CHAPTER NINE
GRIFF
I dragmyself into the kitchen Monday morning, dreading the day ahead. It’s my own fault—if I’d dealt with things on Friday like a goddamn adult, I wouldn’t have spent three days letting this situation fester in my brain. Now I can’t delay any more, but I still don’t know what to do.
Vivi has no such concerns. She was initially sympathetic to my mopey mood on Friday night, and even on Saturday morning, but she’s not my baby for nothing—by the time Saturday evening rolled around, she’d abandoned sympathy for a tough-love, pull-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps attitude. I regret teaching her that. You haven’t lived until a dog whose whole body is only slightly longer than my shoe looks at you like you’re failing at life.
Regardless, I get her breakfast and make sure she’s got plenty of water, that the dog door is unlocked, and that there’s nothing in the yard that might hurt her. The people who used to live next door liked to throw trash over the fence, and we had a close call once when she got into some broken glass before I realized. Those people are long gone, and the new ones are great, but I won’t risk my baby getting hurt again.
By the time I get into the office, I’m not closer to knowing how I should deal with Phil Marchand—or more specifically, with the mess I created. I need to email him back about Margaret’s dress, but I can’t until I decide whether I should apologize or not.
Does it make me the worst person in the world if I don’t? Technically I never said or did anything that was rude or offensive. Maybe I wasn’t as polite or respectful as I usually would have been, but since neither he nor Calla has ever met me before, how would they know? And wouldn’t apologizing for something they didn’t know I did make things awkward? Especially since I’d then need to explain why I did those things and what I was thinking at the time. Right now, they’re oblivious to my offensive thoughts, so why would I offend them by telling them about them?
Of course, “technically” is doing a lot of heavy lifting there, and if Adam is right and the reason Phil couldn’t speak to me is because I intimidated him, I owe him an apology anyway. Sure, it’s not my fault that I’m six-three, solid, and have resting bitch face, but I know my appearance makes me scary to some people, and it’s my responsibility tonotgo out of my way to make it worse by acting like I get my kicks crushing people’s bones for soup. Which would be gross even if I wasn’t a vegetarian.
Honestly, the thought thatI’mthe reason for someone’s anxiety gives me cold chills. I might not be the nicest, most patient, gentlest person in the world, but I’m not a monster. After spending some time over the weekend reading online sources and the one e-book my local library had about selective mutism, I feel even more shitty about my reaction to Phil than I did on Friday.
So I think I have to apologize. I don’t want to, but if I don’t, it’s probably going to haunt me for a few lifetimes. The trick isfinding a way to apologize that won’t tell Phil exactly how much of a douchebag I was and hurt his feelings.
This is not the kind of creativity I’m good at.
“Staff meeting in fifteen,” Amina calls to remind us all. She shouldn’t have to, because the staff meeting is at the same time every Monday, but some of my colleagues (Adam) find keeping track of things like meetings, time, and their keys challenging.
Fifteen minutes. That’s good—I have a time limit, and I work best under pressure.
Not giving myself time to think about it, I hit Reply on Phil’s email and start typing.
Hi Phil,
Apologies for not replying on Friday—I was trying not to choke on the words “I was wrong.” The gown definitely needs the overskirt, and when I showed Margaret, she insisted that the butterflies were perfect. She loves it, by the way.
I’ve attached the details of her measurements and can arrange the first fitting of the toile when you’re ready.
I also wanted to say I’m sorry for being abrupt during our meeting last week. It wasn’t a great day for me, but I should have been more professional and left the attitude outside. I know our styles don’t usually overlap, but I have nothing but admiration for your designs, and I’m looking forward to working with you.
If you have any questions or need anything else from me, you can call or text anytime.
Best,
Griff Pevensy
Senior Stylist
Style Me
I attach Margaret’s measurements and hit Send without rereading it, even to check for typos. Maybe I laid things on a bit thick, but I’d rather make it sound like I’m the new president of his fan club than have him thinking he should be wary of me.
Pushing my chair back, I grab my tablet and phone and head for the meeting room. I’ll be early, but that just gives me the chance to listen to my colleagues gossiping.
Surprisingly, Adam is already in the meeting room, talking excitedly to Amina. They stop when I come in and shoot me vaguely guilty looks. I know what that means.
“I don’t care if you’re talking about me,” I remind them, and Adam pouts.
“You take all the fun out of it.”
I slide into a chair and grunt, mostly because I know they expect it. Partly because I don’t know what he expects me to say.
“Quick, before Damian gets here,” Amina says, shooting a glance toward the door. “Tell us what happened with Phil Marchand.”
