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Only, it isn’t Thomas. It’s Kris again, this time with his address.
He lives downtown, just a few blocks from Collette and Jon. I can actually walk from here!
Perfect.
A minute later, I find myself getting on the train.
The uptown train.
Away from my booty call.
I drop onto a hard, empty seat and stare out the window, trying to identify what’s wrong with me.
By the time I get back to my apartment, I haven’t figured out the what.
But I’m pretty clear on the who.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tuesday Morning, September 27
To say that the following morning is tense between Thomas and myself would be an understatement. Between the angry text exchange last night, the fact that I had to wake up at 5:30 to be showered and primped in time for this stupid seven am meeting, the mood in the office can best be described as simmering.
Our “Morning”s are terse and perfunctory, and we don’t say much more than that, even as I pull my chair over to his so we can share a camera for the conference call.
Which, actually? Turns out to go pretty well.
The Insurgence team is friendly and excited, and most surprising of all, effusive in their praise. Christina must have sent over my portfolio, because they’re going on and on about my work, and style, and how it’s exactly the direction they have in mind for the Elodie/C&S campaign.
After the month I’ve been having, I don’t mind the praise one little bit, and it’s made all the sweeter by the fact that Thomas has to sit right next to me and hear every word of it.
He’s mostly quiet in the meeting, speaking eloquently when necessary, but mainly just taking notes in his stupid little notebook. When the leader of the Insurgence team calls me a visionary, I really want to tell him to write that down.
The meeting takes the full scheduled hour, but when it ends, I’m in a better mood than when I started.
In addition to the significant boost to my ego, the agency made it pretty clear that they have no interest in micromanaging me. They’ll do print media, social media, but it’ll be up to me to decide how to bring the theme—fusion—to life on Elodie’s website.
It’s also been decided that in order for me to spend most of my time on the creative stuff, all the boring, facilitation crap and meetings will go through Thomas. That part isn’t quite as great, but it’s also kind of what I expected.
“That went well,” I say as he ends the chat and leans back in his chair.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of the theme?”
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think, I’m just supposed to do as I’m told,” he says tersely. “Did you finish your expense report yet?”
So it’s going to be like that. “No, sir. Not yet, sir. But I’ll get right to work on it. Sir.”
He doesn’t even bother to respond.
I drag my chair back to my desk and get to work on the damn expense report. It’s not technically due until the end of the month, so I have a few days, and I’m seriously tempted to turn it in at the very last second just to be a pain.
But something tells me poking the bear is not the right strategy right now, and I hate administrative tasks like this, so I’m eager to get it off my plate. I’m pushing my way through the tedium when I feel something light hit me on the back of my arm. I glance down and see a wadded-up piece of paper. Thomas has thrown it at me, and the fact that he’s resorted to such childish behavior helps lifts my spirit.
I pull my left earbud out to see what he wants, my tone clipped. “What.”
“I’m hungry. I’m going to grab an early lunch. You want me to bring you anything?”
I’m surprised by the offer, and also crazy-grateful for it. Given the early morning, I didn’t have time to grab breakfast. Who am I kidding? I never do.
“Sure,” I say a little warily. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Burrito?”
My stomach rumbles in approval, and I reach for my wallet.
“Text me your order,” he says curtly, pulling on his jacket and leaving our little office. “You can pay me back later.”
Alright. So we haven’t exactly achieved best friends! status, but at least we’re on speaking terms.
As requested, I text him my order: chicken burrito, no beans, extra guac, extra cheese, and a Diet Coke.
I’ve learned the hard way that burritos aren’t “eat at the expensive keyboard” friendly, but neither do I want to sit at that sad little table in the kitchen. The office space came with a little wheeled filing cabinet under the desk that we’re never going to use, because it’s not the 1970s.
There. Makeshift table.
After a moment’s hesitation, I wheel Thomas’s chair to the opposite side. He made the first move in being civil, if not exactly friendly, by picking up food. Here’s my counter attempt.
