Our other colleagues stop their conversations and don’t even pretend they’re not shamelessly eavesdropping. That’s annoying—I wanted tolistento gossip, notbeit.
“There’s nothing to tell. I misunderstood something, and it irritated me, but the only person I said anything about it to was Adam. Which was obviously a mistake,” I add pointedly.
He grins unrepentantly.
“Really? That’s it?” Lian asks, disappointed. “Adam said you’d called him a fucker.”
Adam gasps. “Not tohis face. Griffin said itto meabout him. Oh my god, if he’d said that to someone’s face, I wouldn’t begossiping about it! I’d be helping him pack to leave the country before Damian found out.”
“Before I find out what?”
I glare at Adam as his eyes snap toward the doorway behind me and get very big. “Hi, boss,” he says weakly.
“Good morning. This sounds like a very interesting conversation.” Damian walks around the table to his chair in the middle of the window side. I don’t know why he prefers to sit there instead of at the head, but that’s been his seat for as long as I’ve worked here. “Would anyone care to share?”
Dead silence. Nobody meets his gaze, though a few of them give me apologetic looks.
I grit my teeth, then say, “I used some negative language about a vendor while I was speaking to Adam. He set me straight, and it won’t happen again.”
A line forms between Damian’s brows as he frowns. “You said it to Adam? Not the vendor?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Then why does everyone find it so interesting? We’ve all said some creative things about vendors here in the office.”
That’s for sure. But it’s not helping me get out of this without admitting that I disparaged Damian’s new pet designer. “I think Adam was surprised that I could have beef with Phil Marchand.” Even as shock takes over Damian’s face, I tack on, “He sent the 3D models for Margaret’s gown, and I had to admit I was wrong about the changes I wanted.” It’s truth adjacent. I can’t bring myself to admit to my boss what an ass I was—this is bad enough.
Luckily, Damian’s frown softens, and he chuckles. “You do hate to be wrong. As long as nobody’s calling vendors—or clients—names to their faces, we’re all good, and it’s time to get this meeting started so we can go do our jobs. Griff, do you want to update us first?”
What I want is two minutes to feel relief, but I can’t say that. Instead, I press the button to wake up my tablet and glance at my notes for today. “Sure.”
After the meeting,I go to the coffee place across the street, because I’m in desperate need of caffeine and some space to breathe. The Marines may have put me in objectively worse situations, but that doesn’t mean having to bullshit my way out of getting in trouble with my boss isn’t stressful. I really wish Vivi was here right now.
Though she’d probably give me her “Grow up and get on with it” look. How a dog that small can have such a human range of facial expressions is baffling.
The cashier recognizes me and is already ringing up my order when I step up to the register, so all I have to do is up-nod my thanks, pay, and stick some cash in the tip jar. This is why I love being a regular in places. As long as I tip well, nobody gives a fuck if I’m not chatty and friendly… at least, not to my face.
While I’m waiting for my latte, I pull out my phone to check messages. It vibrated a couple of times in the meeting, and while Damian doesn’t care if we check it—we’ve all hadthatclient, the one who needs hand-holding at all times—I didn’t want to draw any attention. I’ve had enough of that for one day, thanks.
I scroll through the notifications. Penny, reminding me to find somewhere to stay in Vegas for the holidays, my dry cleaner, the leatherworker who’s customizing a jacket for one of my clients, and a few from an unknown number. I tap on the first.
Hi, Griff. This is Phil Marchand from Phallacy. I just wanted to give you my number in case you need to reach me.
My heartbeat picks up speed. I have no fucking clue why. Does my nervous system think Phil knew I’ve been talking about him this morning? My eyes track to the next message.
I also wanted to say thank you for your email. I’m not sure what Calla tells people, but I have selective mutism, and unfortunately Thursday afternoon was a nonverbal time. I’m sure that was as frustrating for you as it was for me, but I was concerned that you might have taken it personally.
The knot in my throat is so big, I might choke on it.
Sorry also if this is oversharing. I was just glad to get your email and read that you’d been having a bad day too. I’m sure I’ll be able to speak to you the next time we meet.
I’m a big fan of your work :)
My grip on the phone tightens so much, my knuckles go white and the cover creaks. There’s no possible way I could feel like any more of a jackass right now, and I deserve it. ThankfuckI didn’t make it more obvious how I felt… and that I laid it on thick in my email. Because if this guy is sweet enough to send texts like this, he doesn’t deserve to feel like he might have offended me for something he can’t help.
But now I need to reply, because I’m not going to be the person who leaves him on Read, and I have no idea what to say.
I really need my coffee, stat.
