Page 20 of Cava with My Colleague

“If you want,” he continues, “we can meet this afternoon. Go over what went wrong, figure out how to⁠—”

I finally look at him. “I was boring, Carlos. I stood up there in front of three hundred people and recited data at them for forty-five minutes. I was a human slide deck. I know exactly what went wrong.”

Six. Five.

“I’m trying to help,” Carlos says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice.

“Are you?” The question comes out sharper than I mean it to. “Because last night felt like you were cataloging all the ways I’m not Mercedes.”

His jaw tightens—I can see the muscle jump. “I was being honest about what the presentation lacked.”

“You were being brutal.”

“I was being professional.” There’s that edge again, the one I heard in the training sessions. “Which is what this tour requires. Professionalism.”

The word lands wrong. Professionalism. Like I’m some amateur who wandered onto this tour by accident. Like I didn’t earn my position here.

“I am professional,” I say.

“Are you?”

The question hangs in the air between us. The elevator music plays on, oblivious.

I turn to face him fully. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Carlos looks like he regrets starting this conversation, but he’s in it now. “Professional people show up prepared. They don’t fall apart under pressure. They certainly don’t—” He stops himself.

“Don’t what?” My heart is starting to pound. “Finish the sentence, Carlos.”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

Four. Three.

“No.” My voice is louder now. “You don’t get to start that sentence and not finish it. What else am I doing unprofessionally? Please, enlighten me.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then, so quietly I almost don’t hear it: “They don’t steal other people’s lunches.”

I stare at him. The elevator continues its descent, but I feel like the floor just dropped out from under me.

“What?”

“Forget it⁠—”

“You think I’ve been stealing your lunch?” My voice rises. I can’t help it. “That’s what you think of me?”

Carlos won’t meet my eyes. “Someone was taking my food. Every week. It started right after you—after the coffee thing⁠—”

“The coffee thing.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You turned me down for coffee and then someone took your lunch, so naturally you assumed it was me? Getting revenge like some petty child?”

“I didn’t⁠—”

“How long?” I cut him off. “How long have you thought I was your lunch thief?”

He doesn’t answer. Which is answer enough.

“Months,” I say, realizing. “You’ve thought this for months. This entire time we’ve been training, this entire tour, you’ve been looking at me and thinking I’m some vindictive woman who steals food because a man turned her down.”

“Jade—”