Those doe eyes give me a once-over, and he leans closer,voice low so I have to strain to hear. “I can neither confirm nor deny until you sign some paperwork.”
I burst out laughing, but his face stays serious. “Wait, for real?”
“Can’t be too careful.” He straightens his tie. “I could send you a DocuSign.”
“Okay, so, just to confirm—it’s not a joke?”
“Um, no.” He leans forward, hands clasped together. “No, I’m quite serious.”
Quite.It’s like someone opened a window and let in a draft. I need to lie down.
“Let me think about that and circle back!” I squeak, hopping up and scrambling back to the eighth floor.
Chapter
24
Greg:
did you get your presentation done?
I’m sitting on the couch at home, where I planted myself shortly after work. I tried putting on the TV for a distraction, but my head has been circling around the question of Mark Winterson’s paperwork.
On the one hand: It felt like he slid a contract for my soul out of his suit jacket.A Wintersonian bargain!
On the other: Maybe he’s earnestly trying to be responsible about the uneven power dynamic between us? The image of him holding up one finger, saying,I consider myself a feminist,pops into my head.
I’ve been going back and forth about it for an hour, borderline spiraling. Batting away the image of Greg laughing in the dim light under my desk. Checking my phone to see if Mark Winterson texted me—but maybe after I basically ran away from him, he’s giving me some space.
Finally I write back to Greg:
Ruby:
it went better than i was hoping, and it still didn’t do it
maybe this is going to take years
maybe i actually need to get the promotion
Greg:
you could try other things on the list, in the meantime?
what’s next?
But before I can reply, there’s a knock on the door.
“Ruby, are you here?” Tita Wendy sings into the Ring doorbell.
“Oh, hi!” I pop up from the couch, still in my rumpled work clothes, and force on my brightest facial expression. I’ve been avoiding Tita Wendy ever since we talked to Mom’s ghost together. I didn’t want her to see how badly I’m failing at this too.
She’s carrying a Tupperware with pinakbet inside—the familiar colors of my favorite stew, with orange kalabasa, green string beans, brown crispy pork. “Greg has such an appetite these days,” she says by way of explanation.
She goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, clicking her tongue disapprovingly.
It hurts sometimes, the way she tries to love me, because she’s giving me so much and I can’t ever pay her back.
And the thought of letting her down, the way I let down Mom—it makes it hard to breathe. Now that she’s seeing me more directly—without Mom’s stories about me as the filter, cherry-picking the accomplishments, downplaying the bad parts—maybe she’ll finally see how disappointing I am too.
