Chapter Twelve
Twelve
In the end, Connor doesn’t so much agree to the Lunch and Learn as he just stops resisting it. Once Ben threw his might in with mine, it was game over.
We’ve been busy all week tweaking the dashboard ahead of the big unveiling, trying to incorporate as much of the feedback from the product managers as we can, and while the guys are busy geeking out over a bunch of things I don’t understand at all, I keep busy convincing my friends one by one to attend the Lunch and Learn.
Slowly but surely, I extract attendance promises from most of Product, then Marketing, then Sales. Come to Data Strategy’s Lunch and Learn, or face my wrath.
On Wednesday, I’m deeply absorbed watching back a dashboard training video when Connor arrives. I sense him beside me but don’t look up straightaway, and when I do—fuck me.
He’s wearing a blazer.
It’s so incredibly Connor: it’s corduroy, and a deep, dark olive, just the right mix of casual and dressy, and looks perfect with whatever dark knit he’s wearing underneath.
He’s turned away, saying something to Ben at the head of the table, giving me precious seconds to regain control of my jaw, which is currently hanging open.
I’m still staring when he turns back toward me, a lurking twinkle in his eye.
I give him an exaggerated once-over.
“Did you have to go out and buy that specially?”
“Dickhead,” he laughs.
Connor and Ben spend most of the morning making final tweaks to their presentation, though I don’t know how much you could truly call it preparation.
Most of their energy is directed at putting together a deck where a little animated turtle appears on every single slide in a slightly different way.
It reminds me of the turtle I’ve been hunting on DinoCode. I should alert Stegosaurus Julie.
While the guys discuss the pros and cons of Connor opening with one of their signature would-you-rather questions—for the record, they’re leaning toward no, in case the debate gets too heated and cuts into the presentation—our building manager Priya appears on the edge of the floor.
Priya and I bonded through shared experience.
We were the only two people working late one day when one of the taps flooded the women’s washroom.
After a lengthy mission that soaked us both to the bone, she promised that if I ever needed anything all I had to do was ask. This week, I called in the favor.
“We’re good to go,” she says, stopping beside my desk. “Everything gets delivered at twelve.”
I dance in my seat. “Amazing. You’re amazing. Thank you so much, Priya.”
“I’m excited,” she says. “I can’t believe you pulled it off.”
“Neither can I,” I say frankly. “Will you send a reminder out?”
“You bet,” she says. “Slack is about to go off. I’ll see you over there in a little bit.” She waves as she goes.
I smile, pleased with my own cunning. This is going to be the best-attended Lunch and Learn this company has ever seen.
“What was that about?” Connor asks from beside me. I realize belatedly he watched the entire interaction.
“The catering for the Lunch and Learn. We’re getting Subu.”
Across from me, Martin Short bolts out of his chair. “Did you just say the word Subu?”
I don’t even bother trying to hide my grin. “Yes, Martin, I did.”
“Subu. As in, the Subu,” he confirms.
“The one and only.”
Subu is an extremely New York–famous food truck, achieving viral status online for seamlessly combining three things millennials absolutely love: sushi, burritos, and hipster branding. They regularly have lines around the block. And that’s if you can find them.
“I had no idea they catered,” John says.
“They don’t,” I tell them. “But I asked very nicely.”
What I really did was stalk their socials relentlessly, then show up at the food truck and beg: aka the mysterious date the guys were ribbing me for last week.
Carrie suggested we might have better success on this mission if we both looked, and I quote, “as hot as fucking possible.” She wasn’t wrong.
Martin and John’s excitement goes from zero to one hundred in the blink of an eye. They’re acting as if I’ve just told them Sabrina Carpenter will be coming to perform a song about the dashboard rather than a local food truck providing a bunch of giant hand rolls.
Still, if this is the reaction from these two, it bodes well for when Priya sends out her reminder. If this is my one contribution to the success of the dashboard, I am happy.
Connor hasn’t said anything, and when I turn to gauge his approval, the look he gives me holds so much affection it sets my heart racing. I’ve kept my promise, and he knows it. We are going to launch this dashboard to the moon.
—
The turnout is amazing. We get there fifteen minutes before the session starts to set up and even then, the room is already buzzing. Subu is as tempting as I hoped it would be. Connor will have a full house.
Lunch and Learns always take place in “The Pit,” a purpose-built space laid out amphitheater-style in a semicircle around the stage. Priya introduces us to an IT guy who mics up Connor and Ben and tests all the slides to make sure they’re appearing on the screen as expected.
By the time Priya returns, ushering in several trolleys of food, the place is packed. John and I swoop in and fill up a plate for the guys, knowing everything will be long gone by the time we’re done. Up front, Connor and Ben are both serene. It’s only me that’s vibrating with nervous energy.
I scan the room and am pleased to see most of the product team have actually showed—even Andy, who was very iffy about the whole thing the three times I stopped by his desk to beg him to come and bring the rest of his squad with him. I leave the guys to guard the food and go over to say hello.
Andy usually skips the Lunch and Learn, as this is exactly the kind of forced bonding that is typically beneath him. But having Andy in the room matters. If he takes up the dashboard, the rest of his team will too, and so will the rest of Product.
“You came,” I say, sliding onto the bench beside him.
“Don’t tell me you’re surprised. You’ve been reminding me all week,” he teases.
I shrug. You never know with Andy.
“Plus,” he adds, the corner of his mouth curling up, “I figured I owed you one, for forgetting you’re Canadian. I still don’t know how I did that.”
I laugh, nudging into his shoulder. “You’re forgiven.”
Connor and Ben are hanging around beside the stage, waiting to get started.
I can see him watching me talking to Andy, and I give him a wave from where I’m sitting, mouthing good luck.
I catch Carrie sliding in at the end of the back row over my shoulder just as the lights start to dim, and then we’re off.
Any anxiety I felt on his behalf is wasted. As soon as he opens his mouth, goofy Connor is gone. In his place is this other person: one who takes control of the room, cracks little self-deprecating jokes that people laugh at, who fields questions from the audience with ease.
I’m a strange mixture of proud and possessive watching him up there. Pleased he’s doing well, but also territorial, too, like Connor’s laughs and smiles were my own personal discovery, and thus meant to be exclusive to me.
He and Ben make the perfect double act, so natural with each other that you’d think they’d done this a hundred times before, each sticking to their own side of the stage and seamlessly passing their jokes back and forth, Connor in his blazer and Ben in his smart shirt.
They’re refreshingly unpretentious, never once using words like “paradigm-shifting” or “cross-platform alignment” like the rest of the execs usually do when they make minor announcements about anything.
When I scan around the room, people seem genuinely engaged with what they’re saying.
We’d agreed in advance that if no one asked any questions I would raise my hand so that Connor and Ben could demo a report, but as it turns out, we needn’t have worried.
The crowd is genuinely enthusiastic about the dashboard.
There are so many people asking him to troubleshoot their reporting issues that his presentation runs over by twenty minutes. Even Andy raises his hand.
None of us can get near Connor and Ben when the lights come up—people are literally lined up to speak to them.
But by the time I make my way over to John and Martin, Ben has managed to slip away from the crowd.
He gratefully accepts the plate of food we saved for him and the four of us settle into the debrief.
“How good was that?”
“Way better than we were hoping,” Martin answers. “Connor is going to be so jazzed.”
Ben takes a huge bite, groaning as he does. “You’re in the hall of fame for this one, Annie, for real.”
We all watch as Connor chats away, and John points out a few of the people buzzing around him, including the head of paid search, who has just pulled him aside for a one-on-one. We all agree: it’s a good sign.
With that under control, it’s now time for the second part of my secret plan: introducing Carrie to Ben. I wave her over, watching as she weaves her way through the crowd.
“Hey, Ben,” I say, wrapping a hand around his arm and pulling him away from the conversation he’d been having. “Have I introduced you to my friend Carrie?”
“No?” he says, face quizzical.
“Well,” I say to him as Carrie comes to a halt in front of us. “Carrie, this is my teammate Ben,” I say.
I’ve already lightly primed her for this; I’ve been talking up Ben, and the rest of the team, all week, telling her how great they all are and how they make a refreshing change from the losers we’re used to.
Ben and Carrie chat away, and soon we’re joined by Martin and John. I’m not exactly sure how we got there, conversationally, but by the time Connor makes his way over to us we’re all deeply engrossed in a debate about whether it’s better to have arms for legs or legs for arms.
“Glad that’s over,” he says when I hand him a plate of food.