Chapter Eleven #3
“Dan and your sister are in love,” she tells me firmly. “They’re moving forward. It’s water under the bridge.”
“That’s not the impression I got.”
“Sweetheart, I know Dan’s not your favorite, but it’s time to let this go.” The edge in her voice is a warning. “You’re not here. You don’t see everything. This is what she wants. Your sister is happy.”
What I’ve never been able to figure out: is Mom delusional, or am I? Either way, if this is Shannon’s version of happy, it sucks.
“So will you call him?” she prompts.
“I don’t know, Mom. Don’t you think we should let Shannon plan her own wedding?”
“She is planning her own wedding! This is just groundwork. Something nice you can do for your sister. I think she’d really appreciate the effort.”
“OK,” I agree, resigned. “I will reach out and see what he says.”
“That’s my girl,” Mom says, pleased. “And ask him if they do gluten-free!”
It’s the next day before he replies to my DM, but as it turns out, Thomas is delighted to hear from me.
He remembers Shannon, of course, sees her around sometimes, doesn’t mind looking into it for me, as long as I keep it quiet. If people knew he had the power to influence the wedding bookings, he’d be inundated.
He gives me the information, offers to be my wedding date (as a joke), then says his goodbyes.
It’s mid-morning. Connor and Ben have both been on a video call with Brad and the rest of the exec team for the last hour.
Ben’s so bored he’s practically asleep, his head leaning on his wrist, his eyes falling in long, slow blinks.
Judging from Connor’s posture now, he deeply disagrees with whatever is being discussed.
He’s leaning back with his arms crossed, a deep groove between his eyebrows.
Now that I’ve had leisure to observe it more closely, I can confirm that (sadly) Connor is occasionally Brad’s bitch—though not his friend, as was previously suggested to me.
Connor reports to Brad, so he can’t easily tell him to fuck off, even when I can tell that he wants to. Which is a shame. Because Brad comes by a lot, always at an inconvenient time, to discuss issues that I’m almost certain are none of his business.
I whisper across to Marty that I’m going to make a call, then decamp to a booth, and dial my sister. It rings so long I don’t think she’s going to answer. But then the call connects, and the sound of her voice emerges through the garble of her car’s speakerphone.
“Hey,” I say, trying to pretend like calling her like this is very normal.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” I promise. “Did you know Mom is making wedding inquiries on your behalf?”
“I did not,” Shannon says. I can hear the sound of her indicator clicking away in the background.
“Well, she is. She asked me to get in touch with my friend Thomas who works at The King’s Glen.”
“Who?” Shannon asks.
“My date from prom,” I tell her.
“You mean the guy you went with as a friend and then made out with on the dance floor?”
“That’s the one.” I cringe. Never tell Shannon anything. Her mind is a steel trap.
“I’m pulling up to a viewing,” she tells me. “Get to the point.”
“Right. So, they have like, no availability left for the rest of the year,” I tell her. “Unless you wanted to look at the first weekend in December, which is booked, but the couple hasn’t paid, so might be canceled.”
“I don’t want a winter wedding,” she says.
“OK. Then your only other option is to go on the waitlist. Otherwise, they’re taking bookings for next autumn. The summer is fully booked.”
“Hmm,” she says. I have no idea how to interpret this.
“Anyway, I just wanted to give you a heads-up before I gave this information to Mom.”
“Maybe hold off on doing that? Tell her you haven’t heard, if she asks.”
Are Shannon and I about to have…a secret?
“You bet. I will tell Mom nothing.”
I feel giddy with triumph. It’s me and Shannon against the world.
“Great. I have to go now,” she says. She cuts out mid-goodbye.
—
Since in technical terms I am what’s known as “totally useless,” Connor leaves me to solve the dashboard problem. Namely, to figure out why no one wants to use it.
This isn’t that different from what I spent all day doing on my old team, except instead of collecting feedback from customers as they tested new beta features, I’m collecting feedback internally.
I run a series of small focus groups with squad leaders from Marketing, Sales, and Product, and what becomes clear almost immediately is that poor dashboard uptake isn’t a usability issue, but a political one.
No one likes that they’re being forced to give up their own individual reporting tools of choice and made to use this new one just because the executive team said so.
The sessions all have a strong flavor of group therapy, something Connor finds frustrating and which I find totally amusing.
To Connor—the person who has spent the last year building the dashboard—the pointless resistance to a tool that is better, and more useful, than what most teams are using instead makes no sense whatsoever.
But what he’s forgetting is how fucking spoiled everyone who works here is.
Taskio prides itself on hiring the best of the best (vomit), and though this is a nice idea in theory, what it really means is that by the time the golden candidate has been selected and hired, they think they’re God’s gift to big tech.
Every person here truly believes they are the best and smartest person in the room, a position that affords them the license to do whatever they want—and when they can’t, complain about it forever.
Did I say this place was like high school? Maybe I meant nursery school.
—
I get to work first the next morning, arriving just a few minutes before Ben, who looks different for some reason. I study him as he empties the contents of his coat pocket onto his desk, depositing his wallet, keys, and phone in front of him.
I tilt my head, taking him in further, trying to pinpoint the source of his allure. “Did you cut your hair?”
“No,” he says, dry as ever. “A trained professional named Jim did it for me.”
“My compliments to Jim, then. It looks really good.”
Connor pulls up just as I say this, and Ben gets really bashful, looking from Connor to me and then down at his feet as he mumbles out thanks.
“Don’t you think Ben’s hair looks good?”
“Uh, yeah,” Connor says. “Nice haircut, Ben.”
Ben looks like he would rather die than discuss his haircut for even one more second, leading me to wonder if he has ever received a compliment in his life.
We all take our places at our desks, the three of us arranged like the points of a triangle.
It’s awkward, almost, the way we’re suspiciously eyeing one another; me watching Ben, Connor watching me watching Ben, Ben watching Connor watching me watching Ben, on a loop. None of us are saying anything.
These guys, I tell you.
Still, Ben’s haircut is striking, and later in the morning, when he cracks a very signature Ben joke in Marty’s direction, a thought blinds me: Ben could go out with Carrie. Ben and Carrie would be perfect for each other!
I have no evidence to support this. I can’t point to a single tangible reason why I’m sure of it, yet somehow, I am, and when I imagine Ben and Connor tagging along on all our days and nights out—obviously, Ben will bring Connor, that goes without saying—instead of a pit of dread in my stomach I feel a pleasant buzz, like a portal of fun and possibility has opened and all we need do is walk through it.
I love this plan. This is my best plan ever.
A rogue thought shatters the daydream. Is Ben single? Martha thought not; but in the weeks since, I’ve never heard Ben mention anyone. Didn’t we all talk about dating apps that first day? I need to be certain.
For the rest of the morning, I covertly watch Ben, who avoids making eye contact with me, very pointedly. I know Connor notices me doing this—he gives me a look like stop it you’re being weird now. But I can’t. I’m a woman possessed. I have to know.
When Ben eventually gets up from his desk, I wait three seconds and then follow him, trailing behind him at a distance until he’s at the elevators. I dart in just as the doors are closing.
“Hey, Ben,” I chirp.
“Whoa, where did you come from?” Ben says, jumping at the sound of my voice.
“Just a quick question for you,” I continue, crowding him back into the lift. “I was wondering: are you single?”
He presses himself against the back wall, like he’s trying to physically distance himself from the question. The look on his face is one of muted terror.
“Wh-what makes you ask that?”
“Just wondering,” I say, trying not to spook him further. He’s really squirming here. “I haven’t heard you mention anyone.”
“Hah, right,” he says, his shoulders lowering.
“So are you?” I press.
He tenses again. “Er. Yeah.”
I beam at him. “That’s great news.”
“Is it? I mean, we all are. Me, Marty, John. Connor,” he adds meaningfully.
“Right, yeah. I knew that. You were the question mark.”
Ben forces out a strangled laugh. “Well, now you know. The whole team is. Look at that. All of us. Equally single.”
I was not expecting Ben to be this nervous just having to admit that he’s single. It doesn’t bode well for his first date with Carrie, who is a very confident woman. Maybe I will have to chaperone.
“So, was there any reason you were wondering…?” Ben asks again, still wary.
“It’s just good to know these things,” I tell him, not wanting to reveal my true purpose. Subtlety is key when it comes to matchmaking. “You never know who might be interested in hearing that information.”
“Hmm, right, yeah. Of course. But you know…” He trails off for a second, then light dawns. “Office relationships are forbidden.”
“They…are?”
“Yeah. Super frowned upon,” he says, nodding with vigor. “You could get fired. I could get fired. My boss is really against it.”
“Your boss…Connor?”