by Aven Ellis
I turn back around, and only then does Brody turn to walk back down the sidewalk.
I know I have the biggest smile on my face. If I could skip into work, I would.
I have a job with the foundation I’ve dreamed of working for. I’m in digital media, a fantastic place to utilize my communication skills. I’m excited about the future that is right in front of me.
And now there’s Brody.
He’s different. Not at all what I envisioned myself ever dating, but suddenly my list of ideals for a man has gone right out the window. I don’t care that Brody is around my age. I don’t care that he’s an athlete.
What matters is the things I’ve already discovered about him. He’s interesting. Clever. Funny.
I feel so alive, I think happily.
It’s like I’ve been sleeping as far as men have been concerned. Like Sleeping Beauty, waiting for the kiss from the right prince to wake her up.
Brody has woken me up, I think.
And I only hope he’ll follow it up with a date and a kiss soon.
Chapter Seven
If I believed in time travel, I’d swear I was working in the year 1998.
I want to type this line into my personal notes for the meeting I’m sitting in. Belinda told me this was the Tuesday “power up” for the communications team, where the team reviews the previous week, discusses the current week ahead, and sets the tone for a productive team effort. My boss advised me to soak in what is being said and suggested it would be best not to participate just yet as I was only on my second day.
As I study my new coworkers, I am practically chewing a hole through my lower lip not to say anything. Not because of my brain, which is filled with questions and comments, but because I realize I have joined an organization where few voices matter. The only opinions that seem to count are those of Belinda, the head of the department, who seems to have all her ideas stuck in 1998.
“Let’s make sure we’re adding new conferences to the page,” Belinda says, rifling through a folder full of papers as she searches for something.
This is what I mean by 1998. Belinda has no laptop or tablet in front of her, not even a phone. She’s got a folder filled with printouts of emails and notes. I want to organize her work life online because it can’t possibly be productive to work like this. It can’t.
“Here it is,” she finally says, shoving a piece of paper at me. “It’s next June. I’d like it on the home page this week.”
I feel as if Belinda is happy slapping conferences on the home page and considers that communications. It’s all she’s talked about this morning. She hasn’t yet talked about social media action items. Perhaps that is because the organization only has a Facebook page, and that button is buried at the bottom of the page.
And speaking of the home page, it’s a hot mess. The promotion of conferences is the only thing current on it. It is the landing page for all people coming for information. I know most people searching for help aren’t coming to our organization for conference info. They want information, resources, and the latest news.
The latest information posted on this landing page besides conferences? An article from last year.
Last. Year.
I want to drown my frustrations in a whole box of Fruity Pebbles for that alone.
“Tad, how are the graphics coming along for the blog?” Belinda asks, continuing on.
“What blog?” I ask, furrowing my brow. I spent all day on that website yesterday, and I never saw a blog.
Belinda shoots me a pointed look across the table.
She was serious about my saying nothing.
“Hayley, we are going to start a blog to open up more conversation about dyslexia,” Belinda says, smiling pleasantly at me.
“Ooh, I love blogs,” I say, deciding to ignore her. “Will you have guest bloggers? Like experts and famous people who have struggled with dyslexia? Researchers? Parents of children with dyslexia explaining what their life experience is like? What would really be cool would be a video blog, where people talk about their experiences. We could start a YouTube channel, and that could be a huge component of it.”
The table falls silent.
I wrinkle my nose. Good lord, they act like I’ve suggested we’ll find the cure to dyslexia if we shoot a rocket to Jupiter and do a land expedition.
“We were thinking we’d control the content,” Tara, the internal communications coordinator, says, taking a moment to look up from her phone. She immediately glances down again and begins to type.
“As in, we write all the content?” I ask, thinking what a huge missed opportunity that would be.
“Yes, Hayley, I’ll get you up to speed on this later,” Belinda says firmly.
Which is my cue to shut up.
“Tad?” Belinda redirects.
“Huh?” he glances up from his phone.
That’s the other thing. Everyone has a phone out, except for Belinda, and I’m beginning to think she has a flip phone back in her office. Nobody maintains eye contact for long before going back into their own worlds. They could be typing notes, like I am on my tablet, but that only takes a second. Everyone, except for me and Belinda, has their heads down. What happened to eye-to-eye communication?
“Logo for the blog?” Belinda repeats, pausing to take a sip of her coffee.
“Oh, it’s coming along. I should have some mockups for you to see by the end of this week.”
This week? Granted, I don’t know what else he is working on, but a simple blog graphic shouldn’t take that long. I could spend an afternoon and come up with some rough ones, and I’m not a graphics artist.
“Fundraising wants to know how the gala page is coming along,” Tara says, putting down her phone and shifting to her tablet.
“Tell Mariah we’ll have something to show her soon,” Belinda says.
Wait. The gala is in May! That page should already be up.
“They also want an update on the action plan in regard to social media publicity,” Tara follows up.
“I hate discussing everything in email. Let’s schedule another meeting to discuss the action items with fundraising,” Belinda says. “I will be implementing social media soon.”
There’s that word again.
Soon.
Tara is back to typing, and I’m pretty sure she’s instant messaging with someone in fundraising.
“Mariah wants to confirm you will be active on Facebook with this,” Tara says.
I study Belinda, and she blinks.
I wonder if she’s uncomfortable with social media. Is that why we only have a Facebook page and there’s no updating on the home page outside of conferences?
I knew when I did my homework for the interview that there were weaknesses in social media and the website. I knew if I could get a job here I could hopefully be useful.
I could help them solve these problems.
But if Belinda hates social media, my opportunity to make an impact could be greater than I ever anticipated.
Eagerness takes over. If I can approach her with one idea, like YouTube, maybe she’d let me pursue it.
I sit through the rest of the meeting, my brain going into overdrive with ideas. We break right before lunch, and I’m about to go back to my cubicle when Belinda stops me.
“Hayley, do you have a moment?” she asks.
I nod.
“Have a seat,” Belinda says.
I take the chair across from her and sit down.
“I know you have a lot of good ideas,” Belinda says. “You are young and ambitious, and you want to take on the world. I can see it.”
I smile brightly. “I do. My brain is running like crazy right now.”
“Well, just a word of wisdom from someone who has been around a long time,” Belinda says. “We know how things work here. “
My stomach sinks. This isn’t the conversation I thought we were going to have.
Belinda absently taps the edge of her phone with her buff-colo
red nails. “You need time to learn the job, to learn what Expanded World to the Shelf is truly about and to absorb our knowledge to see why we do things the way we do. There are reasons, even if they don’t make sense to you. Remember, Hayley, you only graduated a few months ago. The professional world is completely different than the university one you came from. You think you know better than we do, but you don’t.”
Belinda stands up, smoothing her navy wool skirt with her hands. “I think you’ll find this conversation helpful if you keep it in mind.” She pushes back the sleeve of her navy blazer and glances at her watch. “I have a lunch meeting. I’ll give you assignments when I get back.”
Then she walks out of the conference room.
I feel sick. My stomach is in knots.
Belinda just told me what my place is here.
To sit down, shut up, and do my job.
I thought this would be my chance to shine. To stop being the quiet girl who blended into the background her whole life because family circumstances fell that way, but to speak up and share ideas and change the world. I want to make waves if needed to help the greater good.
Belinda doesn’t want fresh ideas. She thinks because I’m only twenty-two I must be incapable of having a good thought in my head.
If an idea is presented to do something new, it will apparently be shut down.
I exhale loudly, the noise echoing off the dingy conference room walls.
Fine. I can do this for now. I’ll do what I’m told, work hard, and be positively cheerful about it.
While working on a way to move this company forward in communications.
Starting with our 1998 website.
I get up and walk back to my cubicle. One thing I have to admit is Expanded World doesn’t waste resources on the office. My dad is a high-powered divorce attorney in DC, catering to the socialites and politicians in messy splits, and his office is posh.
This office is very . . . gray.
There are a few offices and a maze of cubicles. Worse, they are low-profile cubicles, so as I take my seat at my desk, I can see Tara staring straight at me from her chair across from me. She glances at me, with no expression on her face, and goes back to typing. It seems she only speaks when spoken to. The most I’ve ever heard her talk was in this meeting, but only because I think Mariah was prompting her to ask questions via IM.
I wondered if she would ask me to go to lunch with her, but now I hope she doesn’t. I’m used to filling dead air, but this would be too painful. No, I don’t want to be a one-woman show. It’s too exhausting to keep up for a whole lunch.
I realize I’m starving. What time is it, anyway? I glance at the clock on my computer. It’s straight up noon.
Lunchtime.
And time to check my phone to see if Brody has texted me.
I unlock the drawer to my lower cabinet and slide it open. I reach inside my Pippa bag and locate my phone, my heart dancing as I do. Brody has been lingering in the back of my mind ever since he left me this morning, but luckily, I could tuck him away for a bit so I could focus on that meeting.
I rest my phone face down in my lap.
I really hope there’s a text from Brody.
I hesitate before flipping it over. I want to tell him everything about this meeting, which is insane because I don’t even know him. What Google tells me about him doesn’t count. Yet, after my brief time with him this morning, I know he’s different. He’s not a bro. He’s not a stereotypical jock.
I think Brody is someone I could really like.
I turn my phone over, and this time, Pinterest has sent me ideas for shaping my butt and toning my abs. I also have an email from Anthropologie.
And a text message from Brody Jensen.
Ahh! I want to jump up and squeal but force myself to do it mentally. I grin as I tap open his text:
How’s your day going so far? I just woke up from a nap.
Ooh, I bet he looks gorgeous when he sleeps.
I wonder if he sleeps naked.
Gah, what am I thinking? Stop. Stop it now.
I clear my throat and text him back:
Eventful. Had a meeting and was reminded I don’t know anything and need to simply do my job. Like a robot. I need to show you the foundation website. It’s stuck in time. Like when Friends was on at primetime. It’s sad. Tragic. It’s enough to make me want to eat a whole box of Fruity Pebbles.
I hit send.
To my delight, Brody replies right back:
These grown-ass people need to grow up. They need to utilize you and your talent.
I’m beaming for two reasons. One, I recognize that ‘grown-ass’ is a Brodyism. Two, he’s irritated on my behalf.
Thank you. But don’t worry, I’m not giving up. I’m going to help them even if they don’t think they need it.
Brody responds:
I like that mindset.
I begin typing back when another text drops in:
BTW You shouldn’t eat cereal in sorrow alone.
Ooh!
I’m about to reply but Brody beats me to it again:
You shouldn’t drink alone, and I think eating cereal alone falls under the same sentiment.
I know my grin has gotten even bigger, if that’s possible. I text back:
True. And I shouldn’t eat a whole box by myself. I should share it.
I hit send and wait. Brody shoots me another message:
What if I share a bowl of cereal with you? After the ballgame? Is that too late for you?
My heart pounds inside my chest.
Brody wants to see me tonight.
My hands are shaking with excitement as I try to text him back, which is now taking forever because my hands aren’t steady:
I would love to.
I am at level complete giddiness when Brody responds:
Okay. Shoot me your address, if you are okay with that, and I’ll pick you up after I leave the ballpark. Be dressed to be outdoors. I have an idea for this.
Ahh! Dying, dying, dying!
I text him my address and tell him I’ll meet him outside the building so he doesn’t have to park, and ask him if I need to bring anything other than Fruity Pebbles.
Brody texts me back:
Nope. I’ll cover the Fruity Pebbles, too. ☺
Now I’m dizzy as I realize what is happening.
Brody Jensen asked me out.
I said yes.
I said yes!
I’m so excited I can barely sit still.
I’m going to have cereal with Brody Jensen for our first date.
It’s not normal.
It’s not conventional.
But it’s absolutely perfect.
Chapter Eight
I open the door to the apartment gym and wince. Gah. I know it was ridiculous, but I was really hoping to find it empty for my first attempt at working out in, oh, four years.
But the gym has at least fifteen people in it, and every treadmill and elliptical machine is taken.
Why does everyone here seem so fantastically fit?
Oh, because they workout, that’s why.
There’s a girl my age running on the treadmill, wearing the cutest outfit: a strappy crop top and capri leggings. Her amazing six-pack abs are on display, and the guy on the treadmill next to her is checking her out as she barely breaks a sweat while running like a gazelle.
Oy.
I need to buy some workout DVDs so I can be in my living room and only Pissy and Katie can see me exercising. Katie will be encouraging, like she always is. Pissy will think I look like an idiot, but at least if she thinks I look hysterical, I’ll never know.
I glance down at my gym outfit of leggings and an oversized Georgetown T-shirt. Hmm. I really need grown-up workout clothing instead of ratty old college T-shirts.
But only if there is some kind of slimming control panel in the top.
I need to Google that later.
After my date with Brody.
Ahh! Excitement rus
hes through me as I think of him. I have no idea what we are doing, other than eating cereal, but I really don’t care. I get to spend more time getting to know him, and that’s all I want this evening.
Well, that might be a lie.
A goodnight kiss would be want number two.
I force myself to refocus on the task at hand. I spy a vacant recumbent bike in the corner. That will work. My goal is to start small. I’ll bike for fifteen minutes and slowly increase my time. I read in a magazine I should be aiming for 150 minutes of moderate aerobic activity a week or seventy-five minutes of vigorous aerobic activity. Oh, I also need to do two weight sessions a week plus some stretching.
For now, fifteen minutes on the bike will be my starting point. I researched beginner exercise programs and found a great interval one that will help me burn fat and rev up my metabolism. Victory!
I put my water bottle into the holder and notice there’s a TV on top. Nice! This will make it so much easier to pass the time.
I wonder if the pregame show for the Washington Soaring Eagles is on.
Unfortunately, I realize it’s a screen loaded with virtual bike rides to take.
Ugh. Watching Brody would be so much more motivational than a virtual ride through the South of France. I adjust the seat, put my feet on the pedals, and since watching Brody isn’t an option, I set the intervals as suggested by the web article and begin to warm up.
I go at an easy pace, but after about two minutes, I start to feel tired. Seriously? Oh, this is shameful. I’m beginning to wonder if I should set today’s goal for ten minutes instead of fifteen.
After the warmup, which I do make it through, the resistance is increased. Okay, now I’m working.
After thirty seconds, my legs feel tired.
I try not to look at the clock. Maybe this is the same as when you need to sleep and you can’t. Watching the time only stresses you out more.
I try looking everywhere but at the time tracker on the machine.
Oh, shit, will this ever end?
I think I’ve been pedaling for five minutes.
My heart is pounding. My legs are shaking. I’m having to work to continue.
I swear I’ve been pedaling forever.
I glance down.
