Chapter 14
Chapter
The lights in the gym swirl, multicolored. Around the room, people are loudly recognizing one another and embracing.
It’s strange returning to the scene of so many old insecurities—where I had PE and worried about how frumpy I looked in gym clothes, and where I stood around during dances, wondering who to talk to.
So many people from high school work at TKCORP, this might as well be a work outing.
Minhee from Public Relations is catching up with Sergio from Data Analytics.
Matt from Nuisance Abatement, Laura from Transportation Solutions, and Priya from Design are laughing in a cluster to my right.
I’m vaguely on a “saying hi in the hall” basis with all of them, but the idea of making small talk still fills me with anxiety.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my head. It feels unnatural, like my muscles are tied with a rubber band and they’ll just snap back again. Standing up straight never seems to stick.
Mom always said it’s smart to keep a low profile, that it’s dangerous to be a tall poppy. Maybe my body took those things literally? Without thinking about it, I shrink myself, curling in protectively.
But this dress isn’t meant for that—it’s strappy, floral purple, clinging in all the right places. I measured myself from every angle before I ordered it online, and unlike all my work clothes, it fits like a glove.
Greg and I arrived together, but I’ve lost him already. Some wingman he is.
He’s on the other side of the gym, deep in conversation with a group of people from different TKCORP departments. And is he handing out business cards? God, who even is he?
“Ruby!” someone exclaims, and I turn around.
It’s Anna Del Amo. She moved to New York to work in journalism after college, and I’d see her around occasionally, one of those “catching up over lunch every two years” kinds of relationships.
“Anna!” It’s a relief to see a friendly face. “Let’s take a photo?”
I need something to show Mom, after all. Anna leans in, and I stretch my arm as far as it will go for a selfie. I never know what to do with my mouth when it’s time for a picture—posing makes me tense, and by the time it gets taken I look scared and constipated. But I give it my best.
“How have you been, girl?” Anna nudges me playfully.
“Oh, the same.” Hearing myself say that makes me feel slightly hysterical. “How’s New York?”
She lets out a big puff of air. “It’s a grind, trying to freelance. If things get bad, I can always sell my eggs.”
Steve the Project Manager drifts over to us and strikes up a conversation with Anna, just as a man in a tan suit stops in front of me.
Mark Winterson? I think for a split second, before my eyes focus and I recognize the guy who made me laugh during every chem lab in junior year.
“Ruby Ocampo!” he exclaims, grinning. “Oh my God.”
“Eddie Ortega! As I live and breathe.” I’m astonished anyone remembers me, given how invisible I felt in school.
I point to my phone and he plucks it from my hand, holding it out with his longer arms to take the photo. His face is so close to mine, I can feel his stubble on my cheek.
“It’s been a million years!” Eddie says. I feel buzzed, and I haven’t even had a drink yet. “What are you doing these days?”
I make a raspberry with my lips. “I don’t know half the time, honestly. How about you?”
Eddie bobs his head up and down and takes another sip of his beer. “Working construction. Good union job. Not fancy or anything, but—” He leans over and whispers how much he makes, and my eyes widen. The DATE SOMEONE IN A HIGHER TAX brACKET to-do list item flashes before me.
No, I need to prioritize here, rule out one thing at a time.
Think of the scientific method! This is BE SOCIAL AND NORMAL (SUB-ITEM: MAKE MORE OF AN EFFORT WITH YOUR APPEARANCE) night.
And the fact that he just told me his salary after years of not seeing him does make Eddie instantly less charming somehow.
“Oh, um—” I squint and make a vague gesture. “I think I see…someone. Nice talking to you, Eddie.”
I push my way through the crowd, plop down in the bottom row of the bleachers, and upload the photos I’ve taken tonight into the haunted Slack DM—the ones with Anna and Eddie, plus a group photo I crowded into with Greg when we first arrived.
ruby.ocampo:
Went to my high school reunion tonight! Nice to see everyone.
There’s no reply, and my chest feels tight—half hoping it worked, half scared that it did, because there’s still so much I never figured out how to say.
But then, at the bottom of the window, I see that sampaguita72 is typing.
sampaguita72:
Such a short dress!
Is that Greg with you?
ruby.ocampo:
Yeah, it’s his high school reunion too!
A familiar irritation climbs up my spine, like Mom is giving me her classic stink-eye as I slink in the front door. How can I reframe this to give her maximum peace of mind?
ruby.ocampo:
I’m pretty sure Eddie Ortega was flirting with me? You won’t believe his take-home pay!
She doesn’t say anything for a while, and I can just picture her, hair up in curlers, arms crossed, chewing over what I just said.
ruby.ocampo:
Do you feel any different?
Do you see a light??
sampaguita72:
Why should I be any different?
What are you talking about?
It was silly to think one night of being slightly more charming and standing up straight could be enough to convince her she can rest easy. Maybe I have to do something she can see—something in Slack, in front of her. Of course! How dumb could I be?
My head lolls back, and over my shoulder I see Greg at the top of the bleachers, holding his hand up in a little wave. So I clamber up there in my precarious heels and sit next to him, relaxing into my usual slouch.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, taking a drink of his beer and tilting it toward me.
“Mostly numb?” I accept the green bottle, condensation cool between my fingers, and it tastes so refreshing that before I realize it, I’ve polished off the whole thing. “I feel bad for her.”
Greg’s shoulders shake, laughing at me. “You were thirsty.”
“It’s stressful trying to please a ghost, you know?” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and burp. “Ugh, God, my feet are killing me.” I wrench off my strappy heels and wiggle my liberated toes.
Greg leans forward and stares at me wistfully, like I remind him of something that makes him sad. “Do you really think changing your life is what she wanted?”
I scoff, hackles up in an instant. “I’m not exactly living well right now.”
“But shouldn’t you…move in a direction that you wanted? I’ve been thinking—the list you made…it’s all…”
“What’s your point?” The spinning colored lights are making me motion sick.
“Like you’re doing an impression of someone else.”
“Don’t they say fake it till you make it?” I snap, standing too fast, instantly lightheaded. “We can’t all be naturals at everything!”
“Ruby, wait—” Greg reaches for my arm, but I’m already running barefoot back onto the shiny wooden gym floor. I could use another drink.
I’m standing in the long line for one when somebody taps my shoulder.
“Hey, no shoes, no service.”
Somehow, this time it actually is Mark Winterson.
“Hey, Ruby.” His face lights up, open and boyish. My favorite unserious distraction.
Every minor encounter with this dude is super unnerving. The way he lets me get away with being totally bizarre to him, reacts like it’s some kind of admirable quality, even—it gives me a buzz. It’s addictive.
I narrow my eyes. “Did you even go here?”
“Oh, I, uh—I didn’t, actually, but my little sister did. She had this whole teenage rebellion thing, demanded to go to public school, be among the people.”
Of course he’d be a private school kid.
He points to the freckled brunette chatting people up as she serves drinks, and oh yeah, Sandra Winterson! I remember. There actually is quite a strong family resemblance.
“She’s on the committee that put this thing on, and they were disorganized, and she called me to do an emergency beer run, and…
” He stops himself with a bashful grin. “Sorry, I’m rambling.
Yeah, I didn’t go here. But I’m glad you did, so I could run into you.
” Mark Winterson raises his bottle, like he’s toasting me. “Actually—hold that thought.”
He pulls me out of the line with the gentlest tug on my elbow, and my stomach swoops at that light touch. Then he walks behind the table, says something to his sister, and comes back with a beer for me.
“Wow, full service,” I say.
“No shoes required,” he says, clinking his bottle against mine and taking a long swig. He loosens his tie one-handed, and more of his neck peeks out beneath his shirt collar.
Is he…nervous? The idea that I might fluster him makes me feel strangely accomplished.
I can just hear my roommate back in New York—what she told me once, in her flat tone, when I was debriefing about a mediocre date that followed a streak of very promising texting. Ruby, you just want someone to be obsessed with you.
It stung because it was true. If someone is obsessed with me, maybe it means I’m doing something right, without trying, even when I always feel like a failure.
“How was the family thing?” he asks quietly, and his eyes flick up and down, taking me in.
Such a short dress!
“Oh.” I force a weary smile. “I guess it’s less of a discrete thing, and more of an ongoing series of tasks. But thanks for asking.”
“Well, I mean it,” Mark Winterson says, taking a step closer. “If there’s anything I can ever do to help, let me know?”
Over his shoulder, I see Greg talking to Rebecca Turner, the girl he actually ended up taking to prom. She’s Rebecca from HR now, also a TKCORP employee.
Suddenly it’s as though the cinder-block walls of the gym have time travel properties. I can feel myself melting into a slouch. And Greg’s back is really…filling out that suit? It looks broader than the last time I saw it, somehow. Must be all those lunchtime gym trips.
I rotate my shoulders, turning my attention back to the man in front of me. “So, what do you do all day, Mark Winterson?” I raise my bottle to him. “Walk me through it?”
He makes a circular gesture with his beer-holding hand. “Taking meetings. Talking strategy. Finding ways to boost our sales. And learning how things work here—keeping an eye on those margins, identifying opportunities to streamline operations…” He shakes his head. “Not that interesting, really.”
Mark Winterson takes another sip of his drink, and his eyes lock on mine. “Weren’t we going to get coffee sometime?”
DATE SOMEONE IN A HIGHER TAX brACKET flashes like a neon sign before me. Maybe the scientific method isn’t that useful in this fluid situation.
“Friendly, professional coffee, obviously,” he adds.
Okay, we can start there.
“Yeah! I’d love to!” I say louder than necessary. “Have your people contact my people.”
Behind Mark Winterson, Rebecca is still talking to Greg, but for some reason he’s staring at me. And I see now that he has my shoes, dangling from two fingers.
“Mark! I need some help here!” Sandra Winterson calls from the drinks table.
“Oh, I should—” Mark Winterson jabs a thumb over his shoulder.
“Right, of course!”
“But we’ll be in touch.” He points at me again as he walks backward toward his sister.
Big on pointing, this guy! It’s a bit douchey and weirdly endearing at the same time (confusing!).
Cartoonish, but at least it’s decisive—unlike Greg was back then, not even having the courtesy to reject me directly.
At least Mark Winterson is direct. I’m talking to you, my eyes are on you. You you you.
Greg drifts over, swinging my shoes. “I think I’ll head out?” he says, handing them to me. “Unless you need me for anything.”
“I’ll go too,” I say, balancing while I resecure the straps. And when I start to tip over—I’m a total lightweight, and that second beer did me in—Greg steadies me with a hand on my back.
A burst of memory rushes in so fast it gives me vertigo—my sun-flooded living room on an afternoon after school, Greg’s hand on my back, the other in my hair—
I straighten quickly, walking with purpose to the parking lot, and Greg catches up, falling into step beside me. The silence is uncomfortably thick.
We reach our cars, parked beside each other—there’s his red 2005 Acura RSX, still well maintained and beloved.
Greg hesitates before reaching for his car door. “You know what ‘streamline operations’ means, right?”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“No, I—” He makes a throaty sound and catches himself. “I mean, yeah, maybe.”
My chest warms up, but I give him an unimpressed look. “Okay, why don’t you enlighten me?”
When we were younger, Greg had a habit of talking to me about books I hadn’t read, like I would have something interesting to say about them anyway. Until one day I snapped at him: Why are you always asking me questions you know I can’t answer? And he mumbled, Because I value your opinion.
But this time he glances away, toward the far end of the parking lot, like he’s fighting himself on how much to say.
“You’re smart,” he says finally. “You’ll figure it out.”
The whole thing annoys me, so I try to forget about it. Instead, that interaction with Mark Winterson loops in my head for the whole drive home. It makes me groan out loud. At one point, at a red light, I make a long, quiet Aaaaaaa! sound.
When I park in my driveway and check my phone, there’s a calendar invite. Coffee with Mark for Wednesday afternoon.