Shana
Emerging from the subway tunnel near Rockefeller Center, I squint as the sunshine fills the street. As the crowd pushes forward, I’m like a salmon in a stream. Thankfully, we’re all swimming the same direction.
Looking at my watch, I calculate that if I can walk the rest of the way at a swift pace, I’ll make it to the tenth floor of Saks with over three minutes to spare. Considering that Trevor and I woke later than planned, my decision to take the subway instead of aboveground transportation may have saved the day.
When I went to Trevor’s apartment Friday night, I didn’t intend to stay until Monday morning, but plans change. That’s my new attitude.
Adapt.
After spending the afternoon with his family, I didn’t want to leave him and go back to my hotel alone. Continuing our no-plans weekend, we went back to his apartment, laid a blanket on the living room floor, picnicked with cheese and fruit, and continued our Netflix marathon with a few intermissions for exercise. Thank goodness we had the cheese and fruit for needed nourishment.
Who knew watching television was so taxing?
I giggle to myself as I make my way over to Fifth Avenue and up toward Fiftieth Street, trying not to think about how easy it would be to get used to spending my time away from work with Trevor or how nice it would be to go home to him each evening. Nevertheless, as the ideas creep into my thoughts, I find myself relishing them instead of dismissing them.
Maybe it’s a new attitude for a new week. Kimbra is right. Numbers are what matter in sales and after all, that is the essence of what I do. I sell.
“Good morning, Shana.”
“Good morning.”
I smile as I make my way back to the temporary office Stephen and I are using. As soon as I enter, Stephen’s expression takes away my newly obtained optimism. “What’s up?”
“Check your email.”
“That sounds ominous,” I say as I fling my purse into the bottom desk drawer, turn on my computer, and notice the steaming grande cup of cappuccino sitting in the middle of my desk. Prying the lid from the tall white cup, I say, “You’re the best.”
“I am.”
The screen before me comes to life, displaying too many unread emails. I guess that’s what happens when my phone is turned off. “Before I jump into whatever this is, how was your weekend with your parents?”
His expression lightens. “It was fabulous. I got to see my sister’s kid. He’s this giant baby.”
“Giant?”
“Well, he’s something like months old. You know how parents never use years. I think I figured I’m now nearing my 361st month birthday.”
I laugh, thinking how right he is. I have Facebook friends that post pictures of their children with little month signs on the baby’s tummy. For only a second, I imagine Stephen holding his sign. “So are you a giant baby?” Before he answers, I add, “And what do you want for your 361st month birthday?”
“Nothing. I’m not a giant baby. I think it’s somewhere over 30 months when you cease to be a baby and become a kid.” He points at his chest. “I’ve moved into man status.”
“Yes, I’m glad to hear that.”
“It’s my nephew, Landon. He’s this little football player.” Stephen lowers his voice. “He’s only like ten or eleven months—not quite a year—and he has all these adorable wrinkles on his chubby arms and legs. His dad thinks he’s going to be an offensive lineman. But little Landon and I had a talk.”
“Oh no.”
“Yes, girl, we did. He wants to take after Uncle Stephen. He’s already interested in the arts. He kept pushing the button on this toy and playing the same song over and over. I see show choir in his future. Then of course, the costumes will instill a love for fashion. In fashion design he’s going to be king. We’ll start our own design company.”
“Should I ask about your brother-in-law’s thoughts on this?”
“He’ll get over the offensive line thing. Too many injuries. Fashion design is safer.”
“How does your sister feel about the change of plans?”
Stephen waves me off. “We didn’t include her in the conversation. What mothers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
I smile, looking at my screen and seeing an email from Beth Willis, subject line: Best Cannoli. Yes, sometimes it might be better to keep mothers in the dark. I mean, I’m sure her recipe is good, but I personally believe I’ve found the best.
It’s then I see the email from Neil Butler, our supervisor in London.
My stomach twists as my cursor hovers over his name. “Is it the Neil email you’re talking about?”
Stephen nods.
“What does it say?”
“Who am I? Your assistant?” he asks.
“Well, technically, yes.”
“The email is to both of us. He wants to have a conference call with us and HR in London tomorrow. He needs confirmation that we can both be on the call.”
Instead of opening the email, I lean back in the chair. “Do you think this is good or bad?”
“I guess it depends on your definition of those evaluations.”
When Stephen turns his chair with his back to me, I remember the text I sent him. “Hey, you never returned my text message.”
“Yes, I did.”
I pull out my phone and see that the sound is still muted from Trevor’s and my no-plans weekend. Scrolling, I find Stephen’s response:
“MY MOM SAYS HI BACK. SHE SAID SHE MISSED SEEING YOU. WHAT SECRET?”
The time stamp is this morning.
When I look up, he’s staring at me from the corner of his eye.
“You finally replied...this morning?”
“I’ve been a little busy. You just read it...this morning.”
“What aren’t you telling me?”
He spins my direction with an exaggerated exhale. “A lot and it’s killing me. I’m sorry. But your plate is a little full, and I wanted you to concentrate on your weekend with Mr. Sexy, you know, when you aren’t thinking about here. You don’t need to think about me.”
“Stephen, that’s not how friendship works. You know what’s happening with me.”
His eyebrows dance. “Bunny-rabbit sex.” He sits taller. “How did he like the negligee? He didn’t think it was too forward, did he? Oh, do tell.”
Warmth fills not only my cheeks but my body as I recall Trevor’s private fashion show and what came after it. “He thought it was okay.”
“No way. Okay was not that man’s assessment.”
My grin grows larger. “He seemed to like it, a lot.”
“And not too forward?”
I shrug. “The negligee wasn’t. I might have been...that time.”
He picks up a small tablet from the top of his desk and begins to fan himself. “Save the details for lunch. Give me something to look forward to.”
“No details. Use your imagination.”
“I’ll save that until lunch, too. Otherwise I won’t be able to concentrate.”
I turn back to my computer screen. “Are you free tomorrow at nine? That’s a good time for both time zones.”
After Stephen checks his schedule, we both agree on nine-thirty, and I reply to Mr. Butler.
“Stephen,” Vicky says, leaning her head through the doorway. “We need you in conference room four.”
“What’s happening in conference room four?” I ask after she’s gone.
“If I’m lucky, it’ll be an announcement that Saks is expanding into men’s lingerie.” When he stands, he goes on, “You know...Speedo-esque, G-strings, and thongs for men.”
“Those are on the market.”
His grin grows as he grabs his tablet to leave. “Preaching to the choir.”
Once he’s gone, I sit back and spend the next three hours replying to emails and fighting fires across the Atlantic. While Stephen and I have been in New York, our positions have remained vacated in London. It isn’t like the junior department ceased to exist simply because we were on another continent.
Some of the emails deserved one response while others create a complicated string with attachments and multiple copies.
As the last fire begins to sputter out, I lean back and sigh. It’s a strange sensation, or should I say a recently unfamiliar one. It feels good to make decisions and be in charge. I didn’t realize how much I missed what we’d accomplished in juniors. In the two years we’ve been in our positions, Stephen and I have made a name for ourselves. For a few hours on Monday morning, I was reminded of what that was like.
I look up toward the door as Stephen returns with Vicky by his side. “Shana, don’t forget,” she says, “meeting at one-thirty with purchasing.”
I click on the folder on my desktop to retrieve the data I’ve prepared. “I’m ready. See you then,” I say, trying my most un-bitchy voice.
“I won’t be there. I’m sure you can handle it.”
And with that, she’s gone.
“That woman hates me.”
“I think she’s scared of you,” Stephen offers.
“What was your meeting about?”
“Well, it wasn’t about branching into men’s sexy attire.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “It was about the sales website. They want to spice up the way customers can see the products online.”
“You know, we don’t have to be a team. You have so much to offer beyond me.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me, just as we’re about to go to lunch and discuss our crazy-sexed weekends?”
“I’d never want to get rid of...” I process his words. “Wait. What did you just say? You had a crazy sexed-up weekend at your parents’ house?”
He tilts his head toward the door. “Come on. I’m starving.”
The clock on my computer says I have an hour and fifteen minutes until my meeting. “I need to be back a little after one.”
Stephen nods.
“If we don’t have time for all your details, this conversation is extending to after work.”
“Sorry, boss lady, you only get me during working hours. Tonight, I have a date.”