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Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
“Do you never turn that off?” I ask. “Or at least put it on vibrate?”
We’re only about fifteen minutes into the journey, and I’m already getting a headache from the constant sound. We’ve got the radio on, but thepingcuts through the pop music, and it feels like it gets louder every time.
He gives me a rueful smile and when we hit a red light, he leans over and switches his phone to silent, but that doesn’t stop the screen from lighting up every few seconds with more email notifications. I’m not trying to snoop, but I can’t help but peek at the snippet of email that comes through on the banner.
RE: MEMBERSHIP FEES QUERY
RE: RE: SUMMER OPENING HOURS
LINDA’S BIRTHDAY COLLECTION
“Monday morning milk delivery?” I murmur, frowning at the latest email to pop up on the screen. “Is that something you really need to be involved with?”
His gaze flits from the road to his phone for a brief second, his brows furrowing slightly as he catches sight of the email notification. “We get a lot of deliveries every day back at the New York location,” he explains. “It’s helpful to keep track of what’s coming in and when.”
“I know that. Keeping track of deliveries is about eighty percent of my job right now. But that’s whatI’mpaid to do. I didn’t think keeping track of deliveries was in amanaging director’sjob description.”
He cracks a small, sad smile. “Fair point. I suppose it’s not.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
His phone vibrates.
It’s another email notification. This one seems to be yet another mundane email from someone on his team. There’s nothing urgent in the subject title, nothing that suggests this is something he specifically needs to be on top of.
“Isn’t that one of the perks of being so high up?” I ask him. “That you’ve got a whole team of people at your disposal that can handle things like…” I squint at the phone as yet another email comes in. “Approving the social media schedule for the week? Surely you have a social media manager for that.”
“We do. And he’ll be copied into that thread too.” His tone is uncharacteristically terse, and I know I’m toeing a line here.
Everything about his demeanour — the way he’s gripping the wheel and how he’s staring determinedly ahead barely blinking — tells me he doesn’t want to talk about this. But what else do we have to talk about? We’ve still got just under two hours left of this drive and I can’t pretend like I don’t see the stream of emails flooding in.
“But why doyouneed to be copied into it too?” I ask, and I’m genuinely curious. As soon as Cynthia realised she could palm work off on me, she did. Not saying that she’s the kind of manager anyone should be looking to emulate, but I think she’d fire me on principle if I copied her into every single email I sent each day.
Hawthorne looks like he’s wrestling with something, and he doesn’t answer right away. We pull up to another red light and he turns to look at me with hooded, tired eyes. “If something goes wrong, then I can jump in and fix it quickly.” His voice is so low, I have to strain to hear him over the quiet vibrations of our idling car. “I don’t have to ask people to bring me up to speed, I can just deal with it.”
“And how often does something go wrong?”
I can tell that’s not the response he was expecting. His frown deepens as he purses his lips and squints into the distance, like he’s looking for the answer out on the long road stretching in front of us.
“Not often,” he says quietly, after a long beat of silence. He says it like it’s a revelation even to him.
“I’m going to teach you a new word today, Hawthorne. And you better remember it because there’s going to be a surprise quiz next week.”
I can tell he’s biting back a smile.
“Go on…”
“The word isdelegate.”
The hint of his smile drops, and he scowls at me. “Ha, ha. You’re hilarious.”
