CHAPTER ONE #2
I glance around the table, beards and puffy vests all staring back at me, waiting for an answer, probably expecting me to talk about the yoga class in the park that I say I’m going to but actually just watch as I eat a chocolate croissant.
They’ll humor me, but none of them will ask me what class. No, they’ll just move on, and after the meeting, I’ll skulk back to my office and sit in front of a computer to correct all their copy for every single social media post and article.
Maybe not this time though.
Maybe, just maybe, I could fit in.
Ellison’s here, this is my chance to impress her, and maybe she’ll notice me if I actually have something to connect with her on.
Maybe she’ll find me so arousing that she’ll consider me for a possible promotion to, let’s say, the magazine, Golf Galaxy.
Now wouldn’t that be a dream? Instead of working with all these social media munchers, I could do more print work, which could give me experience to work at other magazines, like the mecca of all glossy print, Better Homes and Gardens.
And then instead of just living the Nancy Meyers aesthetic, I could write about it too.
I couldn’t think of anything more fulfilling than that.
Then it’s settled.
We’ve made an executive decision.
It’s time to fit in.
Smiling at my audience, I cross one leg over the other and say, “Hitting up some antique stores with the husband this weekend.”
The moment the word husband passes over my tongue and right out of my mouth, I realize the grave mistake I’ve made, because the shock that registers across every single face in the room is not the kind of shock you want to see.
“Your husband?” Ellison asks. “I guess I wasn’t aware that you were married.”
“Well—”
“Yeah, none of us were,” Chad says, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like he’s ready to dive into a “gotcha” moment.
“Yeah, well, it’s one of those—”
“You’re not even wearing a wedding ring,” Chad continues.
Then every single pair of eyes in this pressure cooker that is a conference room zeroes in on my left hand.
What’s a girl to say to that?
Nervously, I smile and casually slide my ring-less hand under the table and place it on my trembling leg.
“Um, about that…”
“Scottie,” Chad says, leveling with me as if he’s my father catching me in a lie. “We know you’re not married. If you’re trying to fit in, please don’t make up lies.”
The audacity of this guy!
Uh, news flash, Chad, you don’t know how to properly use a comma, you nitwit, so cut the investigative report on my love life.
“Is he right?” Ellison asks, her brow pulling together. “Are you really not married?”
And this, my friends, is why you don’t lie.
Because you have a simp like Chad trying to play Sherlock Holmes and blow up your spot.
That being said, I have two ways I can react to such an accusation. I can nod in shame, suck in my pride, and tell the truth, letting Chad take all the fame and glory. I can confess to them that I was so desperate to fit in that I made up a fictional man to make me look like less of an old maid.
Or I can dig in deep, save face, and run with the lie while making Chad eat his words with a side of guilt and a sprinkle of embarrassment.
The first option, dignified and shows true character.
The second option, a battle cry to all women out there that the Brads and Chads of this world cannot take us down!
I think we know where I’m going with this.
Gird your loins and hoist your bras, ladies. We’re digging in.
Looking Chad in the eyes, I say, “Thank you, Chad, for bringing my ring-less finger to everyone’s attention.
” I set my shoulders back and lift my chin.
“I didn’t plan on sharing this with the group, but my husband and I are actually going through a rocky time at the moment, and we’ve taken some breaks, hence the no ring. ”
Ha-HA!
In your face, Chad.
Take that.
Eat it.
And gag.
Yup. Freaking gag.
The room falls silent. Only the hushed hum of computer monitors fills the office space.
I hope you’re all happy, you married-loving cult. I hope you all look in the mirror and think how horrible it is that you humiliated poor, poor Scottie to the point of having to air out her marital issues in front of floor twenty-three, all because Chad just had to make his dick look big.
Well, guess what, Chad? Your hands are small, your fingers are thin, and I think we all know that that means—
“Scottie,” Ellison says, grabbing my attention. “May I please speak with you in private?”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up as I feel Ellison’s gaze zero in on me. She, uh, she wants to see me in private?
Well, that’s unsettling, because this can go two ways.
One: she can see right through my lies like the hawk that she is.
Or two: she’s about to lay down an apology tour for the adolescent behavior of my coworkers.
One will terrify me. Two…now two I could get on board with.
Two could possibly lead to a long road of HR meetings for Chad, which I should probably feel bad about, but I absolutely do not. He tried to fight with fire, and he’s about to get burned.
“See me out in the hallway?” I clear my throat. “Of course.”
Ellison stands and gestures to the door.
I stand as well, gathering my items and hoping this creates a half day for me, because I have a half tub of cookie dough in my fridge and the rest of the Menendez brothers documentary to consume, and it would be amazing if this guaranteed me some more time to rot on my couch.
As I walk past Chad, I have the distinct urge to stick my tongue out at him but realize just how immature that would be. Let’s keep the childish games to Chad and lead with respect and dignity just in case this doesn’t go my way.
When I exit the conference room, Ellison pulls me off to the side and presses her hand to my shoulder.
“I’m so sorry to hear about you and your husband.”
Whew, bullet averted. I’m here to file all of the reports. HR, here I come.
I nod solemnly. “Thank you. It’s been tough, but, you know, we’re trying.”
“That’s commendable. It can’t be easy working in an environment where everyone is happily married.”
“It’s had its strains,” I admit, because that is the truth.
“Well, I am proud to say with confidence why everyone is so happily married here.”
Huh?
I look up at her as she continues, “My husband is Sanders Martin.”
Err, am I supposed to know who the hell that is?
“Word on the street is, he’s the most prestigious marriage counselor in the Northeast, and he has made it his mission to work with all the people in the office who are willing and ready.
” She squeezes my arm and says, “And please know, I’ve received consent to discuss because everyone has been so happy. ”
Uh-oh.
I fear that I know where this is going.
“Oh, that’s really cool,” I say, wanting to slowly back into a bush, maybe go watch an after-school special about lying and why it’s a bad thing.
“I would really love for you to talk with him; I know he can help.”
And there it is, my grave, the one I’ve been digging this entire time, just waiting for me to rest in it.
“And I know this is coming out of the blue, and I don’t want to pressure you, but I can sense that you’re trying to reconcile. Am I wrong about that? And feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”
Uh, yeah, Ellison, you should mind your own business. You should be leading a company meeting right now, not trying to help me with my fake marriage woes.
But alas, it’s not like I can say that to her.
“I can sense that you’re not comfortable talking about it,” she says. “That’s okay—”
“Oh no, I’m comfortable having this conversation.” Panic surges through me because I can see the disappointment in her face. “Just, uh, wasn’t expecting to have such a magnificent mind at my disposal.”
Magnificent mind? Tone it down, girl.
“That’s so kind of you to say. Sanders really does wonders. Let me just text him real quick.”
Oh, she’s just going to do that, right now? When we should be having a meeting?
She pulls out her phone from her pocket, and yup, she starts texting.
“Would nine tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Tomorrow?” I nervously say. “That’s, uh, well, I’m working.”
Ellison waves her hand in dismissal. “You can take a break for this.”
“Great.” I swallow the saliva building up in my mouth.
“Oh perfect, he has an opening tomorrow morning at nine a.m.”
“Ooof, nine a.m., that might be hard with the hubby’s job.” There we go, blame it on the husband.
“Oh, he says he can do seven thirty in the morning for you so everyone gets to work on time. You’re so lucky. He rarely offers the seven thirty appointment.”
7:30 a.m.? Jesus, aren’t people mainlining their coffee and getting their faculties together at that hour? Not to mention, if he’s the best in the Northeast, doesn’t he have a waitlist? Usually takes six months and your first unborn child to make an appointment in the city, not a quick text.
“Why don’t you check with your husband?” She encourages me with a head nod.
“Uh yeah, let me, uh, let me just text him.”
I hold my phone, straight up so she can’t see my screen, and I tap away on it, pretending to text, all the while in my head saying, Beep, boop, bop, texting my husband, beep beep, bop, my nonexistent husband.
“What does he say? Seven thirty or nine a.m.?” She bounces in excitement as if her happiness relies on this moment and this moment alone.
And it seems like I’m not getting out of it. No backing down, not at this point. We have dug the grave, might as well try to find a way out of it…and a way that doesn’t require me to be out of the house by seven.
Smiling at Ellison, I say, “Uh, nine works.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let him know right now.”
As she texts her husband, I glance down at my screen, where I pulled up my solitaire app rather than texting a real-life person. I can tell you right now, this is not going to end well.
“You’re set for nine a.m. I’ll email you the details of where to find his office. He’s looking forward to working with you.”
“Great.” I smile, knowing damn well it’s the fakest smile I’ve ever concocted. “Can’t…can’t wait.”
She gestures to the conference room. “Now, let’s get back to work, shall we?”
Back to work?
Does she really think I can get back to work after I just sabotaged my own world?
I’m lucky I haven’t fainted from the anxiety driving through me, because I just agreed to a marriage counseling appointment with my boss’s husband. With a nonexistent person who needs to materialize in, oh, about twenty-three hours’ time.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Yeah, work, yay,” I say with a fist pump to the air. “Love the work.”
She smiles softly. “Good, because us girls have to stick together.” She offers me a wink and then walks back into the conference room.
Well, fuck. I got what I wanted. I became buddy-buddy with my boss in an instant.
But the cost will be hefty…finding a husband by tomorrow.