Matt rocks back in his chair with a laugh. “They just don't want to see another pitch about grape juice.”
Teresa doesn't even blanch. Without even an instant of hesitation, she snaps the laptop closed and reaches for my tablet.
“We've got just what they're looking for.”
I sit there, dumbfounded, as Teresa seamlessly switches tracks and pulls up my idea.
Well, shit.
I should be happy that my ideas will get to see the light of day, and I am. But I also feel a familiar burst of panic, which is what I always feel when people look at my work.
Of course, no intelligent person would look at the sketches and jump straight to the conclusion that I have elaborate fantasies about my boss. I am a mousy, plain, middle-aged woman. (Okay, twenty-eight isn't middle-aged. But I will be some day, and I've alwaysfeltdecades older than most of my peers.) There is nothing about me that screams has-an-active-fantasy-life. That's the way I like it.
Isn't it?
A few minutes into the pitch, I hazard a glance in Matt's direction. He's smiling and nodding his head, pleased with the ad idea, just as I'd known he would be. A moment later, Audrey knocks on the door and enters the room.
She hands Teresa a message, then scurries away. Everyone in the room sits up a little straighter while we watch Teresa read the message. Audrey wouldn't have interrupted the meeting if it wasn't important.
Teresa skims the note, her face going white. Then she folds it neatly in half, no doubt trying to appear calm. For the first time in the years I've known her, Teresa's professional facade slips as she excuses herself from the meeting and accepts Matt's reassurances that we can continue without her.
Almost as an afterthought, she turns to me and asks, “You can finish up here?”
“Of course,” I say, but I doubt Teresa even hears me. It doesn't matter either way. I can do this. IknowI can.
I push myself to my feet and cross to the front of the room, everyone watching me.
Not just Matt and Reid, but also the three people on the secondary team. People I barely know. They're all watching me. Waiting.
Okay. I can do this.
Just finish the presentation.
I try to imagine my speech therapist's soothing voice encouraging me. All I have to do is take a deep breath, imagine myself speaking, and then say the words out loud.
“As y-y-y—” But the words clog my throat like trees caught in a logjam. I open my mouth to try again. “As y-y-y—”
Okay, Meg, I tell myself.You've got this. Just a few short sentences. Just wrap it up.
This time, when I open my mouth, not even one word passes my lips. The logs caught, piling one upon another.
And then I make the mistake of looking at the people around the table and whatever words I might have spoken finally splinter under the pressure.
I snap my mouth shut as failure closes like a fist around my heart.
I tear my gaze away from my drawing to find Matt has stood and crossed to my side. He places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don't worry. I think we've seen enough to approve the ad. It's good work.”
Reid nods. His smile is kind. Patient and supportive. “Excellent work.”
Supportive patience is theworst.
Humiliation burns through me as I watch them leave.
They loved the idea. I know this is a win, even if I bungled the bit where I was supposed to talk.
Still, I have a big knot of ick in my stomach.
This is what I hate the most: the pity. I hate how awkward people feel when I can't get words out. And I hate that all the work I've done lately hasn't helped me when I need it most.
