by JD Hawkins
“A few thousand hits a week on average—though I regularly reach the 10k mark. The last article got over fifteen thousand shares on social media. And they’re always toward the upper expectations for comment engagement. Probably because I personally respond to a lot of the comments, take time to answer questions when I’m able to.”
“Well, I think the show is a no-brainer, considering all that,” Margo says, adding the cherry on the top. I almost feel like telling her to be careful, because if she’s any cuter I might lose control and drag her under the desk.
“I’m glad you think so,” Melissa says to her, before the smile gets serious and she leans forward a little. A judge ready with the hammer. “Because you’re going to do the show with him.”
“What?” Margo says, face screwed up like she’s trying to hear something in the walls. “I—me? I don’t understand.”
Melissa leans back, arms crossed, her expression brooking no arguments. “Here’s what I think: The idea’s great, and clearly it would do well. But it needs a little more of a twist, something to make it unique. Otherwise it’s just a nineties MTV reality show segment with better production value.”
“It’s really not,” I interject. “I’m going to really break things down and talk about the changes in—”
Melissa raises her hand, and eyebrow, and a slightly irritated smile, and I feel the lashes on my back again.
“It needs something more to set it apart from all the other reality dating shows,” she repeats, like a biblical tenet. “Besides, a majority of our readers are women, and however much they like you, Owen, it’s going to grate eventually, hearing you dismiss and deconstruct all these different types of women. At best they’ll get bored and stop watching, at worst they’ll start thinking you’re a misogynist pig who’s just not interested in actually finding anybody. This way, however,” Melissa opens her palm and swings it slowly in front of her to indicate the two of us, “there’s more balance. An alternate POV. There are more contrasts, more discussion to be had, a little he-said, she-said and you can comment on each other’s dates to keep a 50/50 gender perspective. It’s fun, and comes across less cynical.”
“May I say something?” Margo says, putting a finger in the air. “I think this idea is a good one, genuinely, but I don’t think I should be involved. I mean, I’m a writer. I’m here to work on more challenging sorts of projects. That’s where my skills are, and I think my output really shows that. I wouldn’t know what the hell to do on camera, or talk about, or even what people would want from me. I’d be bad at this, and I can think of about six other women in the office who would just nail this project, and love doing it. So whatever you guys decide to do, I don’t think I should be considered.”
Margo starts to stand, but Melissa tilts her head and smiles serenely, or possibly threateningly, and I watch Margo sink back onto the couch next to me, almost as if Melissa has hypnotized her into obedience.
“Are you serious, Margo?” Melissa says. “You’re not being ‘considered’—this project is going to work because of you. You single-handedly created one of the most popular videos we’ve ever had, and most of our audience is desperate to see more of you.”
“That was just pure dumb luck,” Margo says quickly, squirming a little, and I steal the moment to check out her legs again. “It wasn’t really me, anyway—it was a good idea for a video, and I’m not that funny when I’m sober—”
“Nonsense,” Melissa assures her, “you’re charismatic, endearing, edgy, funny. I know you’re a wonderful writer, and that you really care about your journalistic integrity, but you shouldn’t devote yourself to it to the point where you ignore your other talents. It’s not as if you have to give up your other projects. Besides, you two have wonderful chemistry together—sort of a ‘will they, won’t they’ thing going on. People will love that. And if the show goes well enough, maybe we can reevaluate your salary come year-end.”
Margo and I swap a quick, awkward glance. Melissa lets the silence weigh heavy—she’s a negotiating pro. When she talks again, she picks her tone carefully, so there can be no doubt she means business.
“It’s either this, or we table the idea for another time. And I can’t guarantee when—or even if—we’ll find the right circumstances to make it work. Margo’s so popular right now that anything we put her in is guaranteed instant success, or at the very least a strong, built-in initial viewership. I say we strike while the iron is hot.” Melissa pauses a bit, then plays another tactic: divide and conquer. “Owen? You feel confident moving forward?”
“Uh…” I say, pushing a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I do. But I mean, only if Margo wants to do it. Otherwise I guess I can wait...”
Melissa looks at Margo keenly. Margo looks at me, as if reminding herself of how much I want it.
That’s what it comes down to. How much Margo is willing to do for me. How much she understands what this means for me. How much she cares.
“Forget it,” I say suddenly. “I don’t want to do it if it’s gonna make her uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be fair. And it’s a lot of pressure to put on someone when it’s not their passion project. And a lot of time and energy required to make the videos, so—”
“No,” Margo cuts me off. “I’ll do it. I don’t mind.” She looks Melissa in the eyes to show she means it. “I’ll do it.”
“Margo…” I say.
“It’s cool,” Margo interrupts, turning to me and smiling. “It’ll be a great web series, I’m sure.”
“Fantastic!” Melissa says, standing up and walking over to her desk. “I’m glad we could get this sorted out so quickly, because we’ve already got some dates lined up for you two tomorrow.”
Margo and I get up from the couch as Melissa sits behind her desk, already thinking of the next task.
“You’ve arranged dates already?” Margo asks, looking flustered.
“Mm-hmm. Of course, in the future you can choose your own dates, but I wanted to get this started as soon as possible. Get your face out there again fast, while people still love you.”
“Who are the dates? Where are we going?” I say, standing in the middle of the office with Margo as Melissa starts typing on her keyboard.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Melissa says, as she types. “Agnes arranged it. I told her to match you two with ‘visually interesting’ people. I’ll have her send you the details.” Melissa breaks her gaze from the computer screen only to say, “That’s it. Go make great content, you two. Good luck.”
We leave the office, walking single-file back to our desk like scolded children heading up to bed. We sit in front of our laptops, glance furtively at each other, then spin and wheel our chairs close, leaning forward to let it all out, talking over each other in harsh whispers.
“I swear I had no idea she was going to—”
“This is possibly the weirdest—”
“—and if I’d have known, I would have called in sick—”
“—it’s like I’m living in a bad sketch from SNL—”
We stop.
“Sorry,” I say, “go on.”
“No. You go,” Margo replies.
I take a deep breath before speaking. “I really didn’t know Melissa was thinking of doing that. I would have been fine if you said no. I know this isn’t your thing—”
“Don’t worry about it, Owen. It’s not your fault,” Margo says, then squints mischievously. “Although, it kind of is, considering you’re the one who got me drunk on tequila and turned me into the internet’s flavor of the month. Do you even know how many gifs there are of me out there now?”
“I do. Spent half an hour looking at them last night.”
Margo groans.
“Someone even put up clips of your cat talk layered over a dance beat—it’s actually pretty catchy.”
“Oh god,” Margo groans, hanging her head. “I’ve spent so much of the past week blushing I don’t think I’ll need makeup ever again.”
I laugh and she sm
iles at me, but our eyes locking seems to open up something we were doing a good job of keeping closed. The silence between us as we just stare at each other creating a vacuum of unresolved thoughts.
“Listen, about the…incident,” I say, deciding to take the initiative.
“Yeah…?”
I nod my head, my choice suddenly clear. “I think it’s best if we just forget about it. It was a thing…it happened…we can both come up with a million reasons why it did—”
“And why it shouldn’t have,” Margo cuts in, nodding her agreement.
“Right.”
“Cool.” Margo starts to turn away, then looks back at me. “And so the texts—”
“Yeah, those too. I was just fooling around. You know.”
She looks relieved. “I get it. I know. It was nothing.”
“So consider those part of the ‘incident’ as well.”
“Right!” she agrees, her voice coming out high-pitched and perky. “The whole weekend. Just delete it like a bad photo. Haha.”
“Exactly. Already deleted.”
We look at each other again, only it’s a bit easier between us now, as if we actually might be able to do this. We actually might be able to move on and let it all go.
Don’t look at her thighs. Don’t look at her thighs.
“Wow…” Margo says suddenly, sighing as if she’s just taken a shot, “that was…not as hard as I thought it would be. Whew.”
“Yeah. I was kinda scared about handling it too. But…this is good.”
“This is good,” Margo smiles, pulling her shoulders back and looking peppy. She points at her computer. “It’s for the best. Ok…so I’m going to…”
“Yeah, I should get some work done too,” I say, pushing my chair back toward my usual spot.
“Thanks for the coffee,” Margo says, lifting the cup.
I wink and lift my own as if toasting, then quickly push away the memory of the last time we actually did toast.
About nine seconds after we refocus ourselves on our respective screens, nine seconds into our new-found, healthy resolution, Melissa’s assistant Agnes pops up between us.
“Hey you two!”
“Hey Agnes,” I reply.
Margo takes a second longer to peel herself from her screen. “What’s up?”
“I can’t wait to see what you guys do,” Agnes says. “I’m so excited about the dates.”
“You’re welcome to take my place,” Margo says.
“No way! You’re going to have so much fun!” Agnes replies.
I spin my chair around to face her, and say, “That depends on what you’ve laid out for us. Or whom.”
Agnes claps her hands together with excitement, and a sense of dread washes over me. “So I’ve sent you both emails with all the details—make sure you check them out. Tom, Mia, and a couple of interns are going to handle the filming. Melissa said you like to work on the editing, Owen, so you can sort that out with Mia or Tom—”
“What about the dates?” Margo asks impatiently. “Who are they? How did you pick them?”
“Oh, Margo, you are going to die for the guy I chose. He. Is. Just. Perfect,” Agnes says, her eyes rolling back in their sockets as she fans herself. “Better than perfect. Like, you didn’t even know what you wanted until you saw this guy. ‘Cause you didn’t even know guys could be this good-looking. He’s got these shoulders—”
“But what does he do?” Margo asks. “What is he like? Does he read?”
Agnes looks confusedly at Margo, as if she doesn’t quite understand the question.
“I’m not too sure…like, I guess he’s rich. He has to be rich. I think he works in finance? Or some kind of office thing.”
“O…kay…” Margo looks less than thrilled.
“What about my date?” I ask.
“Oh, don’t worry, she’s hot too. She’s really skinny. Like, a size zero. She’ll be great on camera.”
For about five seconds Agnes and I look at each inanely, each of us waiting for the other to say more.
“Skinny?” I say, breaking first. “That’s…it? Does she have hobbies? Anything at all we can talk about, or that we might possibly have in common?”
“She looks really cute!” Agnes says, smiling with excitement again. “Don’t even worry about it. You’re gonna love her.”
She squeezes Margo on the shoulder, turns, and walks away, leaving Margo and I to swap a ‘what-the-fuck’ look.
“Oh!” Agnes says, when she’s five paces away, turning back to add something else. “I forgot the best part!” Margo and I look at her in fearful anticipation. “You’re going to be playing mini-golf on your dates! Isn’t that so fun?”
Agnes spins away again, and I look at Margo. She opens her mouth, but I speak before she has a chance to.
“Yes, Margo. It’s too late to change your mind. And for the record, I hate mini-golf too.”
She clears her throat and then drops her eyes toward the filing cabinet she keeps under our shared desk. The filing cabinet where her flask of whiskey lives.
“I think I’m about to drop my pen under the desk and have a hard time finding it,” she mutters. “Care to join me and my friend Johnnie Walker while we look?”
I grin. “Love to.”
8
Margo
TrendBlend can be a weird place to work sometimes. One minute you’re blind-drunk and having kittens thrown your way, the next you’re standing in the parking lot of a mini-golf course, about to go on a double date with one of your closest friends who you’ve also just slept with.
Owen and I are sitting against the SUV while Tom, Mia, and a couple of interns discuss filming. We’re still waiting for our dates to show up. I’m so anxious that I can’t stop fidgeting, checking my phone and tapping my foot in between bouts of deep, slow breaths that do absolutely nothing to dispel my nerves.
“You ok?” Owen asks.
“What? Yeah. Of course.”
“You sure? You’re brushing your hair back a lot. You always do that when you’re nervous.”
“Well I’m nervous, sure,” I say. “But I’m ok.”
Owen’s leaning back against the car chewing gum like he could wait all day there. Relaxed, self-assured, at ease with himself and everything around him. I can almost believe that he’s already forgotten everything that happened between us. Maybe it’s a man/woman thing, but to me it feels like we just put a shiny coat of paint over the cracks in our relationship. A thin veneer that’s in danger of breaking at any second. Yet Owen has been so nonchalant about it I’m starting to wonder if I’m the weird one. Maybe it really wasn’t that big of a deal to him. Maybe it really was just sex to him, and nothing else.
“I think this is going to be good for you,” Owen says, taking his gum out and screwing it into a wrapper.
“What? More public embarrassment?”
Owen laughs. “No. Getting out and dating again. Having some fun. Living a little in the moment. Like we were talking about in the bar.”
“Right. Nothing like a little fun,” I say, my voice going tight. I have to fight myself to not frown at him, to not get annoyed. Here I am trying to repress the memory of everything that happened and Owen’s bringing it up like it was just another day.
“Hey!” Tom says, as he appears from behind the car. “The guys are here with your dates.”
We look over toward the entrance of the parking lot and see the car parking there. I swap one last look with Owen and then look back, body tight with anticipation.
Owen’s date exits the car first, and I’m almost blinded by her. She’s six feet tall in pumps, with glistening bronze skin and hair that seems to swish around her head like a perpetual shampoo ad.
“Whoa,” I say.
“Hello,” Owen purrs, pushing himself off of the car to start walking toward her.
“Hey Owen! Hold up!” Mia calls as she jogs after him with the intern in tow, struggling to get her camera ready to film their first meeting.
I watch as Owen greets this woman, all smiles and trailing arms after a tight hug, the girl already laughing, playing with her hair, Owen in full casual-attack mode.
I’ve seen him hit on girls plenty of times over the years, seen the way he puts a little swagger in his shoulders and a little glint in his eye. Each time I’ve usually just groaned and rolled my eyes at his manwhore tactics, given up on hanging out with him for the rest of the night, and got on with things.
Except right now, watching as Owen sets his hand on the small of her back, urging her inside the building, the girl already turning her lips inward to hide how much she’s smiling, I’m feeling something. I don’t know what yet, but I’m definitely feeling something.
“You recognize her, right? Kate something-or-other. She’s a Victoria’s Secret model,” Tom says beside me, and I turn to see the boyish grin on his face. “Lucky guy.”
“Yeah. He’s going to have fun,” I say, trying to make it sound more like a joke than a realization.
“So are you,” Tom says, suddenly prepping his camera in a hurry. “Here comes your guy Brian. It’s show time.”
I steel myself, nod, and start walking toward my date—and at first, everything Agnes told me seems true. This guy is so perfect it feels like I’m stepping into a shaving commercial. Sun glistening from his hair and pearl white teeth. He holds out an arm of bulging bicep and I brace myself to be hugged by this man-mountain of beauty, who’ll probably steal a kiss too close to my lips. Guys that good looking usually do.
“Hello Margo,” he says, taking my hand and shaking it firmly, gently, but with the kind of warm strength that makes my knees go instantly weak.
“Hey,” I say, smiling brightly. “Nice to meet you.”
The hug doesn’t come; instead Brian pulls his hand back and keeps on smiling politely. “You as well. Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
“Um…yeah.” I freeze, unsure how to make this small talk any less awkward.
