Page 25 of I Saw You First

And then I wonder if he’s done anything inappropriate that I’ve missed in my efforts to learn the job and do it well. I can’t recall Wil having done anything… untoward… except for looking at the stain on my boob.

I shouldn’t have to worry about this. No one should have to worry about this. It’s complete bullshit that women—or anyone!—should have to worry about nepotism and power differentials in the workplace.

“You’re not worried, are you?” Sam asks.

I peer up at him, wrinkling my brow. “Are you a mind-reader?” I sure hope not. I lock the stray thoughts of Ryan back up in the darkest, mustiest corner of my mind.

“You don’t exactly have a poker face,” he says. “There’s no reason to worry. Wil’s one of us.”

Oh, sure, except that he’s Wil Wilshire.

Whatever. It’s decided. I need to look for a new job, no matter how much I love sorting CDs. I’ll call Tamsa and Kim this afternoon after I get home from work and ask them for letters of recommendation, and I’ll dig the Sunday paper out of the recycling bin to scan the employment ads for a journalism gig. I’ll update my resume. I’ve written three stories for psycho logic and I’ve got plenty more ideas. I’ll hammer something out about Primary Colors, the political novel published earlier this year, and send it to Hal tonight.

In the meantime, I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid the CEO’s son.

EIGHT

“WHOEVER YOU ARE” BY GEGGY TAH, 1996

WIL

Thursday night when I stop back at the warehouse desk for the truck manifest report, Abbey’s at the conveyor, hauling boxes off the rollers and onto pallets. She’s never unloaded a truck to my knowledge, and she shouldn’t have to. Typically, two or three guys from inventory lead the process, and then one person from each of the sales departments helps—except for media, because they process their product the following day. I don’t know why Dex, the inventory manager, would have asked her to help but he must have had a good reason. It’s hot back here, and her hair is up in a wild, loose bun at the very top of her head. She’s taken off her Hometown jersey and is wearing a form-fitting gray T-shirt with patches of sweat under her arms—but no Diet Coke stains, at least. Her khakis are streaked with dirt.

She shouldn’t look good, but damn, she looks good.

She sees me staring at her and smiles. I guess she’s not mad at me for getting on her case yesterday. But then again, it doesn’t seem like she gets mad about anything. She smiles all day long, she wishes everyone a good day—fans, teammates, the HVAC repair guy, doesn’t matter. Sometimes, we’ll hire someone who’s warm and friendly in their interview but turns out to be a total asshole. Not Abbey. She’s truly the enthusiastic, amiable person we hired.

Later, at the closing meeting at customer service, Bergren rags on everyone for the day’s dismal numbers. He’s the sales manager, a short, doughy white guy with thinning blond hair that’s always smashed to his head with sweat, no matter the season.

“And another thing,” Bergren says, “I’ve noticed way too many goddamn smoke breaks. Please review the breaks and lunches section of the employee handbook if you have questions.”

Someone in the back mutters, “What handbook?”

Bergren turns to me. “Wil, you got anything?”

“Truck looked a little sloppy tonight,” I say. Sam boos and Eric throws a wadded-up receipt at me.

“And on that note,” Bergren says. “Clock out so we don’t waste more payroll.”

Abbey’s the last in line to clock out, behind Tyrell from video. It’s late, and everyone’s shifts ended ten minutes ago, so they all need an override at the time clock. Tyrell’s a tall, broad Black man with short dreadlocks. His baggy khakis hang low on his hips, and his navy-blue T-shirt is drenched with sweat.

“Bergren can suck it,” he says to Abbey. “Too many smoke breaks? Those guys earned them breaks. And sloppy truck? Fuck that. We busted our asses tonight, including you. And let me tell you, yours was the best-looking ass back there.”

“Tyrell,” I snap. “Not appropriate.”

Abbey stiffens and frowns, and doesn’t move forward when the line moves, not until Tyrell’s at the time clock.

What the hell? First John at the Ground Round and now Tyrell. Does everyone talk like this, and I haven’t noticed until recently, until Abbey? Has Tyrell said this kind of thing to other women and I’ve ignored it? I need to do better.

“Maybe if y’all didn’t bitch us out so long, you wouldn’t have to clock us all out,” Tyrell says to me, then turns to Abbey. “See you around, beautiful.”

“Enough,” I call after him as he walks away. “You and I will talk about this tomorrow.” He doesn’t turn back, only shrugs.

Abbey steps to the time clock but still won’t look at me. When the meeting started, her face was beet red and sweaty from working truck, but now she looks pale and wan. I clear my throat and punch in my code, and she follows with her employee number.

“What Tyrell said just now,” I say quietly, “he shouldn’t have, and I’ll talk to him tomorrow. It won’t happen again.”

I’ve never had to handle anything like this, and even though my stomach’s in knots thinking about the confrontation I’ll have with Tyrell tomorrow, I can’t let it stand. Part of me wonders if it’s because it’s Abbey, and if I would have said anything if it had been any of the other women in the store.