Ambrosia

Because my brothers are my brothers, they emailed me before I ever rolled out of bed to let me know they’d gotten a box at Yankee Stadium for the game tonight. I shoot them back a note telling them to un-invite their puck bunnies, because Eloise would kill for box seats to a game, and if I’m bringing Eloise, I’m bringing Willow and Parker too.

Willow really needs a break from wedding planning, and I owe Parker more than I can ever repay for her sticking by my side at work the last two days.

Especially this morning.

Because my workplace is a normal, healthy workplace—in other words, a gossip factory—and because Chase Jett lives to make my life miserable, everyone’s whispering about his company-wide memo announcing a change to employee handbook policies, effectively declaring anyone can sleep with whoever they’d like, preferably off company time and grounds, provided that it doesn’t interfere with the work getting done. Also, people caught gossiping will be subject to violations ranging from having points docked off annual performance reviews to suspensions without pay, with the possibility of termination if the behavior doesn’t cease.

I reply to his email after having Parker remove all references to him being a dick.

If your goal is to destroy office morale and turn us against each other, congratulations, you’ve just done in forty-eight hours what the entire executive board couldn’t do in ten years.

He responded with another company-wide memo thirty minutes later announcing that the entire executive board had been sacked, and he’d be looking internally first for replacements.

He didn’t add now quit gossiping and get back to work, but he might as well have.

We would’ve ignored a direct order far more efficiently.

Madison is supposed to be scheduling our series of posts for the Choy Joy ad campaign, but she’s whispering to April, and unfortunately for Madison, her whisper voice is about as subtle as my brothers’ whisper voices.

“I just don’t get why she gets to stay,” she says. “I mean, she had sex in the elevator.”

Right. Not my best moment.

But the whole room has heard, and I have to say something. I climb out of the beanbag chair and face my coworkers and the people who report to me. “Look, we all have sex. Some of us might like to pretend we don’t, but it’s a natural biological function. It’s necessary for the continuation of our whole entire fu—freaking species. There’s only shame in sex if we choose to let there be shame in it. We work for an organic grocery store chain, for god’s sake. We’re Crunchy. You ask me, we should have dedicated sex rooms on every floor. Embrace your sexuality. Love yourself. And then get back to work.”

A slow clap starts from the doorway. Chase and three young-ish suits I don’t recognize are all standing there with their faces twitching. The three of them looking up, anyway. Two are women. The last guy is staring at his shoes, but I can tell his face is beet red.

As is Parker’s.

I mentioned I owe her big time, didn’t I?

“I believe what Ms. Berger was trying to say,” Chase says, eyes dancing, lips fighting a gallant battle against a smile as his clapping subsides, “is that no one should be ashamed of their sexuality. I’d like to reiterate that there’s a line between comfort in your own sexuality and the harassment of others, which will obviously not be tolerated, but if the need arises, which I trust it won’t, I hope we can openly discuss any matters of a sexual nature openly and honestly.

I open my mouth, and he holds a hand up.

“Also, I believe she meant a nap room. Which we’ll be exploring as an option given scientific data to support the benefits of napping during work hours.”

Gasps of delight go up through the room.

The Dick just made himself a hero yet again. Him and his giant…chin dimple. Which is still glittering, just for the record.

I’d be mad, but honestly, a nap room would rock. Plus, who cares about my sex life when we’ve just had management approve napping on the job?

He points at Parker. “Ms. Elliott? A moment, please.”

“I’m on team Sia,” she blurts.

“Your loyalty is commendable.”

I jerk my head, telling her to go with the Dick, and she stumbles after him. My brothers are still in town, after all.

If he messes with my best friend, there will be hell to pay. And when I’m done with him, I’ll send Zeus and Ares over just for fun.

The door shuts behind them. Everyone’s hyped up on the idea of nap rooms, and me and my sex room seem to be forgotten.

Thank god.

A sex room? I don’t know how I survived the elevator sex incident, but I am no doubt three heartbeats away from being called in by HR again. For something. Or everything.

And I’m obviously not the only one who thinks so, because a message request pops up from Jett, Chase, CEO and Owner before he could even be to the elevators.

A SEX ROOM?

Forget the sex room. His profile is a cartoon sex god. He’s totally inflated his muscles, his dark hair never looks that shiny or perfectly styled, his chin dimple is dashingly rugged and glitter-free, and his avatar is fake tanning.

Okay, I lied.

I can’t forget the sex room. And now I’m picturing myself using it.

With Chase.

What? I type back. Like the world wouldn’t be a better place if some people didn’t get off on a regular basis?

YOU CANNOT PUT A SEX ROOM IN THE WORKPLACE.

I know why he’s yelling. It’s hardly an appropriate suggestion, but I’m in deep now, and I’m in it to win, damn it.

Sex IS natural, I fire back. If we were as relaxed about sex as we are about eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom, maybe there wouldn’t be such a stigma to it. Maybe if we talk about sex like we all have it—and we ALL do, and you know I’m right, don’t make me draw you a diagram or pull security footage—and don’t be all sanctimonious in pretending we don’t, then maybe there would be a few more women sitting in your executive office like equals.

I wait, but he doesn’t reply.

I tell myself it’s because he knows I’m right, and he has no logical, compelling arguments against sex rooms in the workplace leading to women’s equality in management.

I also grab my phone and text Zeus. Do you think the Rangers could use someone new in their marketing or social media departments?

Thirty minutes later, Zeus hasn’t replied, but a new message pops up from Chase.

You have issues.

Yes. Yes, I do. It’s because I grew up with you, I type back.

And then I treat myself to a long lunch in the snack bar, where the cashier tosses two extra cookies on my tray and charges the whole thing to Chase.

“I agree,” she tells me, even though I didn’t ask. “Sex rooms are the way to go.”

I get a fist bump and one more cookie, and I wonder if I’ll be seeing her in counseling with HR too.