Chapter 11 Izzy
Chapter eleven
Izzy
“I am sorry, Izzy,” Jaxon says as he gets ready to leave the Flatroads Consulting office after what is apparently our daily coffee chat. A chat that I don’t hate as much as I want to. A chat that I might be starting to enjoy.
Jaxon’s funny. Our personalities and our sense of humor aligned almost perfectly fifteen years ago, and I’m annoyed to report that they still do. So falling back into a rhythm with him feels…easy.
And I know he’s sorry. He tells me so every morning as he walks in the door, and then again when he walks out fifteen minutes later. And it’s always done with the same sad smile on his face. The one that tells me how genuine he is.
And, unfortunately for my sanity, I do believe him. I’m just not sure I’m ready to forgive him.
Instead, I say the same thing I have every day this week: “I know.”
“Don’t forget to read the note I wrote you,” Jaxon reminds me as he pushes out the door.
Becca watches the spectacle from her desk next to mine, her watchful eyes not missing a thing.
“Did you just stare at his ass as he left?” Becca asks, one eyebrow raised cheekily.
“Ew. No.” I mean, not once I realized I was doing it.
“Right,” she says, drawing it out to make it clear she doesn’t believe me.
I shrug. “I would never.”
She stares at me for another minute, her scrutiny making me question just how weird it is that I’m checking out Jaxon Reid for the first time in my life. Unfortunately, even I can acknowledge how he’s filled out nicely since I knew him.
“What’s in the note?” Becca finally asks, pulling me from my thoughts. She typically misses the first ten minutes of my time with Jaxon. I think she might be doing it on purpose, leaving us alone together.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “He told me to wait until he left this morning to read it.”
“Well,” she says, pointing at the small white envelope. “He’s gone now. Read it.”
I want to, but I also know that I’m a crier, so if there’s more than just his normal “I’m sorry, I was a dick,” I’m going to be the lady crying at work.
Instead, I stick it in the outside pocket of my work bag. “I’ll read it later. We need to talk about the potential meeting with that store in Tennessee anyway,” I say.
“You’re going to have to go,” Becca says.
“You’re the people person, not me.”
Becca’s long blonde hair dances across her shoulders as she shakes her head and says, “People love you.”
For being a person myself, I’m actually remarkably bad at peopling. If someone came to town and started claiming there was an alien on the loose, everyone would be like, “Oh, Izzy? Yeah, she’s very awkward, but totally harmless,” and then just go about their business.
“People love you,” I remind Becca. “People tolerate me because they want to spend time with you, and since this is a co-dependent relationship, they have to put up with me,” I say as I lean back in my fake-leather office chair.
“That’s not true,” Becca says on a sigh.
We’ve had this exact conversation more than once, and I’ve yet to find her arguments compelling.
“Plus, this client would want us to work on a landscape analysis to determine if they should expand their retail store. It’s a huge deal and right up your alley.
We both know this is going to all come down to the finance side of things, which is your area of expertise.
Think of all the spreadsheets you’ll get paid to make if we land this client. ”
Damn her. She knows my weakness is spreadsheets.
“We won’t land the client if I go. You know I’m barely put together enough to meet with people on virtual calls. I can’t go and meet with them in person and then take them out for dinner. I’ll do weird things with my hands. I’ll almost certainly say fuck at least one time. I can’t be trusted!”
I should really try working on that last part. My parents were not okay with cursing when I was growing up, so I’m not sure when I became such a potty mouth, but these days, I shouldn’t be allowed around children, the elderly, or anyone with sensitive sensibilities.
“I trust you.”
“You’re blinded by your love for me.”
“I do love you. I also can’t cancel on my grandma again after I already rescheduled to go with you to the bachelorette party next weekend.”
She gives me one of her so-this-is-really-all-your-fault looks.
It’s the same one she gives me anytime something in our house breaks after I’ve tried to repair it myself based on tutorials I find online.
I think I’m resourceful; Becca feels I’m just delaying, and oftentimes worsening, the inevitable.
“It’ll be fun, Izzy,” Becca says. “Plus, I don’t know why we’re even having this conversation.
W&R Mercantile would be a big client for us with the potential for them to hire us in a much bigger capacity if we come through on this analysis.
They can only meet on the ninth. I can’t do that day. So…you’ve got to suck it up and go.”
“Ugh,” I groan. “Fine. But only because I want to be able to say I told you so when they turn us down because of me.”
Because they will.
Regardless of what I said about the cursing, that’s not what will do it. They’ll come back and say they found someone who understands them as a company better.
What they really mean is that they didn’t connect with me.
I won’t have done anything wrong, but I’m not someone people are innately drawn to like Becca, and I can’t make people laugh like Bryn does, and I certainly am not a badass like Kelsey.
No, I’m just…vanilla. In all aspects of my life, unfortunately.
Maybe I really should look into a mail-order husband—that’d at least be interesting.