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“We'll be joined by Charlotte and her husband, as well as a few board members and their spouses,” Brando explains, as if that will make me feel any better about the situation.
“I won’t be able to make it,” I reply without hesitation.
I don't say it out loud, but I would sooner accept a date from a cobra than break bread with the one-percenters who are threatening the lives of Indigenous people on their own land.
Looking stunned, Brando puts his hands in his pockets. “May I ask why not?”
“It goes against my beliefs, for one. And it’s also last minute,” I add nonchalantly, shutting down my computer as I prepare to end my workweek.
“Having lunch goes against your beliefs? And how is it last minute? It's not until Saturday. That's two days from now. Besides, you have tomorrow off,” Brando attempts to dissuade me while I take off my heels and slip on my Sketchers.
“You're asking me less than forty-eight hours before the lunch, as if I'm an afterthought. You could have included me when you asked Charlotte to make the reservation at the restaurant. Not to mention that you could have been clearer about not intending to present either the blockchain, nor the foundation proposal to the board. Besides, I already have plans.” I huff, hinting that I don't want to spend my free time with my boss and colleagues, even though deep down, I have conflicting desires. But I need to stand my ground.
“What makes you think I wouldn't already have a lunch date or other plans?” I ask.
I'm relieved that Brando waited until the end of the day to ask me. Pissed that he kept the pipeline project from me, I have no desire to endure him any longer than it takes for me to gather my things and leave for the day.
Following me to the elevator, Brando makes one last attempt to change my mind. I'm not sure why, but he seems determined to convince me to attend this lunch.
“Look, Ana, I'm sorry if you feel deceived because you had limited information. But I made a difficult decision that is the best course of action for the moment.”
“I wish it hadn’t happened,” I retort gruffly.
Catching a whiff of his enticing scent, I'm momentarily tempted to give in. Maybe I could still persuade him to reconsider the pipeline deal altogether. Summoning my resolve, I continue into the elevator.
“If you genuinely mean what you say and truly aspire to transform Sanders International into an environmentally responsible company, perhaps you should pay a visit to the park near Canal Street on Saturday after your little celebration. Around two o'clock.” It’s the last thing I am able to say before the elevator door closes.
* * *
By mid-morning on Saturday,Race and I are ready to participate in the protest against the pipeline that Brando and his cohorts are celebrating at a swanky restaurant. We want to arrive early and secure good spots, preparing to make our voices heard loudly denouncing Sanders International. I know there's a high chance I'll be fired by Monday if the board finds out about this, but at this point, I don't care.
Slipping on my comfortable sneakers to complement my trusty yoga pants and cozy sweatshirt, I join Race in the lobby of our apartment building. He's dressed in black jeans and an Indigenous-inspired poncho, making a powerful statement. His appearance speaks volumes.
“Before you say anything, I'm fully committed to the protest today,” Race declares, avoiding eye contact and keeping his focus straight ahead.
His outfit, however, tells a different story… but then again, it's the message behind the outfit that will resonate the loudest.
“And that's why you're sporting the most understated fashion statement in history,” I retort sarcastically, marveling at my best friend. He's donning a bedazzled baseball cap as the crowning glory of his ensemble. Underneath the poncho, an Alexander McQueen hoodie hangs loosely around his hips. Skinny jeans, more hole than fabric, hug his legs, revealing plenty of skin. And despite his flamboyant attire, his Prada walking loafers and Indigenous accessories make it clear he's headed to a protest, not a hot date.
“I'm trying to blend in with the people. Don't judge me, Sista!” Race shoots back, playfully linking his arm through mine.
“Oh, yes, honey! Nothing says 'blending in' like bedazzled headgear.” I chuckle as we step out of our apartment building and onto the bustling sidewalks of New York City.
During the few blocks we walk, Race and I engage in some people-watching, speculating about the lives of those passing by. As expected, our corner grocer shoos away pigeons from his fruit stands, attempting to protect his succulent grapes from the birds’ pecking. Neither Race nor I intervene when we spot a teenager swiftly swiping an apple from the stand while the grocer is distracted. People and animals do what they must to survive. I recognize the girl—JJ—and know she's been on her own for at least two years. Once again, the social services system has failed her, placing her in an abusive situation that's even worse than her previous one. I catch up to her at the corner, press a twenty into her palm, and smile as she looks up at me with gratitude.
When Race and I made the decision to become roommates, I quickly realized how much I valued his company, even though Race would have been perfectly fine on his own. Growing up with a strong belief in paying it forward, I take pride in participating in today's protest, standing on the side of the people fighting to protect their ancestral lands and homes, despite the fact that I work for the very business we're protesting against. Reflecting on Brando's lunch invitation, I feel a tinge of hurt and insult at being invited in the first place. If I had known that any of the tasks assigned to me were connected to the pipeline project, I would have sabotaged it from the very beginning.
However, despite my frustration, I can't deny that Brando has gradually made his way into my thoughts. Maybe it's the confidence he exudes after a successful business meeting, which contrasts with the vulnerability of a wounded child when he talks to his father. There are so many things I yearn to discover about him.
Focus on today’s task: protest the pipeline,I say to myself as I continue walking.
“Honey bunny, are we heading to the protest or to have brunch with the girls? You're confusing my stomach!” Race complains, tugging at my arm.
In a state of distraction, my body instinctively guides Race and me toward our usual hangout spot, a result of my mind being preoccupied with thoughts of Brando. Suddenly, Race halts in front of me, preventing me from walking into oncoming traffic. Cars whiz by behind him as he addresses me seriously.
“Earth to Ana! Hello!” he says, trying to get my attention. “Is this about Sanders or Brando?” He smiles, but it barely registers with me.
“The protest. I'm sorry,” I reply absentmindedly. “You know how bad I am with directions,” I shrug, pretending not to realize that my wandering thoughts about Brando have led us off course. “We're close, I promise.”
