Chapter Five
Bernie
Pru: Well?
I sip my coffee and stare blankly at the welcome slide on the screen at the front of the room. People really need to branch out with their PowerPoint slide decks.
I glance down at my phone. I know what she wants. She wants me to spill and give her a play-by-play of my date with Ashish.
How do I tell my best friend that I had the most amazing sex of my life? That he brought me hand-cut noodles and a boba order I didn’t even know I needed? That he held me while I slept and woke me with the softest sweetest kisses behind my ear?
How do I tell her he kissed down my body and soothed all the soreness with his naughty freaking mouth? That same mouth that had me half-convinced to skip my morning CRM sessions and stay in bed with him. If I were irresponsible, I’d be sipping this coffee in some café, staring at him like a dope. Part of me seriously regretted not doing that.
The foolish part , I think wryly, as I open the notes app on my laptop. I’m here to work . Isn’t shit like this what got me into this mess in the first place?
Bernie: Well, what?
Pru: Bernadette Sara Ahmed Murphy, I know you’re not dumb. You tell me right freaking now how your date went!
Bernie: That is definitely not my middle name. Sessions starting, talk later.
I power off my phone and put it in my bag.
***
I am mechanically shoveling salad into my mouth and watching my coworkers argue across the table when I feel someone sit next to me.
“How are you doing, kid?” Gail’s voice is soft, and I watch her arrange her plate and drink just so.
“Good. CRM sessions were dry. Not sure the right vendor is here, but we can talk about it.” She hums and takes a bite of salmon.
“When are CRM sessions not dry?”
I snort, because touché. I like a good software demo but I know I’m in the minority.
I eat more with a grimace. Vegetarian conference meals suck. It is a universal truth that both lunch and dinner are destined to be shitty salads with beans and maybe unseasoned tofu. I wish I had the noodles Ash brought me last night. Or maybe that frosting.
Maybe you wouldn’t be so hungry if you left yourself enough time for breakfast instead of letting some hot cardiologist show you how good he is with his tongue while you imagine what your kids would look like.
What part of the brain is responsible for being an asshole?
“You good with tonight?”
“Huh? Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Maybe I should eat a roll? I eye the bread basket. Is there even butter?
Mid-reach, Gail catches me off guard. “I’m not stupid, you know.”
“Umm…I know?” I give her a quizzical look, dry whole wheat limply in my hand.
“Graham from Seattle State has asked me three times if you’re here. What’s going on with that? Are you being poached to go back?”
I rip the roll apart and aggressively spread butter on the cold bread. The stupid butter is cold and the bread is dry so the butter just rolls around not matter the pressure I use with the knife.
What kind of world is this that I can’t even enjoy bread?
Gail continues, making me feel worse. “We’re happy with you at West Lafayette, Bernie. If you’re unhappy, I would hope that you’d just tell me.”
She lets that hang between us, and I feel like a coward. I set down my butter knife and look at her.
“Gail, I’m not going anywhere. It’s…Seattle isn’t poaching me. It’s…um…it’s a personal matter alright?”
“Personal.” She frowns at me. “You need to tell me more than that. Graham seems to have a bee up his ass. I know their team is missing you and we scooped that Department of Ed workforce deal because of you. Everyone knows having your research expertise to write proposals is–”
“Gail. I’m not going anywhere. I like West Lafayette, I like you. I…” I eye the roll. Maybe if I shove it in my mouth, I’ll choke on it and be excused from this conversation because of a medical emergency.
Death by bread.
“Bernie, I know everybody likes Graham. And everyone thinks he’s going to be the next director of the NSF, but you need to trust me. In the end, he’s, well he’s going to think about Graham. He only looks out for himself, and at this stage in your career it’s probably not–”
“Stephen is my ex,” I blurt because I cannot let her tell me things I, unfortunately, learned too late. “We…we haven’t talked in a while. He’s trying to talk to me. I don’t know why. You don’t need to worry; I’m not going back to Seattle. I appreciate the chance you gave me, Gail. I’m loyal.”
I shove a bite of cold bread in my mouth and chew vigorously. Gail is noticeably quiet. I shove more bread into my mouth as I feel heat overtake my face. Fuck, this is humiliating.
“Your ex,” she says the words slowly. “Your ex is Graham…you – kid, when were you together?”
I swallow hard, choking down my bite. “Don’t worry about it, Gail. We don’t have to talk about it.” She turns to look at me, her mouth pressed into a thin line. She looks pissed.
“Were you together when you were at Seattle State? Didn’t, wasn’t he your–” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. The bread turns into a literal rock in my stomach, and I make myself dip my chin once.
I don’t want Gail to know that I’m a dumbass. I don’t want her to think less of me. I just want her to see me –my effort, my commitment. Not that I’m the dumb post-doc that dated her freaking boss. I don’t want her to see that I’m the fool who literally threw away seven years of work because I trusted someone that I thought loved me and had my best interests at heart.
“Bernie, he’s going to be there tonight at the happy hour and the dinner.”
“I know,” I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“I can’t spare you, kid.”
I nod glumly looking at my watery iced tea. “It’s fine, Gail.”
“You’re tough. You’ll be fine.” Her words are sharp, but the hand she puts on my shoulder is soft, leaving gentle, hesitant pats.
It almost breaks me. I gather my things and turn to her, a tight smile on my face. “Thanks. I’ll see you tonight. I have one more CRM session, then I’m going to head back to my room to collate the notes and change before happy hour. Let’s hope they have at least one vegetarian appetizer, huh?” I joke, trying to bring levity to the situation. I don’t wait for her to respond before hustling out of the conference ballroom.
Fuck you, Stephen Graham.