re a relic of Fordism—of a bygone era. They don’t make sense anymore. Stagflation in the seventies ended that whole thing.”
Over the weeks I’ve been his girlfriend, he’s talked quite a lot about increasing profits, endless growth, doing more with less. And for me and everyone like me, that means running faster, like someone is chasing you, just to stay in the same place. Always feeling like you’re on the brink of being laid off, falling behind, losing everything.
The invisible hand squeezing and squeezing, choking youout—it would be nice to have some human hands to push back. Slap it on the wrist, get it to ease up.
But I need to play dumb. Make this into a joke.
“Well, I’m no economist, but…”
“Exactly! So you should relax.” He fixes me with a penetrating stare. “Stay in your lane.”
A chill runs down my spine. “Mark, what exactly are we talking about right now?”
He searches for something on his phone. “Erickson just gave me some…troubling news. But I’m sure there’s an explanation, right?”
He turns his screen my way again, and there’s a photo of me and Greg hugging on the balcony outside the conference center. It looks like someone must have taken it from the parking lot below.
“He’s an old friend!” I exclaim, but Mark Winterson’s eyes narrow.
“We know this guy is trying to organize a union at work. It’s stupid—we don’t need one. If it’s bad for business, it’s bad for everyone. But it’s been a pain in my ass, running around trying to take care of that.” His jaw moves, like he’s grinding his teeth. “Are you aware of that? Are you part of it?”
In the shiny side of a nearby slot machine, I can see my reflection, and I look like I’ve seen a ghost.
My poker face has never been very good—it’s a wonder I’ve made it this far. Mom tried to teach me how to play once, and she’d dissolve into fits of laughter at my facial expressions.This really isn’t your game, Roobs!
“Wow,” Mark Winterson says with a bitter chuckle. “You knew, didn’t you? Un-fucking-believable. Have you been talking to them about me? You know what that means, given the contract you signed?”
Shit, shit, fuck! I’m found out! I’m had!
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he says lightly, giving me apitying smile. “The union’s not going to be a problem anymore. Your whole team’s getting let go on Monday. And Accounting’s getting cut in half. Butyou’regetting promoted. You’ll be a manager—incidentally not qualified for the union, if they do find some way to make it happen.”
There’s the promotion I was striving for, dangling in front of me. But then, flashing before my eyes, I see Sarah laughing with me in the dark, Morgan coming to my defense, Al saying he’d have to give Mark Winterson a talking-to. Carol offering me some gruff advice, Adam fist-bumping me in the hall. Greg staring at me on the playground, saying he didn’t want me to do this. The moment in the diner, when the people I spend so many of my waking hours with raised their hands, one by one, to say,Yes, we trust you.
Over the house speakers, above the din of the casino, I can make out a song Mom liked: Kenny Rogers crooning about an old gambler giving him some advice.
Mark Winterson leans back, looking less hurt now and more like a cat who caught a mouse.
“Maybe it’s crazy, but I’m in love with you, Ruby.” His tongue darts out to moisten his dry lips. “And I know everyone makes mistakes. I’ll make this easy, all right? You can come clean, we can start over, and I can protect you. You’ll be rich. You’ll be with me. I’ll take care of everything.”
Someone to take care of me.It’s more or less what Mom always wanted.
I’m trembling, still clutching the bouquet he got for me so tightly, I think the stems might snap.
“So, tell me—do you want to be on the losing team?” Mark Winterson leans close to whisper in my ear. “Haven’t you already lost enough?”
I close my eyes and pull the handle of the slot machine, and a new thought sprouts in my mind, a weed struggling through the cracks: When you’re raised with a controlling kind of love,however well-meaning, it can set a pattern. Maybe it gets comfortable wedging yourself into tight spaces, when you grow up doing it. They make you feel safe.
As the reels spin, everyone’s faces flip through my mind—Greg, Sarah, Al, Morgan, Carol, Adam, the whole group in the diner, Greg again.
The spinning stops, no matches. My last $1.25 disappears into the void, balance $0.00.Maybe I’ll lose and keep losing—maybe I’ll be a failure, but at least I’ll be in good company.
Over the speakers, Kenny Rogers gets to the part about knowing when to run.
“Let me remind you,” Mark Winterson says, voice gone cold. “If you violate the NDA you signed, I won’t hesitate to sue. I have an impressive legal team.”
I lean close to whisper in his ear. “Good for you, having one impressive thing.”
And I take off running.
