“For sure. Just the ones she’s interested in.” He pulls his hand back and adjusts the temperature again, then clears his throat. “You’re the obvious choice, by the way. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I smile, but something twists in my gut, just like it did the night before. I’m grateful when he starts asking questions about the market. He’s using his own conversational tactic, andI’m glad to play into it. Candles and mugs don’t make me feel queasy.
We pull up to Barolo Grill ten minutes later, and the valet lane gleams under the string lights. Garrett hands off the keys and places a steady hand at the small of my back as we walk through the doors.
Inside, everything smells like garlic and rosemary, the faint hum of a jazz trio drifting from the bar. The host greets Garrett by name and leads us to a private dining room off the main floor. Gold-toned light pools over a long table draped in linen, dotted with wine glasses and neatly folded menus.
Most of the seats are already filled. Garrett’s smile switches effortlessly to work mode as he introduces me around. “This is Alecia Monroe, she’s one of our marketing leads and an absolute lifesaver.”
The introductions blur into a parade of first names, handshakes, and smiles. I laugh at the right moments, sip my wine, and manage to remember at least half of their names. Lillian, the client’s co-founder, is warm and sharp. Her husband, quieter, tells me about their new packaging plant in Golden.
I let Garrett do most of the talking at first. He’s good at it. Just the right amount of charm, the perfect anecdotes. I chime in when needed, agreeing and adding a note of humor here and there. The perfect partner.
Everything is going smoothly. But by the time the main course arrives, Lillian and I get talking about women’s clothing trends, and I forget that I’m supposed to be smooth and polished, asking questions instead of taking over.
It takes all of two minutes for my non-work personality to come out in a big way. “It’s always the waistbands. In underwear, especially. Just accept that we have love handles and make them thicker! Or stretchier. There are really a thousand options that aren’t floss used to cut cakes.”
The woman next to us nearly chokes on her wine laughing. Lillian wipes tears from her eyes.
Garrett’s hand brushes my knee under the table. When I glance at him, he’s smiling, but he gives me a look.
I read it perfectly because it’s the exact look I used to get from my mom growing up.That’s a little much. Pull back a bit. Be a little less of you.
I don’t expect it to hit me so hard, but it does. At a certain point, all the little hits add up, and the breath gets knocked right out of you.
I pluck my napkin off my lap. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I mouth “Bathroom” to Garrett when he looks apologetic, then escape before he can read the hurt on my face.
The women’s restroom is dim and elegant, all marble counters and golden sconces. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door as I pull out my phone.
I flip to my messages with Sam.
You up? I need to rant.
I wait, but the three dots don’t appear. The muffled laughter from the dining room seeps through the walls. This isn’t how it’s supposed to feel, is it? Garrett asked me here, but it feels likemeis the last thing he wants. He wants the version of me that makes him look good. That fits the company brand style guide.
I scroll through my texts again, thumb hovering over Sam’s name, willing her to text back.
Nothing.
Then I remember how much I wanted my phone earlier and flip to my browser. I type in Calder’s name from his email.Pickleball clips immediately populate my results, and I click on the first one.Almost a million views?
I’m entranced. His back is to me in the clip, but I would know it was him anywhere just by the way he moves. Smooth and focused. I watch to the end and am about to start another when I realize numbing out to a guilty pleasure isn’t going to solve my current problem.
I go back to my texts and my thumb flicks down, scrolling instinctively, and lands on another name. I snort. When did I add Calder as a contact? And why did I put his name in like that? Probably another casualty of Oktoberfest.
I hesitate over our last conversation. My rational brain says this is definitely not a good idea. But my sad and frustrated brain that is about to go out there and eat a metric ton of pasta says it’s imperative.
Hey. Theoretically. What would you do if you were stuck at a work dinner and forgot how to be normal?
My heart races. I’m about to unsend it when the dots appear.Frederick Calder the Third is typing.
fifteen
Alecia
Hey. Theoretically. What would you do if you were stuck at a work dinner and forgot how to be normal?
Calder
