Greg drifts over, swinging my shoes. “I think I’ll head out?” he says, handing them to me. “Unless you need me for anything.”
“I’ll go too,” I say, balancing while I resecure the straps. And when I start to tip over—I’m a total lightweight, and that second beer did me in—Greg steadies me with a hand on my back.
A burst of memory rushes in so fast it gives me vertigo—my sun-flooded living room on an afternoon after school, Greg’s hand on my back, the other in my hair—
I straighten quickly, walking with purpose to the parking lot, and Greg catches up, falling into step beside me. The silence is uncomfortably thick.
We reach our cars, parked beside each other—there’s his red 2005 Acura RSX, still well maintained and beloved.
Greg hesitates before reaching for his car door. “You know what ‘streamline operations’ means, right?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“No, I—” He makes a throaty sound and catches himself. “I mean, yeah, maybe.”
My chest warms up, but I give him an unimpressed look. “Okay, why don’t you enlighten me?”
When we were younger, Greg had a habit of talking to me about books I hadn’t read, like I would have something interesting to say about them anyway. Until one day I snapped at him:Why are you always asking me questions you know I can’t answer?And he mumbled,Because I value your opinion.
But this time he glances away, toward the far end of the parking lot, like he’s fighting himself on how much to say.
“You’re smart,” he says finally. “You’ll figure it out.”
The whole thing annoys me, so I try to forget about it. Instead, that interaction with Mark Winterson loops in my head for the whole drive home. It makes me groan out loud. At one point, at a red light, I make a long, quietAaaaaaa!sound.
When I park in my driveway and check my phone, there’s a calendar invite.Coffee with Markfor Wednesday afternoon.
Chapter
15
On Monday morning at work, the problem of Mom’s unfinished business churns through my mind until I feel physically sick and my neck aches from holding my head up.
The way time has been moving lately, coffee with Mark Winterson seems far off, and who knows where it will lead? For now, I have to focus on list item #2:GO SOMEWHERE IN YOUR LIFE (PROMOTION?)
I keep pinging Erica, offering to do things. And I’m trying to be extra responsive in the public channels, volunteering whenever anyone says they need help with a task.
ruby.ocampo:
Anything else I can help you with? I finished that memo, it’s ready for you in the drive
How are you doing on coffee? Need anything from downstairs?
Mom should be able to see these, the way she was spying on my chats with—
“Don’t be late for the meeting, Ruby!” Erica says, popping up next to my cubicle again. “You seem so scattershot this morning. We’re discussing our Q2 goals.”
I deflate a little, getting up from my desk and joining the others as we file into the conference room, each of us cradling a laptop in one arm.
Erica dims the lights, fires up her PowerPoint, and extends a long, retractable pointer. “Now, you all know we underperformed last quarter,” she says. “And I have some theories about that.”
She clicks through to her next slide and taps some images of text with red circles around clusters of words. “Our copy was dull, it was flat, it wasnothing special.We need to step up our game.”
When her back is turned, Al rolls his eyes.
He sees me looking and smiles, like we’re sharing an inside joke.
A DM appears on my laptop screen.
