Chapter 3 #2
She must not have heard the last thing he said.
I sigh, trying to shake off the nastiness of that final insult.
I hate that I’m now questioning myself, wondering if I was rude.
It’s a constant tightrope act, running a business as a woman, wanting to be respected for my abilities but knowing that no one will take me seriously unless I’m nice.
“He was just . . .”
“Oh, he deserved it,” she says. “But if you have the emotional energy, it may be useful to explore why you react like that when people disparage your career.”
“Because it’s incredibly rude!” Though of course, it’s much more than that. It’s the fear that maybe they’re right, that I’ll never amount to anything of importance and I don’t deserve this job anyway.
“Yes,” Georgia says, “and maybe it’s a wound you haven’t fully healed yet?”
I purse my lips and remind myself that I am absolutely, positively thrilled that my sister is studying what she loves.
“You know what? I think it’s time for coffee,” I say, and head out into the early morning sunshine.
Beans is bustling. Eddie’s new hire, Mabel, takes my order (an Americano for me, a dirty iced chai for Georgia), smiling nervously as she promises to get it right this time.
“Is she scared of me?” I ask Eddie, who’s wiping down a table.
“No, she’s scared of me. I gave her a lecture about not assuming someone’s gender based on their coffee order.” He gives me a concerned look. “You okay?”
I slump into a chair, the word bitch crawling around my mind like an ugly spider. “I had a terrible customer.”
“Already? You’re not even open!”
“I know!” I tell him the story, and he looks appalled. “It just felt so . . . belittling. Xander does the same thing.”
Eddie gives my shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “Try not to let the bastards get to ya.”
Something occurs to me. “Wait—how does Xander’s plan affect Beans?”
He shrugs. “My guess is I’ll be working under the head manager.”
I hear the disappointment in his voice. Eddie enjoys being in charge as much as I do.
“If I win, I’ll make sure you get to keep running it the way you want.”
He hesitates a beat too long before saying, “Thanks, darling.”
Hang on. Does he not think I’m going to win?
“Eddie,” I say, leaning forward, “what do you—”
“Oh, would you look at that line—I better help Mabel before she dissolves into tears.”
He rushes back to the register, and I sit back, stung.
Eddie’s my friend—and he underestimates me, too?
Maybe he knows something I don’t. He’s like the Mayor of Davis Square, keeping tabs on everything.
He sees how many people go into Brian’s store compared to mine and how many walk out with purchases.
Meanwhile, I don’t know much about Happy Endings.
All I know is that the clientele is mostly women (judging by the customers I’ve seen holding pink and gold bags), and I think the employees are, too.
“Josie?”
I stand and run smack into a solid chest. A hand grips my arm to steady me. I look up; it’s Brian.
He’s shockingly tall this close—even with my four-inch heels, he towers over me. I have to tilt my chin way up, giving me a view of his jaw, covered in light brown flecks of stubble. The heat of his hand gripping my arm radiates through the sleeve of my blouse.
“Excuse me,” I say, taking a step back.
He releases me and clears his throat. “Sorry. I was . . . uh, hoping we could chat?”
Today, Brian’s wearing a gray cardigan, along with his pin-studded lanyard and tortoiseshell glasses. His hair’s still a mess, though if he was a hero in a romance novel it would probably be described as flowing chestnut locks that partially obscure the piercing gaze of his mahogany eyes.
I’m not sure what he wants, but I’m not having this conversation while he’s looking down on me.
“Sure,” I say. “Let’s sit.”
He seems surprised, but nods, and we both pull out chairs. My eyes catch on another pin on his lanyard: when i think about books, i touch my shelf.
It takes me a moment to get it. When I do, the song by the Divinyls starts playing in my head, sparking a memory: my mom, dancing around the kitchen, deep in the throes of another love affair with another man she swore was the One.
Little Georgia, dancing along, hope sparkling in her eyes.
Forgetting that in a few weeks, this boyfriend would dump our mom and she’d be back in bed, crying with the curtains drawn, forgetting that her two young daughters needed meals, clean laundry, and help with homework.
Shaking that away, I refocus on Brian. He’s staring at me, his eyes drifting across my face like I’m a book he’s reading.
A boring, bitter book.
“You wanted to talk?” I say.
He blinks. “Oh, yeah. About this whole Xander thing. I mean, there’s no reason for us to be enemies.”
“Agree,” I say, though I’m wary. I’d love to feel like we’re on the same side, united by mutual loathing of our evil boss. Unfortunately, it seems that Xander and Brian are bros, united in their mutual scorn of me.
What’d you call her store, Lawson? A bleak wasteland of existential dread?
“Great, that’s great,” Brian is saying. “Because, um, after Xander combines the stores, it’s going to be a lot to manage and—and it’s going to require a lot of work.”
“Yes,” I say, unsure what he’s getting at. Does he think I’m not capable of it?
“I’ve been trying to think of what I could do . . .” He brushes his hair out of his eyes, hesitating.
“So you aren’t out of a job when—”
“What do you mean, when?” My voice squeaks on the last word.
“I mean, if,” he corrects quickly.
“You said when.” I swallow the surge of dread. Did Xander say something to him? Maybe this whole competition is a farce and Brian’s already got it in the bag? “Word choice matters.”
“It was a slip of the tongue.”
“A Freudian slip, maybe.”
He blinks at me from behind his glasses. “Well, I apologize.”
He doesn’t sound apologetic. He sounds irritated, which isn’t fair—he’s the one who implied I was going to lose.
Exhaling, I glance at my phone. Almost time to open. “Thanks for the chat, Brian, but I—”
“Stop calling me that.”
I rear back, shocked. “Excuse me?”
He mumbles something I don’t catch.
“Hmm?” I say.
“Ryan,” he says more clearly. “My name? It’s . . .”
He turns the lanyard around: ryan lawson. manager, happy endings.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I’ve been calling him the wrong name for days.
But before I can apologize, he stands. He’s looming over me, a mountain of a man, and I scramble to my feet and try to muster a confidence I do not feel. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes, if you’d let me finish.” He huffs out a frustrated sigh. “All I’m trying to say is that if I win . . .” He bites his lip, then blurts, “You could be my assistant.”
Indignation sparks through me. “Your assistant?”
“I mean, I could hire you as an assistant manager so you wouldn’t be out of a job.” The expression on his face is all, See what a nice guy I am?
“Wow, that’s great,” I say.
“Yeah?” His eyebrows lift.
“I mean, you’re the man, you should be the boss.”
“Uh . . .”
“And all us little women should work for you, right?” I’m gathering steam, letting the frustration I didn’t unleash on that awful customer surge out of me.
“I bet that’s why you love managing a bookstore.
Hordes of women asking you to tell them what to read?
And hey, if those books happen to reinforce the message that women aren’t complete without a man, that’s a bonus! Patriarchy at its finest.”
“I . . .”
I step closer, poking a finger at his chest, saying what I wish I could say to every single person who has ever underestimated me.
“I’ll never be your assistant, Mr. Happy Endings. And you’d better polish up your resume, because I’m going to win this battle. And the first thing I’ll do? Fire you.”
With that, I turn and walk off.
I wish saying all that made me feel better. Instead, I’m left feeling like no matter what I do, if I stay silent or stay in control or let everything out, I’ll always end up in the wrong.