ruby.ocampo:
That’s amazing
Al stands and groans as he stretches. “You two should get out of here!” he exclaims, standing in the aisle between the cubes. “Not good for you, working too hard.”
“I’m almost done!” I say brightly as Sarah stands to join him.
Al drifts over to my cubicle, briefcase in hand. “So a little bird told me…” He leans in and whispers conspiratorially: “What’s happening with you and that new executive?”
I picture a bird with Morgan’s blond hair and imp-emoji expression, beak tilted in a menacing grin.
“Am I going to have to step in for your mom here? Give him a threatening speech?”
My heart feels swollen, too big for my chest.
“Oh…I don’t think enough is even…going on, for a speech?” I manage to get out with a shaky smile. “But thank you for offering.”
“Hey, it’s my duty!” Al says. “It’s like the presidential line of succession.”
I burst out laughing, tears squeezing out of the corners of my eyes. “Is it?”
Sarah comes up behind him, drinking water from the pink travel cup she carries around. (This next generation is so hydrated,Erica remarked dryly in one meeting.)
“Watch out for yourself,” Al adds, tapping the side of his head. “The man seems like a real rizzler.”
Sarah laughs so hard she almost spits out her water.
“Isn’t that how you use it in a sentence?” he protests.
She shakes her head, fanning herself with one hand.
“Damn, thought I had that one. All right!” He pats the cubicle wall one more time. “You get out of here soon, okay?”
Al waves as he and Sarah head for the elevators.
I was lying, though—I’m not even close to done. But I have to show Mom I’m taking this job seriously. Giving it everything I’ve got.
What if Erica thinks Sarah prepared the deck for her?a voice in the back of my mind asks.
Then there’s some movement by the elevators, and I stand to get a better look, feeling vulnerable as the last one left on this floor.
It’s someone pacing. A guy in a suit.
I get up and venture in that direction—and Mark Winterson is walking slowly away from me down the hall, phone to his ear. He stops, gazing out the window into the dark courtyard of the office park, gesturing with his free hand. Even under the harsh overhead lights, he’s sickeningly handsome: trim figure, luxuriant hair, striking profile.
It sinks in slowly that he’s not speaking English. It sounds like…Chinese? And he seems pretty comfortable—more comfortable than I am speaking my native language in meetings, most days.
My first thought, regrettably, is that it’s kind of hot.
Then my second thought hits like a tiny meteor, a burst of shame, mysterious anger, and resentment. Because I never learned Tagalog, and Mom always seemed to vaguely hold it against me, even though she also said it would be a waste of time.
And I’m standing there like an idiot, mouth agape, when he starts pacing back this way, looks up, and sees me.
“Xièxie dàjia! Zàijiàn!” he exclaims into the phone, holding eye contact with me as he ends the call.
“You speak Chinese?” I ask.
“Yeah, did a semester at Beijing Daxue,” he says with a casual little shrug. He points at me. “Do you speak…?”
