I chalk up what I think is a hopeful tone to the fact I’ve been feeding a diabetic man blood sugar spikes for the better part of the year. Besides, he’s talking to Jack, too. I think.
“Not moving, Gence. I’ll be by to formally offer as soon as I sort some stuff with the bank,” I say.
Jack stops to say something to Gence and then follows me outside. I awkwardly throw a “bye” his way and turn to bolt down the sidewalk.
He hesitates. “Listen, I’m sorry. The tabloid wasn’t your fault. I was just angry at the situation.” He looks like he needs a spoonful of sugar to make that medicine go down.
“I feel like I’ve been a source of drama for you lately. Between the phone prank, the glitter, this. And then there’s theIntrepidcloset and our sleepover.”
He shifts, looking pained. His voice drops an octave. “Wouldn’t say I minded those last two.”
I chew at my bottom lip and lock eyes with a photographer across the street. “Oh my God.” The photog snaps a few more pics and then rushes off. “I’ve got to go.”
Shockingly, I breathe a sigh of relief when I get to my office. Here, things can be chaotic, but at least it’s chaos I’m used to. Donna is standing by one of the conference rooms, staring at me as I make my way down the aisle to my cube. She’s seen the articles. I know it.
The global project launches today, with all paid, earned, and organic media—in all languages—going live like a rolling wave across every region. And I’m the one the group tapped to present on the global rollout call to hundreds of sales and marketing pros. I’m equal parts flattered and nervous as shit, but more than anything I’m still pinching myself that we actually got to this point. I push away thoughts of tabloids or sexy neighbors or TV stars, or any of the other nonsense cluttering up my mind.
I practice my presentation script and polish my PowerPoint slides. My phone alarm goes off: fifteen minutes until preso time. I run to the bathroom and reapply my nude lipstick. I regret fiddling with my eyeliner after I inadvertently—and absent-mindedly—give myself a very evening-friendly cat’s eye. Shit. No time to fix. And I look pale. Wan. I pinch my cheeks.
Showtime.
I’m third on the agenda. I try to remind myself that everyone can see my face as I fidget nervously through the first two presenters.
“And with that I’d like to introduce to the call Penelope Huff, Senior Marketer from North America, who will walk us through truly exciting news,” Sam Greenfield says.
Thanks for the intro, President Snow. I pin a smile to my mouth and un-mute myself. The butterflies in my stomach have become attack dogs. I thank him and try to sound like I’m not reading from my script as I talk about the way the project came together and what the new global campaign infrastructure will allow us to do as a cross-functional global team. I’m talking about our goals when my throat and mouth go dry. I swallow, clear my throat a bit.
“Next slide,” I croak, sneaking a sip of water during the transition.
The slide housing the imagery of the ads, of the assets we created as a team, flashes up on the screen. The different languages, the beautiful key art… My eyes well up. I helped build this. It’s because of me. We’re not curing cancer here, but… I set aside my papers.
“And what you see on the screen here is what’s in market as of today. We’re extremely proud that in such a short amount of time we not only pulled together a framework—which we’ll refine and improve upon with each campaign—but that we’ve also launched the very first global motion this company has ever attempted. The same look, feel, and message in stereo across the globe, across multiple channels.” I beam into my camera.
I crush the rest of my presentation, and I barely register the rest of the presenters, instead looking to see if my webcam-projected self is visibly blotchy from nerves. Thousands of people on a Zoom call staring at your face and slides would rattle almost anyone. But no… I look pretty darn close to the way I did that day in Jack’s bathroom mirror, the day Margie decided to snoop. Glowing. Vivid. Like myself in high def.
I rush to Rochelle’s office as soon as the call closes.
She sits back in her seat, the picture of satisfaction. “You did incredible.”
I smile from ear to ear and adjust my black shift dress before sitting across from her at her desk. “It was a huge effort from everyone. I’m just the mouthpiece.”
“Your brainchild. You helped keep it moving. Delivered the framework on time and launched a campaign using that framework. I’m blown away.”
“Yeah…” I smile, feeling super shy. “I guess I did. Think Sam Greenfield is happy?”
Rochelle smiles. “I know he is. He sent me a note.”
I lean forward, forcing myself to say the words. “Think I can get that raise? I’ve got two weeks to get approved for a mortgage, so I really need it.”
Rochelle’s smile never wavers. “Let me see where we are with that.”
I skip out of work a little early, eager to celebrate the global launch with a glass of pinot noir and the new gloriously trashy installment of the Pirate Duke saga,The Pirate Duke’s Revenge. Or at least as much of both as I can consume before Jack gets home and we have to work on the wall.
I’m shocked to find that Jack is already home. And that the wall is now nearly entirely covered in drywall. In fact, the only opening between my apartment and Jack’s is where The Hole originally existed, smack in the center of our line of divide. The drill stops, and I see Jack poke his head through the narrow opening between our places.
“Hey. I took a half day today. Inspector came by to take a look, so I figured I’d bang this out. The wall, not you. Don’t get your hopes up.”
He has white dust in his dark hair, and the dimples that peep out when he smiles are almost perceptible as he greets me. He is silly and hot, and visions of his smooth, bare skin dance through my mind as I gawk at him. I look at the drywall.
