Chapter Seven
Ten Months Ago
It had been one month since I’d started temping at the agency and, against my better judgment, I was actually enjoying it. I mean, the work was mindless and leadership was a bit lacking, but working with someone like Quinn made up for the fact that the place was run purely on the fumes of burnout. In any case, it didn’t really affect me. No one cared about administrators.
Today, however, Quinn looked extra haggard. The circles under her eyes were a bit darker, the blue a little less sparkly.
“Are you okay?” I asked as she placed three more files on my desk. She was wearing a flower-printed purple dress with pink leggings and a green silk scarf draped around her neck. Her dark hair was pulled back into two teased pigtail buns. Despite the fact that her outfit didn’t quite suit her mood, she was totally pulling it off. I loved it.
“Is it the weekend yet?” Her crossed arms rested on my high desk and her head fell to meet them.
“Are you going out for drinks after work?” I asked, hoping that would put a smile on her face. Her head rose and I was rewarded with a weak one.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“Done.”
“I’m going to drink this time though. Probably a lot.” She stood up straight and pulled her shoulders back in a stretch. “It’s been a week.”
“As you should.” I pulled the files off the top of my desk and placed them beside me. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Quinn smiled as she rubbed the back of her neck.
“Looks like someone needs a massage.” Marc, the head of Creative, walked into the lobby, hands outstretched, fingers wiggling.
“No thanks.” Quinn’s expression darkened and she turned her back towards the wall.
“But you love my massages!” Marc hung his head, pretending to be hurt. “You’ve never said no before.” He smoothed his hand over his greying hair, which was currently slicked back into a man bun.
“Mostly because you always start before I have a chance to say anything.” She crossed her arms.
“Ha!” Marc barked and leaned on the desk towards me. “Don’t listen to her. I give great massages.”
“Good to know,” I said as I rolled my chair a few inches back. He was so close I could smell the stale coffee on his breath.
“Your loss,” he said, brushing off the rejection like a piece of fuzz from his bespoke suit jacket. “See you ladies at Pile O’Bones for drinks?”
We both nodded.
“What a creep,” Quinn said after he’d left. “I’ve got a bit more to do; then do you want to walk over to the brewery together?”
I nodded. “You bet.”
“Marty!” she squealed, her eyes brightening then disappearing along with the rest of her.
I peeked over the top of my desk to find Quinn kneeling on the ground, skirt splayed, Marty’s furry rear end wagging back and forth frantically underneath it.
She giggled as I sighed and sat back down. Marty was one of our office dogs, Marc’s dog to be exact. A loveable, scrappy Boston terrier. If you liked that sort of thing. Apparently, Marc didn’t even like dogs but had fought for him in his divorce proceedings just to piss his wife off. Marc was a real gem.
“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a goodsie woodsie boysie woysie?” Quinn’s voice had suddenly taken on the quality of someone several IQ scores lower than possibly even the dog.
“Julie, come pet Marty,” she said, her voice shifting back to human form. “He looks so cute today! I think he got a new collar.”
“I’m good.” I clicked on my keyboard to show I was, indeed, too busy to go pet a dog.
“But he’s so cute!”
“Yes, I believe I heard that somewhere.”
“Don’t tell me you hate dogs.” She pushed herself up to standing and brushed off her skirt, narrowing an eye in my direction.
“I don’t hate dogs,” I said, arms crossed. “I just don’t love them like everyone else on the planet seems to. I leave them alone; they leave me alone. It’s a mutually acceptable agreement.” I peeked over the desk again. “I don’t hate you, Marty,” I said in a normal voice. “I’m sure you’re delightful. But I also don’t think we need to be friends, OK?”
Marty looked up at me, sneezed, and then trotted off in the direction of the kitchen.
“Is it bad to say I like you a little bit less than I did this morning?” Quinn smiled in a half-joking, half-serious kind of way.
“I would believe you if I wasn’t so likeable.” I smirked. “Now go finish that work or I’ll tell Marc you changed your mind about the massage.”
“Are you going to get a beer?” Ethan slid onto the distressed wooden bench beside me and ordered a pint of Nokomis Brown Ale from the server as she walked by. “We could share a flight.” I looked around, wondering why Ethan had chosen our table to sit at when he usually sat with the Creative department. Our office was very cliquey that way.
“No, thanks.” I moved over to give him room as Brian, an account executive, slid in and Ethan’s thigh pressed against mine. Old Julie wouldn’t have moved her legs, she would have kept them pressed up against his, office inappropriateness be damned. New Julie, however, slid over a bit more in the opposite direction.
He was incredibly attractive though. And just my type. Dark blond hair hung below his chin like a curtain. My fingers twitched as I thought about reaching up and tucking a strand behind his ears. As if reading my mind, he ran his hand through the silky strands, pushing them back from his broad face. My thighs buzzed as his biceps flexed under his tight blue dress shirt, buttons straining over his broad shoulders and wide chest.
He works out,I thought automatically and found myself wanting a drink now more than ever. Alcohol was always my excuse for doing things I would never do when I was sober. It loosened my moral resolve. And I used to use it for just that purpose.
I slowly inhaled a deep, shaky breath and swallowed the lump of panic that had started forming in my throat. I can do this, I told myself. I’ve come this far.
Despite it being challenging, after-work drinks had become really fun. I hadn’t realized that the more other people drank the more comfortable I would feel. At the beginning, when everyone was just starting—feeling things out, letting go of inhibitions—it was more obvious that I was the only one without something boozy in my hands. But after an hour or so, when people started to relax, when I started to relax, it was easier to be sober. People stopped asking if I wanted a drink. Everyone was more involved with their own. No one really cared. So, I stopped caring too.
“I’m glad you came out.” Ethan leaned in so I could hear him over the din. The trendy brewery wasn’t just a popular place for my co-workers; it was packed. Corporate folks seamlessly blended with trendy hipsters, sitting around polished wooden tables, playing pinball, draining glasses of one of the many craft beers on tap.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Ethan whispered in my ear and I involuntarily shivered.
“Sure,” I said, immediately wary.
He leaned closer. “When we first met, I thought you were going to be ‘too cool to hang’.” He air-quoted, incorrectly.
“What does ‘too cool to hang’ mean?” I air-quoted right back at him.
“You know, like you thought you were better than everyone or something,” he said, his sexy grin softening the bluntness of his statement.
All of sudden it became really important that he knew I used to be fun. That I used to party. That I was never too cool to hang. That’s totally not me! I wanted to scream. I’m always the life of the party!
But instead, I said, “I was just a bit shy,” and then laughed. Even I didn’t believe that. The server came back and placed Ethan’s beer on a cardboard coaster and then nodded at me.
“I’ll just have a soda water and cranberry, please.” I smiled, face flushing, pretending it was what I really wanted, ignoring the speed of my craving-fueled heartbeat.
“Oh, come on,” Ethan teased, nudging me with his elbow. “It’s Friday. Live a little.”
A flash of irritation dimmed my forced smile, igniting an uncomfortable revelation: This used to be me. I used to be the asshole pressuring people to drink when they didn’t want to. Why didn’t anyone tell me to fuck right off because it was none of my business what they drank or didn’t drink?
And then, just like that, I wasn’t embarrassed. I was angry. It truly was no one’s business but my own what I decided to do and what I chose to put into my body. Ethan had no idea what my story was. Just like I’d had no idea what everyone else’s story was when I’d looked down on them for not being as cool as I thought they should be.
“I don’t drink,” I said finally, holding his gaze. “And I’d appreciate it if you respected that.”
His eyes widened and he briefly looked like he’d been slapped. Clearly no one had ever told him what he couldn’t do before and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.
The table went silent and my face turned an even brighter shade of red, but I held my resolve. I didn’t apologize for “being a bitch,” I stuck by my words. This was me now, and if he didn’t like it, that was his problem. I didn’t have to be friends with everyone I worked with.
His face softened. “Hey, you do you, bro. I was just having some fun. Good for you for taking care of yourself. That’s totally dope.” He grinned. People started talking again. I looked over at Quinn and she smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I had done it. I had told my truth. And I had survived.
Later, when everyone was leaving, Quinn leaned over from across the table and touched my arm. “You know,” she said, “if you ever want a non-drinking buddy, I’m always up for it. I mean, I often drink, but I don’t have to. Like I said before, you don’t have to tell me anything, but for whatever reason you’re choosing not to drink, I respect that, especially when our culture—both in agency and in general—doesn’t always welcome non-drinkers with open arms.”
I smiled gratefully. She was right. Non-drinkers had a tough time in our “it’s five o’clock somewhere” poppin’ bottles zeitgeist. I didn’t realize how much I had needed an ally. And now I had one. And a pretty cool one at that.
“Thanks,” I said, not quite ready to reveal more. “I really appreciate it.”