Page 35 of True Colors

“Right now, you’re not client-ready.”

She flinches.

It cuts me.

God, why did I say it like that?

I plow ahead anyway. “If Vijay hadn’t stepped in during the meeting yesterday, half the room wouldn’t have understood you.”

She recoils, swallows. “I c-can im-improve.”

“You’ll have to,” I push.

Soften, you dumb fuck. You’re making this worse.

Her green eyes flicker up to mine; I see hurt that’s quickly wiped away, replaced with professional blankness.

“Al-alright,” she says softly.

A tight, unwelcome sensation curls in me. I keep moving, refusing to examine it.

“I want you to practice your delivery with me. Run-throughs, daily. I’m saying this because I want you to grow—not because you’re failing. This is a development opportunity.”

She nods again, but it’s mechanical.

Hollow.

Perfect. You’ve coached the life right out of her, asshole.

We fall silent for a while. I don’t know what to say now that I’ve vomited out what I needed to, totally ungracefully.

“Any-th-thing else?” she asks.

Not rudely, but in resignation. In defeat.

I hate that I caused that.

“No. That’s all.”

There’s no saving this, and in any case, I’m doing this for her own good. Coaching is how we get better.

She stands, fingers twisting into the ends of her scarf. “I’ll…I’ll do b-better.”

“Yes, you will.” It comes out tight, and she shudders some more, if that was even possible.

She leaves, quiet as a breath.

The door clicks shut.

I drag both hands over my face, shame settling in hard and heavy, the unambiguous sense that I’ve just kicked a puppy, and there’s no undoing it.

Goddammit, Luther.

I wasn’t coaching her.

I wasn’t helping her.

I was lashing out because I’m jealous.