“All right, then.” She gives me a last skeptical glance as she opens the bathroom door. “Thanks, Ruby.”
I check my phone on the way back to my desk, and there’s a text from Greg: a cute rabbit with pom-poms, saying the wordFIGHTING!It makes me laugh out loud, it’s so unexpected from him.
But then I pass Sarah’s cubicle and spot a figurine of that same rabbit sitting next to her monitor. She’s not at her desk, and—after glancing from side to side to check the coast is clear—I lean into her cubicle and read the note on her flowers. It’s typed, the kind you request when you place your order.
Because you said no one ever sent you flowers before, and I wanted to change that.
Love,
G
I jump back like the card stung me. They’re at the “love” stage already? I thought Greg got out of any relationship before it reached that point. The last time I checked in on his love life, he’d had a long string of girlfriends who lasted a few months each.
Maybe he’s matured since then? Good for him, I guess?Yes! I’m happy for them. I shouldn’t be thinking about this, anyway—I have too much to do.
For the rest of the day, I have three spreadsheets Erica sent me minimized in one corner of my screen, and her notes open in a tab. They’re dense, chaotic, filled with asides and shorthand. It takes me an hour just to figure out why there are three spreadsheets.
I mean to toggle back to her deck between things, but my regular tasks are ballooning, and I keep getting pulled away. Some copy I thought I finished turns into five rounds of revision, pinging back and forth between me and Erica. Just when I think I’m in the clear, another email lands.
It’s a subject line only, no body:Copy isn’t popping. Try again.
And as I’m sprinting through the day, I keep anxiously checking my calendar, watching the bar for the present time inch closer toCoffee with Mark.
Chapter
18
Apparently by coffee, Mark Winterson meant boba. He takes me to a new place in the office park, the one I’d avoided because it looked expensive. We order at a shiny kiosk that has you tap through twelve screens of options to customize your order.
He gets a classic milk tea with less sugar—not wanting to get out over his skis in front of an audience, maybe. At the cheaper boba place Greg and I went to in high school, I’d always get the chamoy mango. But I get self-conscious, thinking about potential comments Mark Winterson could make, so I order a simple strawberry fruit tea instead.
He seems quieter today. That bouncy energy between us from before is missing, and I suddenly have no idea what to say to him. We stand there awkwardly for a few minutes, waiting for our drinks.
When they come up at the counter, he gets them both and motions toward the door. “It’s a nice day, let’s take a walk.”
We fall in step beside each other, crossing the grassy quad between the gray buildings.
“Looks like you want to ask me something,” he says.
“Umm, why did you want to see me? Is thisthe next time, when we talk about work?”
“Doesn’t have to be.” He sips his drink. “I just like talking to you.”
I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to smile too wide.
Mark Winterson nods to himself, like what I asked is worth serious reflection. “I think your perspective is refreshing. You seem so…genuine.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Like a good person.”
A sharp laugh escapes from me before I can stop it. That’s the last thing I feel like these days.
He sits down on a bench at the side of the footpath and peers up at me, a furrow between his patrician brows. “Is that funny?”
I shake my head and sit down next to him. “Just bold of you to assume.”
“Any other questions?” He eyes me as he takes a sip of his tea. “You can ask me anything, I’m an open book.”
Well, now I have to come up withsomething.
“What would you name a dog?”
