18. Old Friends don’t always make good friends
18
OLD FRIENDS DON’T ALWAYS MAKE GOOD FRIENDS
M onday morning progress report meetings used to be my favorite part of the week. It’s the one time where all teams involved in the development and production process of a collection sit together to talk about where we’re at.
Each team presents their updates, challenges, and to-dos, and every time I’m left in awe by everything that goes into making a single article of clothing. Inspiration, sketches, sourcing, packaging design, factory scheduling, pricing, tariffs, shipping, allocation, quality control, distribution, and so much more. After my first meeting, I couldn’t go into a store without picking up an item and losing myself in thoughts of all that went into the product, how it got to this exact shelf in this particular store. Why was it placed in this location and who picked the merchandising style.
I loved it. Past tense. At least, I’m not loving it today.
Today, I’m distracted, detached. Bored, even, as I pick at my cuticles. I’m not listening to Molly as she talks about updated sketches based on the client’s feedback from last week. I don’t care about what Noel, our head of sourcing, says as he talks about ordering extra material. I wince when Lena introduces my new idea to the team, ignore the way her voice tightens when she says it was Jenna’s.
Today, I don’t care. I’m much more interested in my nail polish and how I’m due to give myself a manicure. I mean, Jesus, it’s peeled and gross. I can’t come into work with these gnarly claws. Picking out a nail polish color in my head right now takes higher priority than taking notes on whatever everyone is saying, in my opinion. I can ask people for updates later on an individual basis.
Not gonna lie, I’m so lost in my thoughts, conflicted over going for a classic neutral like Ballet Slippers (a little boring) or something more daring like Vamp (more appropriate for fall) that I barely notice when people begin to pour out of the conference room. Worst of all, I barely notice Lena looming over me, hands on her hips as she glares down.
“Oh, hey.” I get quickly to my feet. “Great meeting.” I try for a smile, but the look of thirst for murder in her eyes stops me dead in my tracks.
“Really? And how exactly would you know?”
“I…” I could look for an excuse for having checked out. But Lena is so good at reading through someone’s bullshit, it would be a joke to even try.
“My office. Now.”
I suppress a sigh and follow her out of the conference room and into her office, mentally preparing myself for the worst. Well, I think , this truly would be the cherry on top of it all, wouldn’t it? Losing my job after getting my heart broken. Super.
When she takes a seat behind her desk, she stares at me for a moment, the look in her eyes intense. Instead of anger, though, it’s filled with concern. “What’s wrong with you? This isn’t like you.”
I sputter a humorless laugh. “Are you joking? Did you seriously ask me what was wrong with me?” I’m playing with fire, talking to her like this, and I can tell she wants to tell me off by the way she presses her lips together. The way she frowns.
“If this is about what happened Friday with Jenna?—”
I cut her off and throw my hands in the air in exasperation. “ Of course it’s about that. What else would it be?” I mean, I know that the situation with Will didn’t make the work thing easier, but she doesn’t know that.
She purses her lips, narrows her eyes at me, and nods. “I’m not usually a touchy-feely boss. I think you already know that though, from experience and probably from what your coworkers have shared. But I just want to make something clear: you’re different. I see a lot of potential within you. An internal strength I don’t think you even realize you have yet. I need you to not let this get to you, Bridget. I need you to keep your head up. Because you’ve got a natural instinct and passion for this and for doing a job well done. And we both need that.”
I look away, tears threatening to make an unwelcome appearance. I’ve been crying so much lately. More than I ever have. Even more than when Gran passed and I was left all alone in this world. When I feel something warm fall on my hand in my lap, I curse under my breath, hating myself a little for breaking down in front of my boss.
“If you believe so much in me, how can you just stand by and let Jenna take credit for my work? I’m a baby at this company; you’re not. You’re wildly respected and feared and people trust you and your point of view. And you just… get here on Monday morning with a smile on your face and pretend like everything is super? Like I’m just supposed to move on like nothing happened? I’m hurt , okay? By Jenna, this company,”— by Will —“but by you, too. How can you just let her do that to me? I thought I could trust you. You’re supposed to be my mentor.”
Maybe it’s because I’m a little bit broken right now, but I’m starting to think Will was right: there is no silver lining to this. I was screwed over by my bosses and that’s it.
Her brows rise. “Mentor? You consider me your mentor?”
I roll my eyes and wipe my cheek of the tears streaming down my face. “ That’s what you took from this? I mean, Jesus, we already live in a world where men want to take everything from us. Are we going to let women do it, too? Where’s your sense of solidarity? Why are you being so cool about this? I thought she did the same thing to you. You should be outraged.”
Lena sighs and nods. “I am angry. I am outraged. But if you haven’t realized that this industry is very much like a game, then you’re more naive and green than I thought you were.” She gets to her feet and walks around her desk. Sits on the edge and looks down at me, her face somber. “Listen, I need you to believe me that not doing anything is in your best interest right now. That pretending like everything is good is the right move. Mostly, I need you to trust me, Bridget. I promise you I will not let this slide. You just need to understand this isn’t one of those situations where you can walk in, guns blazing, and demand justice. This is about games and politics and it sucks, but it is what it is. Just… trust me, okay? I’m making some moves. And that’s all I can say.”
I sniffle and look away, digging my nails into my arms to keep myself from saying anything more.
“My advice? Move on for now. You gave yourself the weekend to mope. Now let’s get back to work. Do well. And it will pay off.”
She waits for me to say something, but I remain silent, instead. I get to my feet and run to the bathroom, head down, trying not to alert my coworkers to the tears streaming down my face (though I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time they see someone leaving Lena’s office crying).
When I open the bathroom door, I crash into Molly, who takes one look at my face and frowns. “You got fired, didn’t you? What did you do this time?”
Not “Are you okay?” or “What happened?” No. An automatic assumption that I lost my job. That I had gotten fired. And that it was my fault. No questions asked.
I take a step back as if someone had pushed me, her words knocking the wind from my lungs. “Fired? Why would you think that?”
She sighs and pulls me into the bathroom. Turns on the sink and wets a hand towel to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Bridge. C’mon. I helped you get this job, but I knew it would only be a matter of time before you’d lose it.”
“Before I’d lose it? If you thought that, why even help me at all?”
She shrugs once, pity in her eyes. “Because you were desperate. Because I wanted to be a great friend. Because I thought you could at least make a decent salary and save up before finding a job that’s more in line with what you can actually do.” She reaches out to dab at my cheeks once more, but I pull back.
“With what I can actually do? That’s…”
“I know. You’re welcome, again.”
I was not gonna say thank you, but okay.
“I gotta say, I’m proud of you, though. You lasted longer than I thought you would. I could’ve sworn you wouldn’t make it past the three month mark. It was almost five, right?” She smiles. Molly smiles .
What is happening?
“I didn’t get fired, Molly.”
She frowns, her brows half hidden by her bangs. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re wrong.” My voice is icy cold because what the actual fuck? She was so certain I’d fail?
“Oh my god, I just assumed. You came out of her office running and crying. If you didn’t get fired, then what happened?”
I take the hand towels from her and throw them in the trash, checking my reflection in the mirror. Naturally, my cheeks are flushed crimson. My hair is a mess, so I finger-comb it in an attempt to get it presentable. Meanwhile, Molly just watches me, waiting for me to tell her what went on between me and Lena. But I refuse to go into details. She wouldn’t understand. Part of me wonders whether Molly would victim-blame me for the whole thing, and I don’t think our friendship would be able to withstand that right now. Not on my end.
“You know what, Molls? I don’t think you deserve to know.” I slink out of the bathroom and speed walk to my desk, ignoring Molly as she calls out my name. I don’t know what the hell that was about, but I don’t think it was good friend behavior.
* * *
“You know,” Will says when he slips into the booth where I’m seated at a wine bar near work, “I’m gonna have to start charging for these emergency therapy sessions.”
I groan and let my forehead touch the table as he settles into his seat and peels off his coat. “I’m sorry. I just didn't know what to do.”
“Hey, I'm just joking.” He laughs softly. “You know you can call me anytime.”
I heave a sigh and sit up straight. “I know that, but I also know that my life is a mess sometimes, and if I called you every time something happened you’d hate me and think I’m too much.”
“Bridge. Come on. I could never hate you and you could never be too much.”
I sigh again.
“Now let me order us both a bottle of wine and you can tell me all about what happened.”
After half a bottle and a full charcuterie board, Will and I have decided that a) Molly acted like a terrible friend. And b) we still don't know whether Lena is being genuine or not.
“It's possible she's being truthful,” he tells me. “She really may have a plan to stop Jenna.”
“I don't know—I’m having trust issues.” I take a sip of my wine and follow it with a bite of brie. “I’m suddenly paranoid that everyone around me is lying.”
“Including me?”
I narrow my eyes at him comically. “I don't know, are you?”
He laughs once, but doesn't answer the question. “I think you need to give people the benefit of a doubt. Trust that if Lena told you she has a plan, it's because she has a plan. I think sometimes people lie to protect other people. Lies don't always have to be about hurting each other.”
I'm taken aback by his point of view. “Are you kidding me right now? Are you saying lying isn't always a bad thing?” Suddenly my cheeks flush, remembering I’m lying to him and his company—at least when it comes to when we need orders by.
“Have you never heard of the concept of white lies?” he asks with a smirk so dangerous it could steal my undies in a heartbeat.
I attempt to mentally shake off the image of his body over mine, the memory of the way his eyes squeezed shut as his body turned into a rigid board and he came while holding me tightly to him. I try to push away the memory of the way he repeated my name in my ear, practically chanting it as he fell over. It all turns out to be a little more difficult than expected.
“Yeah, but where do you draw the line? And are we including things like white lies of omission? Because I'm not a fan of either.”
“Yes. Sometimes white lies are needed, especially ones of omission.” Will's expression slightly darkens, but the humor never leaves his eyes completely. “I’m just saying that it's not always important to know every single detail of a person's life. Sometimes keeping things or lying about something is a way of protecting another person.”
I'm quiet for a moment as I process the fact that those words left this man's mouth. Because up until this very moment, I thought that Will would never lie to me. But if he's saying that lying isn't always a bad thing, if we're disagreeing on a core value for me, can we even be friends?
“Is this even seriously up for discussion?”
He sighs and takes a sip of his wine. “I’m just saying. It's not always a tragedy if someone lies.”
I hate his answer. I hate how dismissive he's being. But most of all, I hate how it's making me doubt everything between us. “I don't know how to respond to what you've just told me. How do I know you haven't been lying to me this entire time?”
He swallows once, regret clear on his face. “That's not what I meant. I don't mean lying is an okay thing to do whenever you please. I just mean… sometimes white lies are good things. Like not telling a nine month pregnant woman she looks fat. Or telling your mom the casserole she made is your favorite thing in the world because you feel too guilty after fucking up her life to tell her that it’s the grossest shit you’ve ever tasted. That’s what I mean.”
I chew on my lip, suddenly so close to tears. Stupid wine. “Sorry. You’re right.”
“Not always,” he agrees with a smile.
“Will?”
“Yeah?”
“It would kill me to find out this was all a lie.”
“Bridge,” he pleads, dark chocolate eyes pulling me in, tempting me to get lost in them and ignore the rest of the world around us. His large hands reach over the table to grab one of mine, warm—a safe haven that wraps around me, grounds me. “You and I could never be a lie. I swear.”
A slow smile, wet and sniffly, spreads across my face. “Okay, then.”
“Okay.” He looks down at my hand, pensively playing with my fingers. “Are we good? Are you feeling better?”
I watch as his index finger trails patterns on my palm now. For a moment there, it feels like he’s tracing the same letters into my skin over and over again. I…M…R…Y? But no, I must be imagining it.
We’re touching. Always touching. Again.
I want him to keep going. I want him to stop.
“I… I do feel better. Thank you. You always make me feel better.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Thanks,” I repeat.
“So, what are you going to do? About this whole work thing?”
I take a deep breath, considering my words. “I think… I think I’m going to pick peace over resentment and this… this toxic anger. I think I’m going to let Lena run with her plan, trust that she’s going to do the right thing, and just… not let this experience ruin what’s been an otherwise great job. Because it has been so fun, and I’ve learned so much. About business and project management and just a ridiculous amount of things I never even thought of. So, yeah. I think I’m choosing to let it go. At least for now.”
Will nods, lips pressed together as he processes my words. I know what he really wants to tell me. That I deserve better. That I should put up a fight. But I just don’t want to stir the pot. Which is why I appreciate it even more when he says, “I understand why you would want to go that route, even though I think you deserve more.”
“Thank you,” I say with a smile.
“And as for Molly?”
I take a shuddering breath, because my fight with her hurt me in a different, more vicious way. “I think Molly and I need to take a friend break,” I whisper, the words killing me. “She just…” I shake my head, keeping my eyes on him.
“She’s not a good friend.” His voice is deep, with a little anger to it. Protective, and I love him even more for it.
“She’s not acting like a good friend now . But she is. Usually. Or has been.”
“You deserve better, Bridge. You deserve so much more. In every regard.”
My stomach swoops and my lungs seize, his words the balm I sometimes don’t even know I need.
I love you , I want to tell him. And I feel like I’m dying from it.
Will opens his mouth to say something else, but is cut off by a slew of incessant vibrations coming from his pocket. He drops his head between his shoulders and sighs heavily, exasperated.
“Excuse me,” he practically grunts, pulling his phone out. “My boss is always riding my ass. Today he—” But he stops short when he checks the name of the person on the screen. Instantly, his face softens. “Shit, it’s my mom. I have to answer this, actually.”
“Sure, no problem.”
With an apologetic smile, he gets to his feet and steps out of the wine bar to take the call, leaving his coat behind. The waitress stops by to ask whether we’d like another bottle, but I pass. It’s only a Monday and, while I’m angry at work now, I don’t actually want to lose my job by showing up hungover. I do love it, after all. We’re just going through a rough patch. Building some character.
When Will comes back, his brow is furrowed in concern. “Sorry about that,” he says as he retakes his seat. “Just reminding me I have to go up to Connecticut this weekend for my mom’s birthday.”
“Your mom’s birthday is this weekend?” This makes me sit up in my seat, eager. “I love birthdays.”
He smiles, finally. “Of course you do.”
“When is it?”
“This Friday.”
I gasp, thrilled. “Valentine’s Day!”
He shakes his head with a grin on his face. “Yeah, Valentine’s day.”
“That’s so cool!”
“If you say so.”
“Oh my god, does she do a Valentine’s Day themed birthday party every year? I know I totally would.” My mind races with an explosion of pink and red birthday party decorations, glitter everywhere, hearts on every single flat surface, streamers hanging from any and every corner of the rooms.
Will sputters a laugh. “No, actually. This is the first time she’s felt like celebrating in several years. Her friends are throwing her a party on Saturday and she was just making sure I knew when it was.”
“Cool!”
“Is it?” He winces. “It’s going to be all women—my mom’s friends—and their kids, who are all younger than me by at least ten years. I mean, I’m really excited Mom is finally feeling up to it and all, but I’m not looking forward to the girliest birthday party in the world where I’m bound to spend the entire afternoon surrounded by people asking me the same inane questions over and over again. ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ ‘When are you getting married?’ ‘How’s work?’ ‘What have you been up to?’” I cackle at the nasally, high pitch he switches his voice to. “Nuh-uh. No, thank you. It’s going to be a nightmare,” he says, his voice returning to normal.
“But cake!” I yelp, one of the nearby tables turning to shoot me judgmental looks.
“No amount of birthday cake can make up for a night of that kind of harassment,” he says, grinning.
“That’s not possible. Even bad birthday cake is better than no birthday cake. But if it’s such a pain, take a date or something. As a buffer,” I say, before I’m able to stop myself.
A date, Bridget? We do not want him going on a date with anyone! Sure, we want him to be happy. But can we at least wait until we’re over him?
“You’ll go with me?”
I hesitate for a moment. “Me? I—I meant someone you like. Someone you could potentially see as a girlfriend or something.”
“I told you—I don’t date. And there’s no way I’m taking some random dating app girl to a family function. That’s just an invitation for drama. I’d rather take you.”
“I… Sure. If you want me to go, I mean. I definitely owe you. And I guess I can distract you. Keep you entertained. Field off any unwanted questions about your dating life or work or whatever. It’ll be my way of repaying you for coming to my rescue twice this week. Honestly, I don’t know how I would’ve survived.”
“Bridge. You don’t have to come with me over some sense of obligation. Seriously, I’m here because I want to be.”
I smile. “And I know that.”
“I’m inviting you because I want you there.”
“But also because you need a buffer.”
He laughs once. “Sure, Bridge. Whatever you say.”
“It’s just for the day, right? I don’t need to find a cat sitter for Ginger?”
“Just for the day. But… if you’re going to come—” he stops himself. Swallows once. Shakes his head.
“What?”
Will takes a deep breath and stares straight in my eyes. “Come because you want to, too. Not just because I asked.”
I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from smiling too hard. “I want to.”
“Good.” He lets go of my hand and orders the check.