Chapter 7
SEVEN
ABBEY
The first night I close with Cesar, the assistant team captain, he invites me to La Cuchara.
He and Aurora have been friends since they both worked part-time at the dinky Hometown location in Dinkytown, a neighborhood at the University of Minnesota.
They couldn’t be more different. Aurora’s small, quiet, aloof; Cesar is loud, forthright, and decisive.
He knows everything about everyone at Hometown, he tells me as we slide into a booth, and over the course of the evening, he makes a point to find out as much as he can about me, too.
He asks question after question about TC Weekly and the time I got to interview Lenora León, Minnesota’s Martha Stewart, whose local cooking and shabby chic décor show got picked up by a national home and garden cable channel.
“I love that show!” he cries. “Was Lenora a total bitch?”
“Not even close,” I say. “She was exceedingly nice.”
“Exceptional taste and she’s not a bitch!” he says cheerfully. “She’s impossible to hate.” He dips a chip into a bowl of queso. “So, tell me, Abbey Rhodes, is there a magnificent other in your life?”
I snort at his play on significant other and take another gulp of my second marg. I’m not sure that I should tell him about Wil at the HollowPoint show but what the hell? The tequila has loosened my tongue.
“Funny story,” I say. “I met Wil at The Golden before I even applied. Sam was there, too, and he called him Jaws, but I didn’t get his real name. And, total coincidence, I walked into the store the next day to buy the new Mellencamp and there he was.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
I balk. “Of course not! He left early because Sam’s baby was sick. Not that I would have!” I probably would have.
“Oh, too bad.”
I take another drink, debating whether I should continue. Again, what the hell. Hopefully this doesn’t get back to Wil.
“He seems pretty magnificent.” I pause. “I mean, if there wasn’t that whole ‘fraternization’ policy.” I use finger quotes. “And the fact that he’s my boss.”
“What fraternization policy?” Cesar asks.
“Something about not hanging out with or dating your coworkers?”
“Pfft. Hanging out? Like we’re doing right now? That policy is a myth, sister. I don’t remember anything in the handbook about it. I’d be the first person to quit if I couldn’t go out for a marg with my work fam. How else are we supposed to get through the day?”
“You’ve read the handbook?”
He purses his lips and looks up in thought.
“Actually, no. Is there one? The only thing I’ve ever heard is that they don’t want keyholders to date other keyholders, you know?
Like if you both had access to the cashola.
Also, girl, you do not want to date Wil, even if he is so, so hot.
The shine will wear off soon, precious. His default setting is grumpy, too grumpy for your sweet self, although I can’t say I blame him.
And I’d say he gets by on his looks alone, but we all know that’s not true. ”
I have no idea what Cesar means, but I’m feeling too buzzed to care. I’ll switch to water after this one. “What about you? Any magnificent others?”
“Oh, sweetcheeks,” he says, “where do I even begin?”
I lean forward to give Cesar my undivided attention and try not to think about Wil.
The next morning as I wait with a handful of teammates for Wil to unlock the front doors, I think about that conversation and wonder what Cesar meant about Wil not getting by on looks alone. What? He’s smart? He’s got a natural talent for merchandising? Both of those things seem true.
I follow him into the store, finish the banana I bought at the gas station on my way in, and toss the peel into a trash can. “Good morning, Wil,” I say in my cheeriest voice.
He grunts and walks toward the Dugout without a word.
“Have a good day!” I call after him.
Cesar is right. Wil’s default setting, at least at the store, is grump, and I can’t help but wonder which is the real Wil—grumpy work Wil or flirty Golden Wil.
Aurora sends me back to the peaceful media corner of the warehouse to sort the cycle that arrived on last night’s truck. Courtney, one of the full-timers, huffs. “Why does she get to sort cycle? I never get to sort cycle anymore!”
Aurora rolls her eyes. “Maybe it’s because it takes you three times as long. You can set the new VHS endcaps.”
Courtney stomps off to the movies section.
The change of pace at Hometown Electronics—and the different way I use my brain—has been exactly what I needed.
I’ve adapted to the early mornings, and I love those four quiet hours before the store opens.
I don’t even have to think about what to wear every day: khakis, a fitted T-shirt, and my Hometown baseball jersey, which is softer and more comfortable than it looks.
Sorting cycle is my favorite task, and usually, no one bothers me.
I crack an ice-cold Diet Coke and dig into the first tote.
I find my rhythm. I sort and stack, sort and stack, occasionally finding a gem that I tuck away in a special pile: CDs to buy once my employee discount kicks in.
Today, I’ve set aside two so far. Soundgarden Down on the Upside and The Wallflowers Bringing Down the Horse.
The instant access to CDs mostly makes up for the fact that Bri and I haven’t gone out to see a show since I started.
Once I’m finished sorting, I’ll load everything up on carts and stock the sales floor.
I turn up the radio and shimmy to “Radiation Vibe” by Fountains of Wayne while I move from the totes to the table, from the table to the totes and back again.
I pause to look at the track listing for the soundtrack to That Thing You Do!
, which released yesterday, even though the movie doesn’t come out for another couple of weeks.
“Oh, I can’t wait to see this movie!” I say to myself, then stack the CD in my to-buy pile.
“Rhodes!” someone behind me barks, and I jump.
“Judas Priest!” I cry. So much for no one bothering me.
I turn to find Wil at the end of one of the sorting tables, gripping his ever-present clipboard. His hair’s neat today, but he hasn’t shaved, and there’s a little bit of scruff that makes me want to run my lips and teeth and tongue across his jaw to see what it would feel like.
Nope. Do not think about that… or the sensation of that scruff against your…
What is wrong with me? Stop!
“You scared me.” I clutch at my chest. “Can’t you see I’m in my groove here?”
“In your groove and not up front for the morning meeting,” he says, low and raspy and… grumpy.
Wil doesn’t raise his voice when he’s unhappy about something.
He gets quiet and deliberate and sharp, like a hot poker, and that’s worse somehow.
He always seems worried about something and has unhealthy, unrealistic expectations for perfection—a neat and orderly warehouse, flawless ad set, impeccable closing execution.
Of course he’s stressed if he can’t let anything go.
“What are you talking about? It can’t be much past nine.” I narrow my eyes and glance at my watch. It’s 9:56, and we open in four minutes. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t hear the announcement!”
He points at the boom box. “Maybe you shouldn’t have the music up so loud.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“Don’t let it happen again.” He pauses. “You’re good at this. Fast. It’s hard to stay mad at you when you do your job so well.”
It’s hard to stay mad at him for growling at me when he says things like that. I smile, and he scowls. Scowls.
I take back what I said about him being nice, and I can stay mad at him. Not only would I not date him because he’s my boss, but I also wouldn’t date him because it turns out that he’s rude.
Not that he wants to date me, of course.
And—and why is he staring at my chest? Good grief, what is wrong with the men of this world? Patriarchal conditioning and entitlement are real. I lift my chin in defiance and am about to tell him off when he says, “Put your jersey on and get out to your department.”
I gesture at the sorting tables and the nearly empty pallet. “I’ve got two totes left. Can’t I finish?”
He ignores me. “Wheel out one of the carts. You can stock while you’re on the floor.”
Wil walks away and I huff. I smooth down my snug white T-shirt and realize there’s a Diet Coke stain on my boob. No wonder he was looking at my chest.
“Don’t let him get to you.” Sam’s voice comes from behind a shelf and my heart jumps into my throat. He comes around the corner, a big grin across his face.
“Geez, don’t scare me like that. Were you there the whole time?”
“Yep. Kind of a big deal if Wil tells you you’re doing a good job this early in the game.”
I toss on my Hometown jersey, do up the buttons, and twist my hair up, then secure it with a claw clip. “Huh. Sounded like it cost him a few years of his life to admit it. He’s extra crabby today.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure, you know.”
It doesn’t seem like he’s under any more pressure than the other managers. “What do you mean?” I crouch down to place a stack of soundtracks on the bottom shelf of the library cart.
“There’s no way you could be Jeff Wilshire’s son and not feel the pressure.”
I straighten and reach for my Diet Coke. “Who’s Jeff Wilshire?” I hear a loud guffaw from Eric a couple of aisles up.
“Who’s Jeff Wilshire?” Sam repeats as I take a long drink. “Founder and CEO of Hometown Electronics, Jefferson A. Wilshire the third? Heard of him?”
The soda goes down the wrong pipe and I sputter. “What? Wil is the son of the CEO? And his name is Wil Wilshire?”
Sam laughs again. “Yes, he’s the son, and no, his name is Jefferson A. Wilshire the fourth. He’s Wil, his dad’s Jeff, his grandfather was JW, and I have no idea what they called the first one.”
“What?!” My stomach drops and I can feel the color whooshing from my face.
Wil’s the son of the CEO, like scumbag Ryan and his uncle Slick Dick at TC Weekly.
I swallow hard. I haven’t thought about Ryan and his sleazeball hands for days.
“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? Why didn’t anyone tell me this? ”
“I thought you knew. I figured Cesar would have filled you in on day one.”
Oh, I’ll be having words with Cesar about this. “Jefferson Wilshire,” I mumble to myself. “Sounds like an intersection in LA. What does the A stand for? Airplane?”
“Good one,” Sam says. “You’re actually perfect for this job.”
I blow out a breath and think back on the conversations I’ve had with Wil.
I hope I haven’t said anything too unprofessional and wonder how I could have missed this key piece of information that honestly, someone should have told us in Team Training.
I’m worried that this might change things—how hard I work, for example, even though I work damn hard already.
I’ll have to be more careful to avoid mistakes, like missing the morning meeting.
And then I wonder if he’s done anything inappropriate that I’ve missed in my efforts to learn the job and do it well. I can’t recall Wil having done anything… untoward… except for looking at the stain on my boob.
I shouldn’t have to worry about this. No one should have to worry about this. It’s complete bullshit that women—or anyone!—should have to worry about nepotism and power differentials in the workplace.
“You’re not worried, are you?” Sam asks.
I peer up at him, wrinkling my brow. “Are you a mind-reader?” I sure hope not. I lock the stray thoughts of Ryan back up in the darkest, mustiest corner of my mind.
“You don’t exactly have a poker face,” he says. “There’s no reason to worry. Wil’s one of us.”
Oh, sure, except that he’s Wil Wilshire.
Whatever. It’s decided. I need to look for a new job, no matter how much I love sorting CDs.
I’ll call Tamsa and Kim this afternoon after I get home from work and ask them for letters of recommendation, and I’ll dig the Sunday paper out of the recycling bin to scan the employment ads for a journalism gig.
I’ll update my resume. I’ve written three stories for psycho logic and I’ve got plenty more ideas.
I’ll hammer something out about Primary Colors, the political novel published earlier this year, and send it to Hal tonight.
In the meantime, I’ll do whatever it takes to avoid the CEO’s son.