The bar for men is in hell.
Still, it disarms me a little. I don’t trust it yet, and I like that I don’t have to push them to act right for it to be true. It’s not like being around Troy, who needed someone to follow him around to pick up after him. Or my ex-boyfriend, Charlie, who suddenly didn’t know what a toothbrush was for after we’d been dating for two months. Or Miguel, who said, “You know I could always date someone hotter,” any time I mentioned going to a nice restaurant.
Houston brings coffee while I’m kerning a slide. He doesn’t ask if I want it. He knows I do. Black, hot, cup set where I can reach without breaking my train of thought. “Thank you.”
“Keep going.” He checks the colors, nods, and steps back to give me space. I like that about him.
Salem wanders out, steals the pen from behind my ear, and tucks it behind his. “Tax,” he says, then sets another pen by my hand like he planned the bit to be generous at the end.
“That was my favorite pen.”
“This is your new favorite pen,” he says. He takes a fry from a room service plate that somehow exists and drifts to the balcony to look at the strip of sky, as if it owes him a verse.
I roll my eyes and give the pen a shot. Son of a bitch, it’s good.
Knox sits across from me with his laptop and the budget I sent him. He doesn’t say, “Are you sure?” He says, “Line items.”
We go through everything, and he asks smart questions about dates and deliverables. I’m having a work conversation with a guy I like, and his eyes aren’t glazing over.
“I can hit Tuesday,” I say.
“We’ll wire the budget to the account today, so you don’t have to stress.”
Everything with them is easy.
Which makes it uncomfortable.
Before the presentation with the guys, I build a test plan so approvals don’t turn into taste arguments. We’ll preview titles on the venue screens at fifty, seventy-five, and one hundred feet and shoot from the floor and balcony. There are a thousand details to hit before the meeting, and not a moment to waste, but all I can think of is how nice it is to work with professionals.
And Salem.
I present at four, because that’s when they can all sit still. I mirror my screen to the TV and stand so I don’t start shrinking without noticing. I go slide by slide. I don’t sell. I explain.
And they’re listening. They look at each other and then at me.
Houston nods. Salem smirks. Knox says, “This is it. This is the plan.”
I sit. My hands shake. I didn’t realize I was so nervous. But their opinions matter to me more than any other client I’ve had. I want them to like this.
To like me.
Houston tops off my coffee and leaves his hand a breath away from mine without needing to touch. His version of affection is proximity and supply chain. It works on me. Salem puts my stolen pen back behind my ear like a magician and flicks the clip so it taps once, light. Knox centers the budget doc and asks if I want to build a buffer for a surprise vendor. I do. He adds it without making it a lecture.
“You’re treating me like a peer,” I say, and I hear how small my voice gets at the end of the sentence.
“Good,” Salem says, “because I don’t flirt with interns.”
Houston smiles into his cup. “You are our peer, Lou.”
Knox says nothing. Of the three of them, I think he understands what I mean the most.
When the file goes to them and Quincy, I sit there and wait for the old results. Dismissal, deflection, the “we’ll run this by my friend who dabbles in Photoshop.”
None of it comes. What arrives instead is the soft sound of being left alone to do the job I just said I would do.
When the quiet stretches, my brain tries to ruin it with memory. But I don’t need to replay old hurts. Not with new opportunities in front of me. I open my notes and finish the social post I drafted days ago. Simple. Calm. Direct.
I’m okay. I’m moving on. Please don’t speculate on my private life or send hate to anyone on my behalf. I’ll share work when I have work to share. Thanks to the people who checked in with kindness. To everyone else, I wish you peace and something better to do with your time.
