Real smooth, Eli.
Not exactly the kind of first impression I was going for. My option now seems thoughtless. “I can order something else,” I suggest.
Waving away my concerns, she makes me feel a little less guilty when she says, “Order whatever you want. We all have our own beliefs and preferences.”
Although that doesn’t sit well with me, so I change my mind and order the vegetarian enchiladas too, ignoring Sapphire’s startled gasp when I give our order to the server.
She politely closes her menu, fighting back a grin, knowing I changed my order to match her beliefs.
I am a gentleman, after all.
Then our server leaves us. Alone. Together. When I’m not very good at small talk. That’s a lie. I am, I just don’t like it.
As if sensing my discomfort, Sapphire gets straight down to business. “Let me show you my proposal,” she says, pulling out a tablet from her oversized purse and flipping back the cover that converts to a stand for it to rest on. “It’s going to feel alive with energy.”
“It needs to be professional,” I state firmly.
“It will be, but it also needs to be engaging.” She enters her password on the touchscreen, opening a list of icebreakers to kick off the day. “These are my initial ideas.”
“Name tag swap.” I read the first one out loud. “What’s that?”
“At registration, everyone receives the wrong name tag, and after my opening speech, everyone is then tasked with finding their correct badge. It’s a great way to get everyone up out of their seats, talking to people they wouldn’t normally, and working as a team. So that’s my energy raiser number one suggestion.”
Sounds horrific. I frown, tapping my fingers against my white cloth napkin, then smooth out the creases. “What are the others?”
Sapphire enthusiastically works her way through her list of ideas one by one, while all I can think about is how much we’re spending on this nonsensical event. The musical instruments called Boomwhackers sound completely terrible. Who the hell wants to hit hollow plastic tubes against your hand at nine in the morning to make a musical tune?
Not me, that’s for sure.
“Can you come up with some other ideas?” I don’t like any of them. And maybe that was a bit blunt. “Please,” I add at the end.
Unfazed, while swiping to another page of notes, she responds easily, “Sure thing. How’s the headache?”
Raising my hand to my temple, I’m surprised to find there’s no tension or dull ache. I’m loath to admit she was right, but I do, and I tell her, “It’s gone.”
It’s ridiculous how smug she looks and sounds when she says with a smile, “Told you so.”
I give the device that’s still clipped between my fingers a fleeting glance. It’s a lot like Sapphire.
Magic.
Not actual magic, but she must be some kind of magician to have bewitched Janice, our HR manager, while my brothers and I all took a vacation week into believing she can pull off an extraordinary staffing event for us.
What no one knows is that over a year ago, we weren’t on vacation that week; instead, we were visiting care homes for Dad. No one knew about Dad’s diagnosis or his declining health at the time. They do now, but when we were first told, we kept it quiet to protect Dad as much as we could, sharing it only with close family and friends. The last year or so has been difficult.
For the next hour, we eat and work as Sapphire scrolls through page after page of ideas for workshop electives, all animated and fast-talking between bites of her own food, giving me barely any time to respond, and so I inject a few grunts and headshakes here and there.
I don’t believe most of her proposals will benefit our staff, and I’m glad I kept the acupressure clip on or I probably would have gotten another headache.
“You know, you don’t need to be heavily involved,” Sapphire says sweetly as if letting me down gently, subtly letting me know I’m not required.
“I know, but I would like to be.” To make sure she doesn’t have our criminal law team making balloon animals as a workshop elective. Not that she suggested that, but I wouldn’t put it past her.
“Most firms leave me to organize everything.”
“We’re not most firms.” What I really mean is that I don’t trust her, and I can tell by her raised brows she knows it. I’m as obvious as the nose on my face that now feels like it’s grown to the size of Pinocchio’s. Plus, I made a promise to be proactive in the decision-making for the staff conference, just like Dad was, and I want to make him proud. This conference needs to outdo all the others.
Leaning forward, she rests her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand. “I’m getting that impression.” Pausing briefly to think, she adds, “Would you like me to email you every decision I make?”
