“OK. Then your only other option is to go on the waitlist. Otherwise, they’re taking bookings fornextautumn. The summer is fully booked.”
“Hmm,” she says. I have no idea how to interpret this.
“Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up before I gave this information to Mom.”
“Maybe hold off on doing that? Tell her you haven’t heard, if she asks.”
Are Shannon and I about to have…a secret?
“You bet. I will tell Momnothing.”
I feel giddy with triumph. It’s me and Shannon against the world.
“Great. I have to go now,” she says. She cuts out mid-goodbye.
—
Since in technical terms I am what’s known as “totally useless,” Connor leaves me to solve the dashboard problem. Namely, to figure out why no one wants to use it.
This isn’t that different from what I spent all day doing on my old team, except instead of collecting feedback from customers as they tested new beta features, I’m collecting feedback internally.
I run a series of small focus groups with squad leaders from Marketing, Sales, and Product, and what becomes clear almost immediately is that poor dashboard uptake isn’t a usability issue, but a political one. No one likes that they’re being forced to give up their own individual reporting tools of choice and made to use this new one just because the executive team said so. The sessions all have a strong flavor of group therapy, something Connor finds frustrating and which I find totally amusing.
To Connor—the person who has spent the last year building the dashboard—the pointless resistance to a tool that is better, and more useful, than what most teams are using instead makes no sense whatsoever.
But what he’s forgetting is how fuckingspoiledeveryone who works here is. Taskio prides itself on hiring the best of the best (vomit), and though this is a nice idea in theory, what it really means is that by the time the golden candidate has been selected and hired, they think they’re God’s gift to big tech. Every person here truly believes they are the best and smartest person in the room, a position that affords them the license to do whatever they want—and when they can’t, complain about itforever.Did I say this place was like high school? Maybe I meant nursery school.
—
I get to work first the next morning, arriving just a few minutes before Ben, who looks different for some reason. I study him as he empties the contents of his coat pocket onto his desk, depositing his wallet, keys, and phone in front of him.
I tilt my head, taking him in further, trying to pinpoint the source of his allure. “Did you cut your hair?”
“No,” he says, dry as ever. “A trained professional named Jim did it forme.”
“My compliments to Jim, then. It looks really good.”
Connor pulls up just as I say this, and Ben gets really bashful, looking from Connor to me and then down at his feet as he mumbles out thanks.
“Don’t you think Ben’s hair looks good?”
“Uh, yeah,” Connor says. “Nice haircut, Ben.”
Ben looks like he would ratherdiethan discuss his haircut for even one more second, leading me to wonder if he has ever received a compliment in his life. We all take our places at our desks, the three of us arranged like the points of a triangle. It’s awkward, almost, the way we’re suspiciously eyeing one another; me watching Ben, Connor watching me watching Ben, Ben watching Connor watching me watching Ben, on a loop. None of us are saying anything.
These guys, I tellyou.
Still, Ben’s haircut is striking, and later in the morning, when he cracks a very signature Ben joke in Marty’s direction, a thought blinds me:Bencould go out with Carrie. Ben and Carrie would beperfectfor each other!
I have no evidence to support this. I can’t point to a single tangible reason why I’m sure of it, yet somehow, I am, and when I imagine Ben and Connor tagging along on all our days and nights out—obviously, Ben will bring Connor, that goes without saying—instead of a pit of dread in my stomach I feel a pleasantbuzz, like a portal of fun and possibility has opened and all we need do is walk throughit.
I love this plan. This is my best plan ever.
A rogue thought shatters the daydream. Is Ben single? Martha thought not; but in the weeks since, I’ve never heard Ben mention anyone. Didn’t we all talk about dating apps that first day? I need to be certain.
For the rest of the morning, I covertly watch Ben, who avoids making eye contact with me, very pointedly. I know Connor notices me doing this—he gives me a look likestop it you’re being weird now.But I can’t. I’m a woman possessed. I have to know.
When Ben eventually gets up from his desk, I wait three seconds and then follow him, trailing behind him at a distance until he’s at the elevators. I dart in just as the doors are closing.
