I pull into the underground lot and park in an empty spot between some expensive sporty car and a Land Rover. Files and coffee in hand, we make our way to the elevator. I'm still nervous. And angsty.
I shut down thoughts of potential wedding plans and stop wondering how Alex is doing so I can focus on what's important, which is the presentation. Of course, that makes me think about how getting this account could make things really different at work, and I'm already experiencing a lot of change as it is.
I'm realizing that ultimately, my job-the one I'm good at but is causing me conflict and stress-is really the last normal thing I have, the last part of my life that's the same as it was before Alex. I think the reason I've been holding on to the nine-to-five grind-resisting even the flexibility of working from home-is because it's normal, and nothing else about my life is anymore.
Sometimes I wonder how my life got so complicated, and then I remember I'm engaged to a professional hockey player who's currently broken. As the elevator rises, I realize every single person in this office knows how broken he is. It's been all over the news-as has the massive suspension slapped on Cockburn.
Charlene puts a hand on my shoulder. "Hey? Are you sure you're okay?"
"What?" I'm eating my fingernails so I drop my hand. "Oh, yeah. Just bracing myself for all the fake sympathy."
"It's not fake, Vi. People are really concerned about you."
"No, they're not. They're worried about whether Alex is going to play the end of the season and how much this is going to hurt Chicago's shot at the playoffs."
She opens her mouth to respond, but the elevator dings.
I'm not braced enough as the doors open and we step into the office. It's like being smacked in the face with an empathy dick. All these people come out of their cubicles- half of them I don't even know by name-to hug me and tell me how I'm such a trooper and blah fucking blah.
It takes seventeen minutes to get to my cubicle. I'm frazzled and on the verge of tears by the time I make it. I need to get it together. Jimmy pops his head in before Charlene can even leave. He's holding a box of cinnamon buns. My favorite kind. My stomach is all sorts of upset over the crap I've already put in it.
"Hey, girl, how you doin'?" He grimaces, indicating I may look like yesterday's garbage. "Ohh, rough start?" He opens the bun box. "Want one?"
"No thanks." My smile feels constipated.
My professional and personal relationship with Jimmy hasn't been the same since Alex and I got engaged. I don't know if it's because he secretly hoped the rumors about Alex being gay from years ago were true, or because I've been fortunate enough to get some sweet opportunities, like managing Buck's money and now the Darcy account, if I don't screw it up. It's a lot of personal attention from Stroker, which he's usually stingy with. If I had to guess, I'd say it's a combination of the two. Jimmy's always had a crush on Alex.
"It's so great that you're here! Are you just coming in to get some stuff? I thought Stroker was letting you work from home for a while." He checks behind him before he makes his customary jerk-off gesture.
"Thanks. He was; he is-"
"Who's dealing with the Darcy account? Are you still presenting? I checked out the PowerPoint. I hope you don't mind."
Charlene puts a hand up in front of his face. "Calm your balls, Jimmy."
He drops a hand to his crotch. "What? I haven't seen Vi in, like, a week. I'm being a good friend."
"You didn't even ask her about Alex."
"How is Alex? I've been watching all the news and stuff, but some of that is probably skewed, right? He's not really out for the rest of the season." His voice rises instead of lowers at the last question.
I should've known I would get this, but it still throws me. Alex hasn't done any interviews yet. He wants to wait until his face isn't quite so banged up.
I don't get to answer because Mr. Stroker's bald head appears at the top of my cubicle wall. "Violet, can I see you in my office?"
"Of course, Mr. Stroker." Charlene and Jimmy get out of the way so I can follow him to his huge, comfy office at the far end of the hall.
He gestures to one of the plush chairs, where I sit. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he takes the one across from me and steeples his hands. "I'm not going to ask you how you are, because I'm pretty sure I already know the answer."
"I appreciate that." I'm not thinking it requires more of a response.
"Are you sure you want to present to the Darcys today?"
"I'm sure."
"You know it's just a formality at this point. They're very much set on having you manage the accounts."
"Well, that's good to know, but I think it's best for me to present. It's an experience I don't have yet."
"You have lots of experience presenting, Violet. You do it every week at our meetings."
"This is different." I tap the arm of the chair with my nails. They need to be redone in the worst way. I had to touch up all the chips last night before I went to bed so I didn't have cheap-hooker hands today.
Mr. Stroker regards me for what seems like forever, but is most likely only about ten seconds. Still, it's a long time since I'm trying not to fidget, or get emotional. And my stomach is not happy.
He slaps his hand on the arm of the chair, startling me. "Okay then, meet me in the conference room in five minutes, and we'll have a quick brief before they show up. Sound good?"
"Sounds great." This is what I need. Business as usual. A reminder of why I want to be here, doing this job I don't actually need.
I head back to my cubicle with purpose, a smile plastered over my cheeks. Gathering up my notes, I check my face in the little mirror beside my computer. I look tired but otherwise okay, and go directly to the conference room to set up.
I've got my PowerPoint ready by the time Mr. Stroker arrives. It's already twenty to ten. The Darcys will be here soon. Stroker and I have been over the whole proposal already-not face-to-face, but through email-so I'm feeling okay about it.
This isn't a social visit, so I'm less nervous than I would be at, say, a work function, or my own engagement party. Which the Darcys attended and witnessed my hives outbreak. It hasn't deterred them so far, so I guess it couldn't have been as bad as I'm remembering it.
I click through the slides and give Mr. Stroker a brief overview. I have three left to go when we get the call letting us know they're here.
"It's game time," Mr. Stroker says.
I meet the Darcys in the waiting room. Bunny folds me into a tight hug. Her boobs are hard and unyielding. I'm now certain they're not real. Or her bra is made of steel. I can feel her nose against my neck. When she pulls back, she gives me one of those sympathy smiles. It's not really a smile, but it's not really a frown. It's more like a frile, or a smown. She's definitely had some surgery on her face, as her eyebrows don't move at all when her expression changes. It's a little unnerving.
"How are you? How's Alex?"
"He's okay. The doctors have him resting, and you know how that is." God, I sound like a wife. A hockey wife.
Bunny gives me a knowing smile and winks, but her eye only closes halfway. "These boys are so hard to keep down, aren't they?"
"They sure are."
I left him tenting the sheets this morning in his sleep. But I don't think that's what she means, or maybe it is.
I expect Mitch to shake my hand, but he comes in for a solid hug. "He'll be fine; don't you worry."
I've heard that line enough times to make me want to dick-punch someone. Or multiple someones. I know it's meant to be encouraging, but honestly, this isn't a bounce-right-back kind of injury, so the fine part seems like it's going to take a long-ass time to get to.
I redirect the conversation away from Alex, because talking about him makes me feel guilty for not being home.
The proposal is seamless until I get to the second-to-last slide. When I click to it, the screen fills with a picture of me and Alex from the night we met. We're mouth-fucking-like, hardcore. The letters D-T-F spin onto the screen below my tongue sliding into his mouth. Mitch clears his throat. Bunny giggles.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. That isn't part of my proposal. I mean, obviously watching me and Alex mouth-fuck has nothing to do with managing your financial portfolio. I don't-" I choke on the words as I move to the next slide, hoping to get rid of the horribly inappropriate image. But another slide of Alex and me making out pops up. I hit the back button, revisiting the previous mouth-fuck before I finally get to one that isn't embarrassing.