Chapter Twenty-Four
E verett has always talked about his workplace as a small company, so I’m astonished when I make a rough head count partway through the salad course and tally over two hundred people present to celebrate the work of longtime associate creative director Peter Pollard and to hear the announcement of who will fill his “impossible to fill” shoes.
Statements like this have been flying all evening, and I have a new appreciation for Everett’s anxieties around his application.
He’s doing a valiant job of remaining poised as the suspense builds, but anything within reach has been subject to his fidgeting.
His silverware, wineglass, water glass, napkin, napkin holder, necktie, belt buckle, shirt and jacket cuffs, hair, glasses, and whenever I can offer it, my hand.
“How are you holding up?” I ask as he pushes a cherry tomato around on his plate.
“Sorry.” He lowers his fork. “I promised you we’d have a good time tonight.”
“Everett,” I say through a breath of astonished laughter. “I don’t care what kind of time we have tonight. We knew this would be stressful for you. And whether we eat dessert as a celebration or commiseration, I just want to be here with you.”
He exhales as though he’s been waiting to do it all night.
“Can I at least promise I’ll be a better boyfriend after this is over?” he asks.
“You’re not a bad boyfriend because you’re busy.”
“I am if I’m always busy.”
I don’t contradict him this time. He’s right, though this goes both ways.
“How about we both commit to more time for each other,” I suggest. “And to not filling the time we do have with anything related to school or work, including the sponsored TikToks.”
He nods and finds my hand to plant a kiss on my knuckles as I will him to hear me this time, even though this is hardly the moment for a serious relationship conversation. One way or another, things will change for him after tonight. I can’t help hoping they’ll change for us, too.
For the next ninety minutes or so, we eat our dinner while people tell stories about Peter Pollard from a microphone at the front end of the restaurant’s banquet room.
We hear about how a spontaneous napkin doodle earned him the nickname The Logo King and how he once landed a client by joining the company president’s weekly karaoke nights.
Everyone’s in good spirits, even Everett, though his mind is obviously elsewhere.
I spot Brandon a few times on the opposite side of the room, looking as overconfident as ever. Not a fidget in sight.
God, I hope he doesn’t get this job, even if Everett doesn’t get it, either.
I heard him tell someone he “had it in the bag” when I got here, and he keeps draping a giant arm over his date’s shoulders while she keeps shrugging him off.
I’d never describe anyone’s face as punch-worthy but I swear, every time that guy grins, my fingers roll a little bit toward my palm.
Time wears on, plates get cleared, and speeches wrap up.
I take Everett’s hand in both of mine, holding it tight while the CEO heads to the microphone and we await the news, Everett in a slick 1960s suit he looks great in, despite its lack of soft, cozy textures, and me in a simple blue bodycon dress Regina loaned me when I showed her my closet and she gasped with despair.
I lean toward Everett and whisper, “By the way. You look really hot tonight.”
He musters a smile and kisses my forehead.
“You too,” he says. “Whatever happens next, I can’t wait to get you home.”
Same , I think, but I don’t get to say anything to this effect, because the CEO has begun, reiterating yet again the challenges of replacing such a gifted and dedicated colleague.
“After an extensive search process,” he says, “we were fortunate enough to find the right candidate from within the company. A young man who’s proven himself time and again with his impressive imagination, his clarity of purpose, his dedication to quality, and, to be frank, his inarguable results.
The accounts he manages trend toward growth, and his clients report sharp upticks in business thanks to clever branding strategies and online traffic direction. ”
I tighten my grip on Everett’s now sweaty hand.
Please don’t say Brandon , I think. Please, please, please don’t say Brandon.
“For someone so young,” the CEO says, “our candidate has also demonstrated remarkable range, from manufacturing, to retail, to musicians and artists, to a heartwarming influencer account my wife loves about an adopted rescue dog on a weight-loss journey.”
My thoughts scramble.
Did I hear that right? Surely, I didn’t hear that right.
“Fuck,” Everett whispers as the CEO continues his speech. “Cameron—”
“Did you...”
“No. Well, yes.”
“Yes?”
“Sort of. But not, I mean—”
“Yes or no, Everett.” I release his hand, balling mine up in my lap as the past three months start to reframe themselves, and conversations that seemed like gentle encouragement threaten to feel like manipulation.
“Did you or did you not use the account I repeatedly told you I didn’t want to turn into a sales mechanism to get a promotion? ”
He opens his mouth but he closes it again without saying anything, which is answer enough, as is the guilt-ridden expression on his face.
He looks like he wants to wilt into his chair.
I want mine to swallow me, too. All this time, when I was pulling back and he was pushing forward, when I thought we were just running at different paces, he was chasing after this .
People applaud and turn in our direction. Everett’s name must’ve been announced. He needs to go accept the position. But he sits there staring at me as if he’s waiting for me to give him permission. It only makes me angrier. He did the work. He might as well reap the reward.
“Go,” I tell him.
“But—”
“Just. Go.”
“Not like this.”
“Please. I don’t want to make a scene.”
The guy on my other side asks if everything’s okay.
I channel my best impression of my mom, paste on a smile, and tell him it’s great.
Everett leans in and kisses my cheek.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” he whispers. “I’ll explain.”
I don’t say okay. I don’t say no. I just keep smiling, joining the applause as Everett stands and weaves around the banquet tables to the front of the room.
His acceptance speech is brief and awkward, a few stammered sentences of gratitude and excitement about the opportunity ahead.
I applaud again with everyone else, waiting to hear his explanation, but he gets sidelined by one colleague after another, shaking hands and accepting congratulations as his eyes find mine through the crowd.
Every time we lock gazes, another memory reframes itself.
If we grow the account...
If we use the branding...
If we sell the right story...
If we do one more...
I know, I know , I know all of that work benefited me, but he still lied to me. He said he was doing it for me, and for Aggie. And at every turn, when I told him I wanted to back off, to simplify, or to stop altogether, he argued otherwise. Now I know why.
I feel blindsided. Like always.
And if I sit here any longer, feeling this way, I’ll either sob or scream.
Easing back my chair, I flash the people nearest to me a stiff, apologetic, and likely unconvincing smile.
Then I speed-walk to the coat check, retrieve my coat, and burst through the restaurant doors, filling my lungs with the crisp, cold night air.
With the first exhale, I tell myself not to catastrophize.
With my second exhale, I tell myself to wait and hear him out.
With my third exhale, I overhear a familiar, grating voice say, “Yeah, can you believe it? His fucking girlfriend and her fucking dog. Shady son of a bitch. The only upshot was the look on her face when she found out he used her to get a leg up. That shit was priceless.”
It’s Brandon, of course, on his phone, partly tucked behind a big white pillar and flicking ash off a lit cigarette. He sees me a moment after I see him, and somewhere, buried under umpteen layers of egotism, he finds the ounce of grace required to look embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know you were there.”
I glare at him, ready to snap back with any of a dozen barbed retorts that rise to my lips. But I don’t want to fight with some random jerk right now. In fact, I want to be anywhere but here, so I turn and walk out of his view.
Then I run the rest of the way home.