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“Did I?” I query. This is the best conversation I’ve had in as long as I can remember, and I don’t want it to end. I’m practically goading her, but I’ll do anything to keep her talking.
“Do you know how much I make?” she asks me.
“No, I don’t. Do you know how much I make?”
Her eyes slice to slits again. “I already answered that.”
I shake my head. “No, you didn’t. You told me you didn’t care how much I make, not that you didn’t know.”
“Let me be clear then,” she starts. Her back is up and fire burns in her eyes. “I do not know and I do not care how much money you make. It’s not about your money.”
I tap the back of her hand. “You may not like this, but it’s very much about how much I make.”
Her face goes hard. I could’ve predicted that after the last several minutes with her.
“You do not know me, but I can say with certainty it is not.”
“To you,” I start. “That may be true for you. But out there—” I nod to the street. “Out there it matters. And in that room this afternoon, it really mattered.”
“Are you saying my work is less valuable?”
“No.”
“Then why do you keep bringing it up?”
“Is the pinky toe less valuable than the femur?” I ask.
“Do you have head trauma or are you playing coy? What in the world are you getting at?”
“Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“The femur is large and weight-bearing. It’s critical. The pinky toe—which has a name, by the way—is minute, often overlooked, and could be easily dismissed. But that bone is responsible for balancing the whole body.”
“Right. So different functions but both important?”
She sighs. “Are you here to play word games? This is tiresome.” She stands, but I grab her hand before she can walk away.
Tugging a little, she falls toward me. I catch her and arrange her on my lap. I hold her eyes as I say what she won’t want to hear, but she really needs to get.
“You are a pinky toe. Critical. Providing balance. The body and its functions are wrecked without it. I’m a femur. Large, prominent. And, I’m sorry to say, seen by some as more important.”
“I’m not loving this.”
“Pix? You have a nonfraternization clause in your contract. If the people in that room saw this—” I look between us before finding her eyes again. “They would consider enforcing yours long before they’d consider enforcing mine.”
Her eyes flare, and she stiffens a bit. “That’s wrong. It’s unethical. I’d dare say it’s immor—”
I grab her neck where that fucker touched her and pull her mouth to mine, cutting off her tirade about equal rights. I kiss her, coaxing her mouth.
She pulls back, still fighting for control. “Why wouldn’t you stand up and expose the disparity in that?”
“I did what I could to protect you and your job without starting a shitstorm with your boss, my boss, and everyone else who doesn’t care about you or me or anything other than bottom-line performance and… money. Always follow the money.”
She drops her head yet again. This is softer than last time. “And you’re the money…”
“To them? Absolutely. So long as I make them rich, I have a job. No matter my behavior.”
Her acquiescence comes in the form of a nod against my chin and softening in my arms. Fucking finally!
