Chapter Four
“You’re officially dead to me.”
Vera collapsed against the wall gasping for breath. “I’m officially dead,” she panted.
I wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand and glared at her. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“I can’t feel my butt,” she countered.
“I can feel mine way too much. After what I just went through I’m pretty sure that machine owes me dinner.”
Vera giggled, but it was weak and breathless. We’d walked out of spin class like pros, high-fiving random strangers on the way, and sipping from our water bottles like we could care less about hydration.
But once we’d turned the corner, we’d let our true colors shine. I couldn’t suck down my water fast enough, and someone had crawled inside my body and lit my lungs on fire. Owie.
“Maybe spin class was a bad idea,” Vera relented. “We should have at least started in the beginner’s class.”
My eyes bulged. “That wasn’t the beginner’s class?”
“Does that make it better or worse?”
I glared at her. “Vera, I can’t move my body. My muscles have gone on strike.” Demonstrating my point, I waved my foot around weakly before dropping it back to the ground. “You could have at least warned me that I was facing an expert level class.”
“What would that have mattered?” she laughed.
I lifted my chin stubbornly. “Because then I could have prepared.”
“By getting in shape in less than twelve hours?”
“By running away to Mexico where you couldn’t find me.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the locker room. “Come on, lazy bones. I’ll buy you breakfast off the dollar menu to make up for it.”
Vera’s promise of McDonald’s was the extra burst of energy I needed to survive the walk to the showers. I stood under the hot stream for longer than I should have, and still my motor skills were jerky at best when I emerged and tried valiantly to get dressed. Thank goodness the workout we’d survived was all legs because my makeup could have ended in disaster if my arms were as tired as my trembling thighs.
“Did you even go to sleep last night?” I asked Vera as she leaned forward with an open mouth to apply her mascara.
She moved the wand away from her face so she could yawn. “For a couple hours. I thought opening a food truck was a lot of work. It’s nothing compared to the restaurant.”
“Have you and Killian decided on a name yet?”
She snorted. “Nope. Right now, we’re bouncing between Verian, which is our two names squished together, and The Blue Table, which has no significance whatsoever, but it sounds cool.”
“I like both of them,” I told her. “Verian is clever.”
“Cheesy,” she corrected. “It’s super cheesy. But I don’t mind the sound of it.”
I smiled at my reflection while I applied lip stain. “You know what you should name it, right?”
Turning her head, she looked at me. “What’s that?”
“Salt,” I told her, referring to one of Killian’s very first interactions with her cooking. “Just call it Salt.” Expecting her to laugh with me, I was surprised when she didn’t. “I’m just kidding,” I added quickly.
She slammed her palm against my shoulder like she was high-fiving my clavicle. My poor, abused legs wobbled, but miraculously didn’t give out. “Molly, you’re a freaking genius!”
“Huh?”
“Salt. It’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant! I can’t believe we didn’t think of it sooner.”
“Are you serious?”
Her head bobbed wildly. “So serious. It’s simple and memorable and so meaningful to us. It’s seriously the best name I’ve ever heard.”
My lips lifted in a proud smile. Having worked in marketing for so long, I knew she was right. Salt sounded cool. It broadcasted like the trendy new restaurant taking the city by storm that it was. Of course, with Killian and Vera at the helm, that was always the restaurant’s destiny, but a stellar name would give it that extra something special that would keep people talking about it.
She had already pulled out her phone and called Killian before I could say another word. “He’s probably sleeping,” she muttered distractedly.
It was only seven-thirty in the morning. Which for them was practically the middle of the night. Killian and Vera were basically nocturnal. They started work when most of us got off, and stayed well into the early morning hours to clean up and shut down.
Currently, they were working to open a gorgeous new space where they would cook side by side, leading the city to new heights of culinary genius. For now, before they officially opened, their lives had somewhat balanced out. But understandably, after so many years working in busy kitchens night after night, neither one of them could really give up the late-night life.
“Salt!” Vera practically shouted into the phone as soon as she heard Killian’s sleep-roughened voice.
I heard him grunt out a confused, “Wha?”
“Salt,” she squealed. “For the restaurant. Let’s call it Salt!”
The next time he spoke, his voice sounded much more alert. Vera began prattling off how it was my idea, but also how it was perfect. She moved to the side of the locker room for some privacy. And some space. She always used her hands to talk. When she was this excited she was bound to give someone a black eye if she wasn’t careful.
I finished my makeup and gave my bangs a little extra TLC. I’d pulled the rest of my long hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, hoping to look professional for my first day on the Black Soul project. I’d also gone with the exact outfit I’d described to Ezra in my email last night.
My plum pencil skirt hit just below my knees and molded to my body over thighs and a butt that still burned. I’d paired it with a gray long-sleeve, ruffled blouse and matching gray pumps. And because it was winter and cold outside, I’d even worn pantyhose. The kind with the seam running up the back of the leg because, obviously, I needed extra incentive to get myself into pantyhose.
I added some jewelry, and checked the lines of my tucked in shirt making sure the frills lay nicely and hadn’t been waywardly placed. Staring at myself in the locker room mirror under terrible lighting and with not enough sleep, I wondered what was missing. Because something wasn’t totally right.
My makeup was on point, and my style trendy enough to get by. My hair was tamed today, and my nails had been recently manicured. I looked how I was supposed to look for the job I was supposed to have.
Sure, there were things that I would change about myself if I could. I’d always thought my nose was too upturned and my eyes too big beneath my small forehead—which was why I did the whole bang thing. I definitely wouldn’t have complained about bigger boobs or hips that had some flare. There was a scar on my collarbone that I liked to keep hidden. It was from when Vera and I were kids and Vann thought he was a ninja. Vann still apologized for the throwing star incident to this day.
Anyway, there were definitely things about me that I would change. But this missing something was hard to pinpoint. It didn’t feel physical to me. It was deeper than that. Trickier than that.
My chest ached as I examined myself and nibbled on my bottom lip, hoping to figure out why I couldn’t just be happy with where my life was. Why couldn’t I just be happy for my best friend without having this existential crisis in which I questioned every single life choice I’d ever made?
I looked over at Vera where she stood leaning against the wall. Her free hand tugged on her wild hair that was still drying, and she smiled into the phone with googly eyes and imaginary hearts floating around her head. She had never been so in love. She had never been this happy before.
And I was happy for her. I was. But her happiness only spotlighted my unhappiness. Her bliss only shed light on my misery. Her joy revealed my lack of. Her contentment exaggerated my restlessness.
I couldn’t figure out why. It wasn’t really about Killian or her engagement and not-so-distant wedding. It wasn’t about Vera finding her soul mate, true love, and Disney-esque fairy tale.
Honestly, I had never really been all that into the happily ever after. Even as a little girl, when I pictured being a grown-up, it was the job I dreamed of, not the man. It was the career, not the house in the suburbs with two-point-five kids and a matching poodle that I wished for. Plus, there was no one in my immediate circle that I would even consider dating.
Except maybe Chris Pratt. Obviously, I considered the entire cast of Guardians of the Galaxy in my immediate circle.
So why the gaping hole in my chest where there should be nothing but spastic enthusiasm for my best friend?
She hung up the phone and did a little dance of glee. “He loves it!” she squealed. “He’s calling our business manager now.”
“Business manager? You’re so fancy I can’t even handle it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not even close. But this guy is a lifesaver. He handles the million phone calls and deals with the contractors when they’re idiots. He is basically doing all the jobs I don’t want to do.”
“How did you find him?”
“Ezra,” she replied casually. Like it was easy to say his name, and talk about him, and throw him into conversations. Like he wasn’t the most successful person we both knew. “He has all the connections.”
“I still can’t believe he’s so cool with Killian opening a restaurant. You’re going to be his competition now. Isn’t he at least mildly pissed?”
She shook her head. “Not even a little bit. But I also don’t think he looks at us like competition. Ezra is a lot like Killian in that they’re hard to get to know, but once they trust you, their loyalty is pretty much unbreakable. Ezra is really happy for Killian.”
I made a humming noise in lieu of a verbal response.
“You should give him another chance, Molls,” Vera suggested. “He’s not that bad when you get to know him.”
Grabbing my toiletries from around me, I threw them into my makeup case and walked over to my gym bag. The locker room had started to fill up with the before-work crowd, and it was getting steamy and uncomfortably warm.
“I’m sure he is,” I agreed with her. “He’s all rainbows, sunshine, and no judgment.”
Vera snickered. “No, he’s none of those things. But he somehow grows on you anyway.”
My stomach growled loudly and I took the opportunity to change the subject. “I’m starving, Vere. Feed me.”
She grabbed her gym bag and made a sour face. “I would like to feed you. Real food. What we’re about to do is basically defiling the food industry. I just want you to be aware of that.”
I narrowed my eyes in thought. “I think I’m going to get a breakfast burrito too. I deserve it after what you put me through.”
“Blasphemy!”
Grinning at her, I held the locker room door open. “You only have yourself to blame.”
She batted her eyelashes at me on her way out. “Should we try Crossfit next time? Whole30? Your mom’s old Cindy Crawford tapes?”
We laughed all the way to our cars. And then all the way through our short breakfast. And then when we said goodbye in the parking lot to go our separate ways.
The crazy thing was, I would try any stupid workout or diet or doomsday cult Vera came up with because I loved her too much to tell her no. And because I’d hated it when she lived in Charlotte. And I’d really hated it when she’d been with Derrek.
Vera had been through hell before she came back to Durham a year ago. Whatever emotional turmoil I was going through now couldn’t compare to what my best friend had faced. Honestly, the good outweighed the bad anyway. My joyful feelings for my friend were so much larger than my own, selfish, pity-party ones. My pride in who she’d become and how hard she’d worked to get where she was now would always outshine my personal feelings of self-doubt and insecurity.
Because she was closer to me than any other human. Because we’d been through good times and bad times, and really good times, and really, really bad times, and that’s what friends did. We put each other first. We stepped outside of ourselves and our issues to cheer each other on and root for each other’s happiness.
Vera had found her soulmate and that gave me hope. Maybe I didn’t have an exact idea of what my perfect ending looked like, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t find it.
****
Thanks to traffic I probably should have anticipated, I walked into the office twenty minutes later than I had planned. I was flustered and sore and unexplainably out of breath because I rationalized that I should be in ultra-shape now after my psychotic spin class this morning.
I had just enough time to say hi to Emily, drop my purse at my desk, and grab my notebook and laptop for my morning briefing with Ethan and Henry.
“They’re already waiting for you,” Emily murmured while I searched for my favorite pen.
“I’m not even late!” I protested.
“Yeah, well, good luck convincing them of that.”
I growled something profane at her, and then scurried to Henry’s office. Emily was right. They were there and already talking about the account.
Scooting behind Ethan’s chair, I took a seat and held my shoulders back, even though I felt like curling into a ball and apologizing for who I was as a human.
“Molly,” Henry greeted. “So nice of you to join us.”
“Sorry,” I blurted. “I thought the meeting started at nine-thirty.”
Neither man confirmed my statement. Instead, Henry passed me a packet of papers about Black Soul, including a marketing plan that he’d already devised. My heart sank to my stomach. I’d wanted to be a part of this process, not delegated tasks he didn’t want to deal with.
“As creative director, I want you to know my door is always open. I’m here to go over every minute detail and help guide you in the right direction,” Henry explained. “Ethan already has some great ideas for an updated logo. We’ve gone over his vision and I’m confident he’s off to a good start.” My heart sank further. I had some cool ideas for their new logo. There was so much to do with a name like Black Soul. “Molly, I’m going to work side-by-side with you on the social media packet. I want my hands on every part of this project.”
Avoiding Henry’s awkward stare, I nodded and made notes in the margins of my planner as if this wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Sure, I had hoped for more. Or I’d at least expected to be part of a conversation that I could have petitioned for more. But the majority of my career so far had been in social media.
On one hand, I already knew I would excel because that was where I felt comfortable. On the other hand, it came with zero respect. The older designers in my office had no idea how valuable a strong social media presence could be. There was so much to do in the way of advertising on the numerous different platforms, and unlimited potential to be innovative and unique.
And yet, the people I worked with were still bidding on expensive print spots and TV commercials. They were single-handedly keeping magazine publishers in business. Because it obviously wasn’t the missing throngs of subscribers. And don’t even get me started on commercials.
Besides the elderly, who had the patience to watch anything on live TV?
“Are you good to make some graphics that coincide with the logo Ethan develops?” The Little Tucker asked.
“Yep,” I answered, working hard to swallow bitter disappointment. To Ethan I said, “Send me all of the mockups you are going to take to them and I can develop a coinciding online plan. As long as you give me enough time to put something together, we can give them the whole picture of what their campaign will look like.”
Ethan marked something in his notes. “That’s a great idea, Molly.”
I breathed a subtle sigh of relief. This wasn’t the first time I had pitched an approach like this. Usually I got polite nods and hums of resigned acceptance only to be totally forgotten about until the morning of the pitch. I was good at my job, but even I needed more than thirty minutes to put together an entire campaign.
I’d even confronted designers that I worked with often, trying in vain to explain why I would want to pitch the advertising campaign along with the new logo, but I could never get the good old boys to see the big picture.
And some of them weren’t even boys! In the beginning, I’d assumed I’d be able to count on females to fight battles with me. Because girl power! And solidarity. And a strong, mutual hatred of our periods. But it turned out women in the workplace could be just as vicious, if not more so, than men.
Where men brushed me aside and ignored my requests, talents and opinions, women strapped on armor and waged war. Men barely acknowledged my efforts. Women assumed I was trying to destroy their career by furthering mine.
Unfortunately, Henry wasn’t nearly as forward thinking as Ethan. “You’re going to create an entire ad campaign for each logo pitch? That seems like an excessive amount of work on your end. I think your efforts are better served on price points and potential reach.”
“It won’t be an entire campaign for each logo. More like simple mockups featuring the logo in several different capacities. I’d like to have a graphic for desktop and mobile, website versus social platforms. It will give the client a bigger picture of how the logo will look during the campaign.”
Henry pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger, thinking over my idea.
“It will benefit the logo,” Ethan added. “And help the client pick the best one. I think Molly is on to something.”
Henry stared at my legs until I wished I’d worn something more practical. Like sackcloth. Or a giant tarp. “We’ll see,” he finally sighed. “I still need everything else from you though, sweets. Just ‘cause you’re getting sidetracked with this, doesn’t mean you can slack off with my stuff.”
I swallowed back annoyance at the nickname and accusation. “I won’t,” I promised. “I’m on top of this.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk and smiled back. But then he kept smiling and staring, looking at me long enough that I started to feel uncomfortable beneath his warm gaze. I crossed my legs nervously and he tracked the movement with hungry eyes. “I’ll bet.”
Clearing my throat, I looked down at my notes again and pretended to write something. In reality, it was a tiny drawing of an eyeball. I needed an outlet for this nervous energy. The Little Tucker was such a skeez. Was it so much to ask that he restrain his dirty-old-man tendencies while at work?
Henry turned back to Ethan while I added an arrogantly arched eyebrow and thick eyelashes that didn’t belong on the man in my doodle. The eyeball stared at me from the flat page of my notebook, judging me, dissecting me… seeing parts of me I wanted to remain hidden.
Ezra.
He’d followed me to work. I thought about his email this morning. Stubborn woman.
A sultry wisp of heat curled in my core. Most days I felt like a tiara-wearing toddler playing dress up with my mom’s heels and checkbook. I was in a grown-up life I didn’t know what to do with. And yet, that email had made me feel like anything but a little girl.
I added lines around the pupil, making it appear bloodshot. Then I sketched some shadows on the bottom lid, darkening the corner, spreading a bruise beneath. In a few seconds, I’d transformed something mysterious and beguiling into a grotesque version of itself.
I took a deep breath. That felt better.
By the time Henry wrapped up the meeting, I was in desperate need of another cup of coffee. McDonald’s didn’t have the worst brew in the world, but the overdose of sugar and carbs from that excursion pulsed at my temples with the beginnings of a headache.
“Stay a sec, honey,” Henry ordered as Ethan gathered his things.
I nibbled my bottom
lip and hugged my notebook against my chest so he couldn’t see the Eye of Sauron
Ezra I’d distorted.
“I’ll start sending mockups as soon as I finish them, Molly,” Ethan added with his belongings in hand, already halfway out the door. “If you have notes on anything, feel free to share them. I’d love some feedback.”
My mouth lifted in a genuine smile. “Will do. Thanks, Ethan. I’ll send you what I come up with too.”
He tipped his head. “Sounds good.”
Ethan walked out of the office, but before he could get out of hearing range, Henry bit out a gross accusation. “He’s married.”
My throat dried out and all the moisture in my body evaporated. If I could have shriveled into a Molly raisin, I would have gladly welcomed it. “Excuse me?”
“Ethan is married, Molly. I thought you had more class than that.”
My heart jumped in my chest, trying to climb up my throat and throw itself out of my mouth. I eyed the window behind Henry, loosely debating the impulse to jump out of it. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
Henry’s annoyed expression turned patronizing. He let out a patient sigh and stood up. His fingers trailed over the desk as he came to stand in front of me.
His office was the second biggest, inferior only to his dad’s. There was plenty of space to spread out, but I’d moved my chair closer to his desk during the meeting so I could see everything on his computer and appear interested. Which turned out to be a huge mistake.
Now that he’d stopped right in front of me, he leaned back, balancing his butt on the edge of his desk and stretching his long legs toward me. They settled on either side of my own, brushing against my almost-bare calves.
I pushed back with my toes, greedily putting space between us. Unfortunately, my chair legs got caught in the carpet. His ankle pressed against mine causing my mind to spin with anxiety. How did I get out of this situation without making it even more awkward than it already was?
Was it totally out of line to fake a heart attack?
Or what was less sexy than a heart attack?
How about diarrhea?
If Henry was coming on to me again, diarrhea was sure to shut that shit down.
Literally.
Imagined or otherwise.
But could I live with the whole office knowing I had to flee Little Tucker’s office because of a bout with dysentery?
No. No, I could not.
Inappropriate or not, I’d rather face Henry than that reputation. Besides, between this and the Christmas party incident, I was starting to wonder if maybe Henry Tucker just didn’t consider personal space? His love language was obviously physical touch and making everyone around him uncomfortable with his overreaching, inappropriate behavior.
Instead of making an excuse to leave, I tucked my legs beneath my seat and looked up expectantly at my boss. He might not know how to be a professional, but I did. He could learn a thing or two from me and my gigantic personal bubble.
“He’s married,” Henry repeated. “I didn’t peg you for the kind of girl that shits where she eats. But I guess I was wrong.”
His comment reminded me of pretend diarrhea and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “I’m not interested in Ethan,” I said firmly, needing him to get this immediately. And also to stop talking so loud. “Even if he wasn’t married, he’s not my type.”
Henry’s lips lifted in a sly smirk. “Oh, really? What is your type?”
“Men that aren’t married,” I bit out, trying desperately to stay polite.
“So me then?” He grinned.
I noted a coffee stain on his lapel. “Excuse me?” I heard myself say for the second time. This could not be happening. He could not seriously be hitting on me! Even three shots of tequila deep, I’d been super clear at Christmas. My name was no. My sign was no. My number was hell no.
“You said you’re interested in men that aren’t married. I’m not married. You must be interested in me.” His grin stretched, greedy and wolfish.
Swallowing down nerves, fear of losing my job, and a hefty dose of awkward, I admitted gently, “Actually I have a long list of criteria. Which is why I’m still single.”
“Thank the good Lord for that,” Henry muttered. His eyes took another trip down my body, slowly caressing every inch of me from the open neckline of my blouse to the pantyhose I had been so set on wearing today.
A sick feeling crept over me everywhere his gaze lingered. I resisted the urge to clutch my collar together and slap him.
He was my boss. Maybe he was being inappropriate and obnoxious, but he was still my boss.
And the reason I was on this account to begin with.
“Do you need anything else, Henry? Or am I free to go?”
I regretted my wording as soon as the question left my lips. I couldn’t have told you exactly what I’d said, but whatever it was seemed to encourage him. His expression lit with interest and he leaned toward me, bringing our bodies closer together. He smelled like cheese and cheap cologne.
“For now, Molly. You’re free to go for now.”
I scurried out of his office like a scared church mouse, but by the time I’d gotten back to my desk, I had almost convinced myself there was nothing wrong with his behavior.
Henry Tucker was an ass, but he was still my boss. And the son of the CEO, set to inherit this entire office. He wouldn’t mess that up by overstepping with his minions.
Still, it wasn’t hard to consider passing off this account to someone else, to someone more qualified and not nearly as grossed out by the Little Tucker. Maybe there would be an equally glorifying account in the future. Maybe I could make progress at the company without a big account, without drawing attention to myself.
Maybe a long lost aunt would die and I would inherit a huge sum of money making me independently wealthy.
I dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come. Quitting now would set me back light years. I hustled my ass off to get this account, putting in hours and hours with local skating rinks and putt-putt golf. Finally, my hard work was going to pay off with a national campaign and a big, fat commission. I wouldn’t screw this up, not even to get away from Junior.
Maybe he was creepy and touchy and crass, but as long as he kept his hands—and legs, face, and all other body parts—to himself, I could put up with him until the end of the project. Black Soul would do more good for my career than Henry could ever do bad. And STS was the lead media company to work for in this area.
I fell into my desk chair and threw my notebook down on my keyboard. A chill settled on the back of my neck, forcing a shiver down my spine.
You can do this, I told myself. He’s just a flirt. It’s not you, specifically. It’s how he is with every girl.
I believed that was true. It didn’t make me feel any less dirty.