“Maybe we could go beyond just focusing on pride and look at labels all together.”
“Go on,” Pietro says and pulls his chair in.
“That we are more than the label society puts on us. Gay, straight. White, Hispanic. Disabled, fat, skinny, autistic. That beyond these labels, we’re all the same, we are all human.”
“Beyond the label. That’s it,” Pietro says, raising his hand in the air. Julie squeezes my leg and grabs the jug of water, pouring herself a glass and drinking it.
“I can see the campaign now. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds, genders and sexualities, cutting the labels out of their clothes and coming together as one.”
Pietro does a chef’s kiss, and Marco smiles widely.
“That’s a great idea,” I say, trying to hide my envy at not coming up with it myself. I’ve clearly gotten too comfortable, ifnot complacent, recently. It wasn’t helped by Tony’s complete lack of creativity or ability to think outside the box.
I guess this is a reminder that I need to step up my game.
“Thank you,” Marco says and notes down the tagline.
“I want you both to work on a brief and get it back to me ASAP.” Pietro points at Marco and me.
“Sure thing,” I say, my eyes drawn to Marco, whose green eyes smile widely back at me.
“Do you think we should make it pop out a bit more?”
Marco grabs my laptop and adjusts the font and positioning of the tagline on the deck. I’m so unused to working collaboratively with someone that I’m slightly ruffled by Marco’s way of working. Or the lack of personal space. It doesn’t help that every time he reaches for my laptop, his skin brushes against mine and I lose all ability to concentrate.
“That looks solid,” I say, noticing the time on my watch as I take the laptop back, and realizing I should have left the office half an hour ago. “Can we pick this up tomorrow morning? I need to head home.”
“Of course.”
I close my laptop, grab my bag and shove it in, and get up from my chair as Marco scoots his chair back to his desk.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
I almost run to the door and out into my Jeep. I fling my bag onto the passenger seat and pull out my keys to start the engine. I almost sprain my wrist during my eighth failed attempt to start the ignition.
I stop, breathe, and reach for my phone and dial AAA.
After a short hold and telling the AAA adviser what’s wrong, she informs me that they’ll send someone out to help, but that there’s currently a three-hour wait. She assures me that it’s nojoke when I demand to be seen quicker, telling her that I have places to go, people to see.
I get out of my car and start to order an Uber, when I notice Marco walking toward me.
“Everything okay?”
“My car won’t start,” I say, kicking the tire.
Stupid fucking car. Or should I say two-ton weight with commitment issues.
“Want me to take a look?” he asks.
I know he doesn’t mean it, but the way he asks has never made me feel less masculine. But I’m clueless when it comes to cars, and right now I could use any help I can get.
“Yes, otherwise I’ll still be here in three hours.” I’m unable to hide my disdain as I open the car door again, hand him the keys and let him jump in.
“I think it might be your starter motor or a busted radiator,” he says, popping the bonnet open and jumping back out to head to the front.
His biceps bulge as he lifts the hood and I reach for the back of my neck.
What Julie wouldn’t give to see this right now.
