Chapter Eleven #4
“And your boss,” he agrees. “Connor. Very against workplace relationships. He wouldn’t even like that we’re talking about this sort of thing right now.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Oh look at that, we’re here,” he says as the elevator dings.
I step out into the cafeteria and wait for him to follow.
“Do you know what, I just realized I forgot something,” he says, jabbing at a button in front of him. “I’ll go back down and get it. No need to wait for me. I’ll see ya!”
The door slides shut.
I’m baffled by what just happened there. Workplace relationships are forbidden? If that were true, this place would have no need for annual layoffs; we’d lose ten percent of the workforce after every Christmas party.
I can’t imagine Connor taking a firm stance on it, either. Though you never know; he is a stickler for the rules at times. I don’t think it’s a deal-breaker. I hope not, anyway. I’ll figure it out.
—
It takes me a week to get a working list of the most common objections to the dashboard and then come up with a plan. I summon the entire team to a meeting room early one Thursday morning to reveal it, sending around a calendar invite titled Operation Use the Dashboard.
Ben is first to arrive, followed immediately by Connor, who comes in carrying a coffee for himself, and one for me too. John is next, and then finally Martin, who whistles as soon as he sees me.
“Damn, Annie, all dressed up today. You got a big date tonight or something?”
I blush, immediately conscious of the fact I’m in a miniskirt, which makes everyone except Connor heckle at me, certain that they’ve called it and I have some mystery hot rendezvous that starts immediately after work.
My denial sounds weak, which only sets them off further, and though I insist I don’t have a date, and am not that dressed up, the damage is done.
I am on track to receive a light ribbing about going on a date after work for several days.
Finally, finally, we turn to work conversation, and I’m allowed to begin my presentation.
“Gentlemen,” I say, clicking my remote to pull up the first slide. “Welcome to Operation Use the Dashboard.”
I start by walking them through all the feedback sessions, pulling out a few choice quotes here and there and dividing the feedback into the three most common objections I heard, then walk them through how we can address each of these.
Most of the stuff is minor. There are a few usability issues that I need the guys to agree to address, but most of the other work I can do on my own. I show them the folder of training videos I’ve filmed on my computer already. John promises to watch every single one.
“This is awesome, Annie,” Connor says, with such genuine warmth that it makes my insides glow.
“I’m glad you think so,” I tell him, “because that brings me to the final phase of our rollout plan.”
I click the remote and the final slide springs up on the projector in front of us. It reads LUNCH AND LEARN in animated font.
His eyebrows go up. “You’re going to host a Lunch and Learn?”
“Actually, you’re going to host it. Next Wednesday.”
“No,” he says flatly.
“Yes,” I insist. “I already signed you up.”
Ben crows at this, slapping his hand down on the desk. “I love it.”
“Great, because you’re going to be up there too,” I tell him. “Connor will need some help with the demos.”
“I do not want to do a Lunch and Learn,” Connor says, looking mulish.
“It carries more weight coming from the department head,” I tell him. “And will be a really good chance for us to get a bunch of people onside with the dashboard in one go.”
“Nobody attends the Lunch and Learns,” he says.
“I have a plan for that too,” I promise him. It’s already in motion. “I just need you to get up there and talk about it.”
Connor, as it turns out, is not that keen on being in the spotlight, and spends the next few minutes arguing with me, before realizing resistance is futile and finally giving in, or appearing to.
The public part of this conversation is over, but I have a feeling it’s about to continue privately over messenger.
“Legendary behavior,” Ben congratulates me as we leave the meeting room.
“Legendary bullying, you mean.”
“Whatever works,” he says cheerfully, patting me on the back.
As expected, seconds after we return to our desks, my messenger pings.
CONNOR: TRAITOR
ANNIE: Consider this your skills test revenge my friend
CONNOR: Revenge??
CONNOR: I gave you a job. Aren’t we even?
ANNIE: Not even a little bit
CONNOR: Are you going to throw tomatoes when I get up there too or will watching my public humiliation be enough for you on its own
ANNIE: I *think* it will be enough, but I reserve the right to change my mind about that
CONNOR: Unbelievable
ANNIE: It will be great. If we want more people using the dashboard, first we need more people to know about it. Just go up there and don’t be yourself
CONNOR: Very inspiring words
ANNIE: If you’re thinking about how much extra work it’s going to be you don’t need to worry
ANNIE: I’ll make the slide deck
CONNOR: Will you do my homework for me too?
CONNOR: I can make my own slide deck. I don’t trust you not to mess with me.
ANNIE: Fine. But take it seriously
ANNIE: I think it’s important we come across as professional for this
CONNOR: And how does one come across as professional, exactly?
He turns his head toward me and raises an eyebrow, his silent signal that the rest of this conversation will take place out loud.
I wheel my chair back and turn toward him, crossing one leg over the other.
His eyes track the movement. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact my legs are on show.
Is he looking? Is it warm in here? Why am I flustered?
I refocus on the conversation at hand.
“Well,” I hedge. “I was thinking maybe you could…”
I trail off, gesturing vaguely at his sweater.
“Maybe I could…”
“You know,” I say.
“Oh, I think I’m going to need to hear you say it.”
“Get dressed up a bit,” I blurt, my cheeks burning. “Like, put on a blazer or something.”
“A blazer.”
“Maybe not.” I try to picture Connor in a blazer and simply cannot do it. “Never mind.”
“You think I dress like a slob?”
“No,” I say emphatically. “I just mean like, maybe don’t wear a hat that day. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. You know what, forget I said anything.”
I turn back toward my desk and delve into my unopened emails with vigor.
He lets the conversation drop, but later that afternoon I catch him looking pensively down at his sweater, a hand running up and down his chest.
Did I hurt his feelings? All I wanted to tell him was that if he dressed more like the extremely competent adult he is rather than cosplaying the goofy frat boy he pretends to be, people might take him more seriously.
Should I turn back to him and add an amendment like, Actually Connor, that’s one of my favorite sweaters on you.
It looks nice with your eyes. You always look great no matter what you’re wearing.
If you really want the truth, I’m finding you so hot that it’s becoming a problem for me. Please don’t change.
I say none of that, of course. I don’t dare broach the subject a second time, but instead make a silent vow to inconspicuously compliment him for being a nonslob at the next available opportunity and hope he forgets all about it.