Page 12 of True Colors

A spark of humor softens Dot’s features. “He wants you to build the base forecasting model.”

I stare at her.

Deer in headlights.

Am I mishearing her?

Or am I hallucinating? Which, honestly, would be fair.

Maybe I’ve started adding audio delusions to the speech disorder, you know, really rounding out the skill set.

“But I…ah…it felt like he th-thought I was….”

Incompetent?

Embarrassing?

A liability?

A loser?

“Anouk.” Dot’s tone sharpens. “You’re the best analyst I’ve ever worked with, and I have worked with a few. The fact that you had a bad moment doesn’t erase your excellence.”

That is really, really nice to hear. But….

“So, he r-really wants me on the p-project?”

Dot hesitates just long enough for worry to spike inside of me. “He said he’d give you a chance with the base forecasting model and then….”

The phrasing stings. I’m going to be tested, which is fair, but if I were articulate like Erin, I’d have a guaranteed spot, right?

But the opportunity is top-notch.

My head floods with possibilities—data mapping, reagent flow modeling, batch optimization, supplier chain variances.

A whole universe of structure and logic.

This is sexier than any naked man I’ve ever seen on porn sites.

Dot watches me absorb the news, then adds, “You’ll meet with him one-on-one tomorrow. He wants to review expectations.”

I nod slowly.

I’m terrified.

I’m thrilled.

I’m fucking terrified.

I’m….

Dot leans forward. “Ignore what happened in the meeting today.”

I clear my throat.

I lick my lips.

I weigh my words, taking my time. Dot doesn’t rush me, so I stutter way less with her than with anyone else at work.