Chapter 18
Chapter
Apparently by coffee, Mark Winterson meant boba. He takes me to a new place in the office park, the one I’d avoided because it looked expensive. We order at a shiny kiosk that has you tap through twelve screens of options to customize your order.
He gets a classic milk tea with less sugar—not wanting to get out over his skis in front of an audience, maybe.
At the cheaper boba place Greg and I went to in high school, I’d always get the chamoy mango.
But I get self-conscious, thinking about potential comments Mark Winterson could make, so I order a simple strawberry fruit tea instead.
He seems quieter today. That bouncy energy between us from before is missing, and I suddenly have no idea what to say to him. We stand there awkwardly for a few minutes, waiting for our drinks.
When they come up at the counter, he gets them both and motions toward the door. “It’s a nice day, let’s take a walk.”
We fall in step beside each other, crossing the grassy quad between the gray buildings.
“Looks like you want to ask me something,” he says.
“Umm, why did you want to see me? Is this the next time, when we talk about work?”
“Doesn’t have to be.” He sips his drink. “I just like talking to you.”
I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to smile too wide.
Mark Winterson nods to himself, like what I asked is worth serious reflection. “I think your perspective is refreshing. You seem so…genuine.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Like a good person.”
A sharp laugh escapes from me before I can stop it. That’s the last thing I feel like these days.
He sits down on a bench at the side of the footpath and peers up at me, a furrow between his patrician brows. “Is that funny?”
I shake my head and sit down next to him. “Just bold of you to assume.”
“Any other questions?” He eyes me as he takes a sip of his tea. “You can ask me anything, I’m an open book.”
Well, now I have to come up with something.
“What would you name a dog?”
He laughs like that’s the last thing in the world he would have expected. “Is this a test?”
“Yes.”
“You’re no-bullshit. I like that.”
I’m out of my mind right now, is what I am.
He rests his chin on his fist, imitating The Thinker. “Ralph,” he decides after some consideration.
I press my lips together, the corners of my mouth turned down in a “not bad” face. “I’ll allow it.”
“What else’ve you got?” He crosses his legs, boba cup hanging lazily between his fingers.
“If you could have dinner with anyone, living or dead, who would you pick?”
“Jack Welch,” he says without hesitation.
The old GE CEO? I think Mom had a copy of his book. I still remember the cover: a balding man in a white shirt and yellow tie, WINNING printed across the front.
Mark Winterson seems to take my silence as disapproval. “Don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t sound like a nice guy, but he was an icon. And you can’t argue with his results—the way GE’s stock price went through the roof.”
“Are you a nice guy?” I ask.
He considers this for a long moment, and his gaze flits back to the grass. “That’s for you to decide.”
Morgan comes walking by, heading to the salad place on the other side of the campus, and Mark Winterson raises his drink at her.
Great, I think, waving at Morgan, now the entire office is going to hear about this.
“Anything else?” He’s still giving me that amused, indulgent look, waiting for my next question. He’s so attractive, it makes me nauseous. That tightness between my shoulder blades is really fighting my new resolve to stand up straight.
In some ways this is a terrible idea. The power imbalance is certainly not ideal.
But my lizard brain takes in his beautiful face and thinks, Maybe maybe maybe.
The way his eyebrows slope upward toward the center, making him look good-natured and kind of sleepy.
The way his expression seems to get fuzzed out and unfocused when he’s staring at me like that.
“So what did you mean when you said you’re working on streamlining operations?”
“TKCORP is stuck in the past.” He gestures with his non-boba-holding hand, fingers splayed out, a ring on his index finger catching the light. “Frozen in amber. Like it’s still in Fordism or something. A bygone form of capitalism.”
I nod like I know what that means.
“I’m looking for ways to bring us into the twenty-first century, big and small. Rethink how we do things.”
I take a long drink and consider that, bobbing my head. “Are you telling me you’re a disruptor?”
He leans his elbows on his knees and glances sideways at me. “Figured you’d roast me if I said it like that, but…”
I can barely tamp down my smile. “Damn, one step ahead of me.”
“I’m looking for some low-hanging fruit to start. Small wins.” He waves his cup for emphasis. “What do you think about moving to Microsoft Teams?”
I inhale so violently, a clump of boba gets sucked into my windpipe and I start coughing.
What is going to happen to Mom, then?
“Whoa, whoa!” He thumps my back unhelpfully.
And oh shit, this thing is really stuck in there! I’m flailing, struggling to breathe. What an undignified way to die this would be!
Mark Winterson hands me a napkin, and I hack the boba cluster out into it.
“Wow,” he says, shoulders shaking with a barely suppressed laugh. “Between the two of us, I assumed I’d be the one to choke on boba.”
“MARK WINTERSON, YOU CANNOT MOVE US TO MICROSOFT TEAMS!” I shout as loud as my croaky lungs will let me.
“All right, all right!” His hands are up, placating. “Didn’t realize it meant that much to you! Okay, then!”
I wave a hand vaguely and swipe at my eyes.
“Sorry that suggestion was so distressing,” he says with a weak laugh, and leans back again, studying me curiously while I’m burning with embarrassment.
“Why do you always call me Mark Winterson?” He gives me a pointed look. “First and last.”
“It just…rolls off the tongue.”
He holds my gaze too long for comfort. “Does it?”
Butterflies kick up in my stomach, and a distant voice in my head says, Really? That’s what gets you going?
“You know who you look a little bit like?” I blurt out, because he’s still staring at me, and my brain has vacated the premises. I sip sheepishly on my drink.
“Jacob Elordi?” he says, and I nearly do a spit take.
“Wow, okay.” My laugh sounds husky, post-choking. “And you’re modest too.”
“Nooo, I just—” Mark Winterson chuckles nervously, a notable vibe shift. “I’ve gotten that before. Ran into him at Equinox once.”
Of course it would be Equinox.
“Everyone there, like, pressured us into taking a selfie together.”
“Pics or it didn’t happen.”
He sighs and searches in his phone, then hands it to me. The differences between them stand out more, in side-by-side comparison. For one thing, Mark Winterson is shorter.
He scoffs and looks down. “Anyway, it was embarrassing. I switched gyms after.”
I swish the ice around in my cup. “Oh yeah, relatable. Hate when that happens.”
“He’s, uh—” He smiles, trying to recover his jokey tone. “Significantly more Australian than me.”
“Significantly.” I nod. “Sounds serious. He should get that checked out.”
Mark Winterson laughs so genuinely he looks like a different person, neither Elordi nor a Victorian child but a secret third thing. Weird how faces are dynamic like that. Hard to pin down.