Chapter 2
After the elevator closes and the majority of women watching the brief interaction between Tanner and me disperse, I look around the office space. The remaining few look at me with disgrace before rolling their eyes and promptly walking back to their work stations.
My stomach forms knots. I try not to focus on what people think about me, but sometimes it’s hard. My therapist and I frequently talk about how difficult it is to get closure about unresolved situations. I don’t know what I’ve specifically done to these women, and I probably never will. Honestly, I shouldn’t let them get to me so bad, but I can’t help it. I’ve always known that my guardedness towards others can be perceived as off-putting, but in this scenario, I’m not sure how to fix it. I’m trying to learn how to be okay with people who may not like me for reasons unknown, but am unsure how to accept rude behavior. Even the subtle eye-roll is hurtful.
I’m a nice enough person. I’m quiet, sure, but I’m never mean. Reflecting back on my time working here, I’ve helped many of these women in some capacity, so being treated poorly doesn’t feel great. I thought at one point maybe they’d want to be friends, but again, branching out is hard. Following through on plans is harder. I’m not used to being around people who actively want to get to know me because I’ve spent a majority of my life being told the opposite, and as a result, I tend to bail or make an excuse to not go out. I always feel bad after, but I don’t want to spend my time getting to know people only to find out that I’m not enough for them in the grand scheme of things. That’s happened too many times to count in my twenty-six years of life, and I don’t want to go through it again. It’s hurtful, which is why I tend to keep to myself.
But still. Is bailing on grabbing drinks a time or two enough to be treated so poorly?
“You ready to die today?” I’m pulled from my thoughts as an arm links between mine, deep blue eyes crinkling when he smiles. Bright pink hair spikes in different directions, a new look, if I had to guess, and find the widest grin on Sam’s round face as he peers down at me.
Sam is electric—one of his kind.
“I’m always ready to die,” I joke as he pulls me along the crowds of judgment, but not before shooting one of the remaining women a dirty look that causes me to bow my head in embarrassment. “But, can you elaborate on why we’re dying specifically today?”
“Because the hottest man to walk God’s green Earth is officially our boss.”
I raise my eyebrows as we walk, my gaze sliding over to my friend. “You don’t believe in God, though.”
“Neither do you.”
“Touché.”
He smiles as we head over to the elevator, pressing the button for the bottom floor with his free hand. “Come on, Daise. You can’t tell me he isn’t handsome.”
I shrug. “Haven’t looked at him long enough to notice.”
My friend snorts and drags me into the elevator when it finally stops on our floor. “Sure you haven’t. Anybody with eyes can see that our boss is a rare specimen.”
“Guess I don’t have eyes, then.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but the smile still tugs at his lips. “You’re impossible, you know that? Purely impossible.”
I roll my lips in between my teeth to avoid laughing. Sam’s one of the few people in my life I’m comfortable enough to be open with, but it took almost the entire duration of his time working here for me to trust him. I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing after people who remind me of the toxicity and chaos I grew up in. I wanted my friends to give me the love I wished my family did, and it often put me in a constricting box. Fast forward to adulthood—trust is limited, and I don’t give it to just anybody. You have to earn it.
“Impossible isn’t always a bad thing,” I argue.
“No, it’s not,” he agrees, taking a few steps to lean against the elevator’s back wall before shoving his hands in his pockets. “But you just like to be difficult.”
He’s not wrong. But I don’t tell him that.
When the elevator lands on the lower floor, we step out and look around. A small crowd already forms in front of the auditorium, and hushed murmurs spread amongst each other. A few people look over their shoulders at Sam and me, some staring longer than what feels necessary before turning their attention back to whatever conversation they were engrossed in. Sam always jokes that we’re the outcasts at Moore because we don’t go out of our way to actively socialize with people despite being here for numerous years, and I don’t disagree. He has the same mentality as I do—do the required job and go home.
“Bunch of assholes is what they are,” he mumbles to himself, and I look down at my boots with a small smile.
“Come on,” he nudges my shoulder when somebody pulls open the doors to the auditorium. “Let’s go in and find our seats.”
Linking arms again, we push through the crowd, and it’s impossible to ignore the conversations around us.
I slow my steps and Sam abruptly stops, turning around and narrowing his eyes towards the people who are talking.
“Who the hell dyes their hair pink and works in a job like this?”
“The hair doesn’t bother me. It’s the fact that he can hang out with that girl—”
“Oh, Daisy?” the whispering quietens, but not enough. “She honestly seems like a bitch. I mean, seriously. Who spends five plus years at a company and talks to only two people?”
“Don’t bother,” I mumble as I tug him along. “They don’t mean anything.”
He stays rooted, his eyes trained on the gossiping women until I tug on him harder. “Easy, tiger. I’m alright, I promise.”
He shakes his head and begrudgingly turns around. “I hate how mean they are.”
“I know.”
“I just don’t get it,” he begins, stepping forward and slowing while we wait until everybody shakes hands with Mr. Moore, who stands front and center, looking absolutely miserable. I want to laugh, because same, but I don’t. I turn my focus to Sam.
“Why do they care so much about who we choose to socialize with? And about my hair?” He points to his head in confusion. “They must be jealous.”
I refrain from turning back around to look at the group. “Jealous of what?”
He shrugs. “You. Me. The fact that we’re the only two normal people in this entire company?”
I laugh, about to reply when Sam’s head whips to me, his expression horrified. “She laughs?”
I punch him in the shoulder playfully, and he pretends to be wounded, grasping the area I just hit. “You kill me, Adams.”
“You wish I did.”
“I do, but don’t tell Greg.”
Greg is Sam’s long-distance boyfriend, and they’ve been together for a few years, apparently. Sam doesn’t talk much about him—only when they’re fighting—but he doesn’t sound like the greatest guy for my friend. Sam often talks about wanting to be with other people or dreaming about what it would be like to be single for the first time in forever, and sometimes I’ll encourage him to take the leap. He’s thought about it but hasn’t gotten there yet. Like most people, I think Sam is afraid to be alone. Not necessarily in a bad way, but more like…he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he’s not attached to somebody.
I twist my lips and furrow my brows at the thought. I haven’t seriously dated anybody since college, and it was a nightmare. I met my ex, Liam, at a bar on campus. My roommates convinced me to go out the same night Liam was having “bro night.” We weren’t a complete match made in Heaven, but we hit it off well enough that I wanted to give him my phone number, and things fell into place.
Liam was alright, but I felt like an inconvenience because I wasn’t his ideal “match.” I couldn’t be a fair-skinned, blonde, or brunette girl with a small waist and accentuated assets. No. No, instead, I was a biracial girl who struggled with physical intimacy, had extensive, lifelong trauma as a result of my family being anything but present, and preferred being alone.
Who that person was wasn’t what Liam wanted. I was the furthest thing anybody ever wanted. I hated saying I understood Liam’s thoughts, but I did. And I’m not somebody who sits and complains about it, either. I accept what is and move on.
“How is he, by the way?” I ask, watching the crowd slowly form into a single-file line like we’re getting ready to shake hands with the President. I guess, on a technicality, that’s what Mr. Moore is…but none of this is necessary. It always baffles me that companies insist on herding us together like cattle to make us listen to them for a wasted two hours when it could’ve all been sent in an email. As much as I love Duncan and Moore Enterprises, attending these meetings are awful.
I step forward with Sam at my side—rather than behind me—which spikes my social anxiety as my eyes dart around to the people paying us no attention. Sam shrugs, the smile falling for the first time since he saved me upstairs.
“We’re fine,” he says nonchalantly. “Actually, more than fine. But I’ve been thinking of being done for good.”
I raise my eyebrows and angle my body to face him. “Done, as in…break up permanently?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh,” I say, shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah, well,” he resigns, his shoulders slumping. “I want to be single for a while, spend time figuring out my shit, you know? Live in that zen state of mind.”
My lips twitch. “Zen state of mind?”
“I know it sounds dumb,” Sam smirks. “But I’ve been doing a lot of self-reflecting. I want to get to know my person,” he pats his chest twice. “Take time for myself and learn about who Sam is.”
“That…sounds deep,” I reply with a skeptical nod. “I hope that journey is everything you want and more.”
With a soft roll of his eyes and a smile, he shakes his head before slinging his arm over my shoulder. “You wait and see,” he says as we take another step forward. “When I’m done going through this spiritual awakening, I’ll be a new man, and you’ll be jealous that you didn’t join me.”
“Well,” I begin, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’ll be cheering from the sidelines. I’m going to stay in my dark little corner where it’s quiet and comfortable. But you go ahead and live your truth. I’ll be waiting when you’re ready to return to me.”
We laugh together. “I wouldn’t be able to do most things without you, Daise.”
I look up at him, a soft smile on my face at the nickname. “Same, Sam. Same.”
We finally reach the front of the line, and my heart rate increases as Sam drops his arm from my shoulder, outstretching it to shake our new boss’s hand. I was so lost in our conversation that I hadn’t realized we were next in line to meet Mr. Moore. Meaning, I didn’t give myself enough time to prepare for how this interaction was going to go. Do I smile? Introduce myself? What is appropriate in this brief encounter that won’t make me look like a complete dumbass? My skin crawls with unease as my chest slowly tightens, the anxiety pricking along my spine now that I’ve worked myself up by thinking.
“Wait,” I lunge forward to grab Sam’s arm and pull him back. His eyes widen at the same time Mr. Moore’s do, both pausing with their hands in mid-air. Sam drops his hand and fully turns towards me with his back towards our boss, the concern deepening the grooves in his forehead.
“What am I supposed to do?” I whisper-hiss frantically.
Sam tilts his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Am I supposed to shake his hand? Wave? What’re we doing?” I whisper again, my eyes pleading for Sam to understand what I’m saying.
That I’m fucking in the middle of working myself into a panic attack.
Sam’s face softens as understanding washes over him. “You shake his hand, Daise. I’ll be right there, too.”
I have the worst anxiety of all time when I’m put in new situations. I know it sounds dumb because a simple greeting to most people is just that—simple. They don’t have to think about what they’re going to say before, decide whether they’ll smile or what happens after, but for me, I overanalyze everything.
I know after I shake our boss’s hand, I’ll go inside and find a spot with Sam like I didn’t even share that encounter with Mr. Moore, but everything else in the beginning stresses me out immensely. My therapist and I have spent a significant amount of time navigating all of the difficulties that come with my mental illness. Still, there are smaller scenarios—like the one happening in front of me—that I haven’t been able to navigate fully yet. I usually work myself up so much that I’m mentally drained after making a bigger deal out of a situation that wasn’t all that serious to begin with.
I wipe my hands on my pants, nodding once to myself, and blow out a breath. “Okay.”
Sam gives me an encouraging smile before turning around again, saying something to Mr. Moore that I zone out. My mind shoots back into overdrive, and I can’t decide whether or not I should start preparing what to say. Duncan mentioned meeting Mr. Moore after the meeting, and now that I think about it, maybe it’s because he knows these conversations stress me out.
Sam walks past Mr. Moore and turns around to wait for me. Meanwhile, my heart pounds so hard in my chest that I’m seconds away from throwing up.
Mr. Moore turns his head to say something to his sister Brooke—our company’s lawyer, who stands on the other side of the door. I start walking forward when he hushes his conversation at the last minute to give me the typical corporate ‘thanks for being here today,’ smile. I start thinking that everything is just fine—that things won’t be as awkward as I’m envisioning—until the smile is wiped completely from his mouth and his face drops. My steps slow at the uncertainty, and he must notice it because he quickly recovers with another warm smile before outstretching his hand. I step forward and slip my hand in his. The smoothness of his hands, with the exception of healed calluses, causes a spark to shoot up my arm. He must feel it, too, because his eyebrows rise to his hairline.
“Uh.” He clears his throat after a moment, green eyes flicking with something undecipherable before quickly dropping my hand without so much a shake. “Thanks for being here. I’m Tanner.”
I’m about to introduce myself back, but I’m trapped between noticing the smaller things about him: plump pink lips with a slight curve as he holds back a smile, and thick eyebrows that shape his face nicely. His voice is deeper than I expected, its warmth sparking my body as if I stepped inside from a cold winter day. Goosebumps scatter along my arms, and I’m thankful I wore a long-sleeved shirt today despite the outdoor temperature. Up close, I’ll admit, he’s handsome. But not in a plain way like I originally said.
His jaw is defined and strong, with light stubble peppering close to the bone and a straight, narrow nose with a slight bump in the middle like it’d been broken before. It doesn’t take away from his features—it enhances them, forcing you to look at his entire face to determine whether he’s attractive. Not that it matters one way or the other because looks are just that, but it’d be a lie to say he wasn’t handsome. The sandy color of his hair is in typical male fashion with the whole short on the sides and longer up top thing, but his is somewhat fluffier. I briefly allow myself to think about how soft it’d feel between my fingers but force that image out of my head, confused why I’m allowing them to be there in the first place.
Trapped in my thoughts, a frown slowly forms on his lips the longer we stare at one another. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, and I’m itching to sneak past him so I can break free from this encounter. I’m supposed to introduce myself to him, but I can’t. The words refuse to come out. How can I openly like somebody willing to take away people’s livelihoods today? I understand doing what’s best for the company, but that means mouths will struggle to eat this month. There’s a possibility I may not even have a job here after this meeting, despite what Duncan promised earlier. There’s no point introducing myself to somebody who may get rid of me within an hour.
“Nice to meet you,” I reply softly, hurrying past him before he has a chance to reply. I nearly knock Sam over before dragging him further into the auditorium. Heat floods up my neck and ears, the warmth causing light perspiration to coat my back.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sam asks gently as we make our way to some chairs in the back of the room. I slide into the one closest to the entrance we came in from and shrug.
“It could’ve been worse, I suppose.”
Although the conversation between Mr. Moore and I was awkward and somewhat uneventful, I can’t help thinking that he may not like me. It’s possible my anxiety is taunting me, but he looked so…displeased. The smile that instantly dropped from his face and the quick dismissal of shaking my hand—which he didn’t do—freaked me out. I hate instantly jumping to the conclusion that maybe he didn’t like me because of my skin color, but it’s happened before. It’s also quite possible, and very realistic, that I’m making a bigger deal over this than what’s necessary.
I shift in my seat while Sam busies himself talking to a girl sitting next to him—I think her name is Camilla—and look over my shoulder at the door. Mr. Moore stands in the same spot, his hands shoved deep in his pants pockets, and he talks quietly with his sister, who still remains at his side. Except he’s not looking at her during their conversation. Of course he’s not. Because why would he, especially in the moment I choose to turn around?
A soft smirk pulls at his lips as emerald green eyes bore into mine.