Today’s Monday, and after Wednesday, he’s not even my superior at work anymore. He’ll officially be gone, and Bonnie Lilledahl will start. She came in and introduced herself earlier at the end of our workday, a middle-aged woman dressed in apantsuit and flats, her expression no-nonsense but kind. I can tell she’s efficient, too; we’ll get along well.
We will. I know we will. But as I wipe down the baseboards of Roman’s spare bedroom, I can’t help wondering what he’ll do when he’s gone—and if Bonnie Lilledahl will make the office as lively as it is when Roman is here.
I getthe chance to find out what kind of boss Bonnie is earlier than expected. Roman is supposed to be in until Wednesday, but it’s only Tuesday when I arrive at work and find her there.
“She’s early,” I said under my breath when I passed Shelly in the hall, and Shelly said that Roman had to bow out a few days early. She didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask, but it’s been on my mind all day.
Roman just seems like someone who would go out with a bang rather than disappearing early and quietly.
Bonnie is fine, of course, like I suspected she would be. But she’s blander than Roman, and I’m distracted and off-kilter anyway, all the way up until Bart appears at my desk.
“We have a problem,” he says.
Because I’m irritable, I want to retort that the problem is his presence at my desk. The problem is his lopsided bowtie.
But that’s rude, and I’m just grumpy today, so I hold my tongue. In truth, I’m pretty sure the problem he’s noticing is the same problem I’m noticing: that there has been a noticeable uptick in ticket sales over the last several days—since we began running our latest ads, really—and yet the numbers for participation in the date auction itself have remained low.
He could be here about the coffee filter in the break room or something to do with Mindy or anything else. But Bart is good at his job and very good at coordinating with me to keep our events running smoothly; he has been all along.
“The auction?” I say grudgingly.
He gives a short nod, and maybe he sees my eyes on the drooping bowtie at his neck, because he reaches up and fiddles with it. It helps a bit, but not much.
“We’ve sold about seventy-five percent of our tickets,” he says, “but we’re still short…hmm.” He thinks for a second. “Maybe seven to ten participants for the auction.”
I settle back in my chair, thinking. I don’t have one of the comfortable chairs like the one in Denice’s office or even the one Roman Drake had been using. There’s nothing ergonomic about this slouched, lumpy contraption. I shift in my seat a bit, trying to be subtle as I find a position that’s decent, but it doesn’t work, and I give up.
I feel like I’ve been giving up a lot lately, or maybe giving in.
I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m PMSing. But I woke up this morning in my warm bed in my warm house with my amazing sisters, and all I felt was tired—tired of carrying burdens I can’t define. I feel weighed down, and it’s getting harder and harder to stand back up every time I stumble—harder and harder towantto stand back up. I’m being knocked down by ex-boyfriends and work and finances and my own heart. But instead of rallying and moving forward anyway, all I can think is that a good day curled up in fetal position on the couch sounds perfect right about now.
That’s a red flag, because I am not a fetal position girl. I am a push-through-it girl.
So I gather what little strength I still have left and make myself focus on Bart, who really is presenting a valid problem.
“We could fall back on one of our original options,” I say, my voice tired.
But Bart shakes his head—like I dreaded he would. “The advertisement with the date auction highlighted is the one that’s converting the most. People are interested in this idea.”
“If they’re interested but not willing to participate, that’s not our problem.”
He just looks at me, and I sigh, smoothing my hand down my shirt.
“Sorry.” I don’t like the word, but I spit it out all the same. “Sorry. I know. Okay.”
Suck it up and figure out a solution, Aurora,I tell myself.
“We can’t make people participate,” I say.
“No,” Bart agrees. “So we need to come up with participants of our own, in case our numbers remain too low.” He pauses, scratching his chin. “We could get some of the girls from the Hooters in?—”
“Bart,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
He grins, but the expression dies when I don’t laugh.
“Sorry. Okay. Well, what do we do, then? Provide an incentive? Fifteen percent off the next year’s subscription?”
“We could,” I say. “Run it by Bonnie and if she’s okay with it, let’s try that. But I think we should also have a plan in place in case that doesn’t pan out.” I hesitate, hating what I’m about to say next. “We may need to fill in some of the gaps ourselves.”
