“You are so damn cranky every morning,” he says. “Unless you get your coffee fix in, you’re this close”—he presses his forefinger and thumb together—“to ripping my head off. I give you ten or so minutes before I call you for a reason.”
“Fifteen,” I say, blinking. “You always call me right at seven-fifteen.”
“You’re a little less cranky at seven-fifteen,” he says with a small shrug. “Except Mondays. Not because the weekend’s over, but because you don’t have a snack.”
“A snack?”
“Donuts, usually,” he says. “There’s a shop that opened just down the block from you, and they’re closed on Mondays.”
I stare at him. “How do you know this?”
“Well, I kinda figured it out after you mentioned the place to Ed during a status call last year,” he says. “Then I realized you’re a little less bitey when you’ve had a snack.”
My lips part. “Okay, well, you’ve never taken a sick day.”
“You only know this because you haven’t, either,” he counters. Which, fair.
“I am a morning person, though,” I say. “Just like you love to drink beer, are obsessed with the natural diversity of Oregon, and watch a bunch of football games?—”
“I’m not really a fan of football,” he says.
My chin almost slides off of my palm. “Excuse me?” I sit up tall and gawk at him. “But you’realwaystalking about beers and bros and?—”
“Yeah, I don’t really care about football,” he says. “Or beer. I mean, I’ll have a pint when I hang out with Aaron every now and then. But organized sports don’t speak to me.” He pauses for a beat. “I do enjoy the natural diversity of Oregon, though.”
I’m not sure what to respond with. Becausewhat? “You’re joking. You’re always bringing up scores?—”
“I look them up before a meeting,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
“Ed loves sports,” he says. “Talking about a game keeps him in a good mood, and I want to avoid the claims report incident again.”
If I wasn’t staring at him in shock before, I definitely am now. Just a month into working at Green Checks, my team never sent me any reports they were working on for the week. They were slacking, trying to see what they could get away with the new girl.
When Ed asked about the project the next day, I described what had happened and got my ass chewed out to the point where, after the call ended, I went straight to the apartment balcony and bawled my eyes out.
For the most part, my manager is nice. But there are times when I’m reminded of how demanding he can be, to the point where he asks for the impossible to happen. Especially over things I have no control over.
The message was this: I’m on the line for everything, held accountable and to a ridiculously high standard. As the one leadingQC, I need to putqualityin quality control.
Maybe it’s a good thing I plan to leave the company next month. I don’t want to deal with any more stress.
“You’re not trying to get me fired?”
A frown forms between his eyebrows. “No? Hold on, have you been trying to get me fired because you think I’ve?—”
“I’m not trying to get you fired,” I say.
“Just my team?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t wantanybodyfired—from your team or mine. I swear, Ethan. You’re super stubborn, but you’re also… like… the only person there who responds to my emails and pings immediately. You don’t take four hours to send me the SOPs I need. You’rereliable.”
“Like a compact sedan?” he says dryly. “If you don’t want my team fired, why are you always nitpicking the most random things?”
There’s a long list of things I can bring up. “Because Ed told me to take the initiative,” I begin, “and every time I float these ideas by him, he gives me the go-ahead?—”
“He does?” Ethan straightens himself. “Ed always tells me not to let anyonecommandeermy ship and to reject…” He trails off, his gaze going over my shoulder. I follow his line of sight, catching a glimpse of our manager, mid-belly laugh.
