by Sarah Smith
“Yep.”
“How long is that going to take you?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“I have to set up a bunch of promo tweets for those utility knives, and the longer your warehouse fan club keeps you down there, the longer I have to wait for you to add them to the site. I can’t tweet the links unless they’re on the website, and I have a million other things to do.”
I say nothing in response. I loathe how he’s trying to make my job about him.
“Do I have to spell it out?” He yanks out his earbuds impatiently and closes his eyes. “I think I should go with you to make sure things get done in a timely manner.”
“So this is purely selfish motivation?”
“Precisely.”
I cringe. Whenever he speaks to me, he routinely pulls out archaic words only a 1950s rural doctor would use.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
We trot side by side in silence down the hall to the stairs. Positioned next to each other, our appearances are a stark contrast. My olive skin is ten shades darker than his, thanks to my Filipino mother. My dad is a pale white guy, but the Asian gene is strong. His hazel eyes and light skin did little to dilute such dominant traits. My hair is technically dark brown, but it could pass for black at a distance. My eyes are such a deep shade of brown, I have to endure extra eye drops at the optometrist to fully dilate them.
The only thing not strikingly different between us is our heights. I’m five feet eight inches, which is nothing short of a miracle considering my mom is a tiny five feet one inch. I have my dad’s European genetics and his burly six-feet-two-inch frame to thank for that.
I estimate Tate at six feet, maybe six feet one inch if he’s standing straight. In the right pair of four-inch heels, I could stand nearly eye to eye with him. However, the fact that our office is casual dress gives me zero reason to wear anything other than sneakers and flats. As often as I fantasize about the opportunity to throw on my favorite killer stilettos and tell him off, it will likely never happen.
Once in the warehouse, I track down the manager, Gus. He’s a no-nonsense baby boomer who aspires to run the warehouse with the strictness of a gulag. Raising his fuzzy gray eyebrows is his preferred way to say hello.
Sliding into boss-bitch mode, I do my best Gus impression: I square my shoulders, frown, and keep things short and direct when I talk.
“I need one of your guys to grab these utility knives. Will’s orders.” I hand him a printed list.
He shoves the paper into the chest of the closest worker and barks directions. The college-aged kid shakes his head in fright before running off. The longer I stand with ramrod straight posture, the more tired I feel. Channeling Gus is exhausting. Shifting my weight between my feet, I almost bump into Tate. He backs up a few inches. It’s ridiculous that he felt the need to follow me all the way down here.
“Watch it,” he says.
“Then don’t stand so close.”
He shoots every single warehouse worker around us a menacing glare. Everyone who walks past us leaves a two-foot buffer of space.
“You’re a friendly one,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“Everyone’s avoiding us. You look like you’ll slit the throat of anyone who comes near. It’s quite the vibe.”
His raises an eyebrow. So smug. “Who says it’s a vibe?” It’s like I’ve complimented him, he seems so pleased with himself.
When he turns away, he fist-bumps Cal, the sixty-something delivery driver, as he walks by. Pleasantries and chuckles are exchanged. I have to blink twice at the scene. Cal is a sweetheart who I count as a friendly work acquaintance, pretty much the opposite of Tate. And I’ve never seen Tate chitchat with anyone at work. I didn’t know they were pals.
A second later Brett from Service and Repairs walks up to us, infiltrating the forbidden force field.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He shoots me a sleazy smirk and doesn’t even acknowledge Tate.
I know little about Brett other than he’s in his late thirties, uses too much gel on his thinning dark hair, and seems to love flirting with any woman in his vicinity. I find him exceptionally slimy. Even though he’s never said anything inappropriate to me, I still get an uneasy feeling whenever he’s near.
I scowl, recalling the advice I’ve read in countless blogs and articles on how to be a girl boss when you’re working with mostly dudes.
Quickest way to get rid of an unwanted smiler? Scowl. It embarrasses the offender into dropping it.
Brett doesn’t seem to know that he should feel embarrassment, because his grin doesn’t fade. “Sick of being cooped up upstairs?” He takes a step toward me.
“Nope. Just getting some knives.” Stick to short, terse answers.
“Knives, huh? Those are pretty dangerous. Don’t cut yourself.” He winks, but I hold my ground and cross my arms. I may be crawling out of my skin, but I sure as hell won’t show it.
“Don’t wink at me, Brett. That’s creepy.” Call out inappropriate behavior.
He simply laughs. Nothing short of “fuck off” would make him go away, but I can’t do that at work.
“Hey.” Tate barks while glowering at him. “Are you done skeeving us out?”
“Huh?” Brett glances at Tate like he’s just now noticing him.
“Are you done skeeving us out?” Tate’s slow tone implies Brett can’t understand basic English.
It seems to throw Brett off kilter. He stumbles back a step. “Jeez, what’s your problem?”
Tate hovers over him. “Do you think it’s a good use of company time to bother us?”
“Whatever, man. I’ll go. Chill out.”
I let out a breath, relieved he’s gone, but annoyed that Tate felt the need to butt in.
Gus’s minion hands me a small box of knives, and we walk back up to the office.
“You’re welcome,” Tate mumbles as we reach the top of the stairs.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Here, let me carry that.” He tries to grab the box from me, but I yank it away. We walk down the hall back to our offices.
“I’ve got it. What are you talking about?”
“I got rid of Brett, didn’t I?”
I roll my eyes and march to my office. The slap-rattle sound the knives make when I drop the box on the floor causes me to flinch.
He sits at his desk, shaking his mouse with impatience.
“You think I should thank you for being a jerk to Brett? You’re hilarious.” I stay standing and turn to face him.
“It seemed like you could use some help getting rid of him.”
I squeeze my hands into fists at his patronizing tone, then march to his doorway. “News flash: I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“Really? Is that what you were doing down there? Sack up and report Brett to management. He’d get the message real quick then.”
“There’s more than one way to send a message.”
Tate has a point, but how ridiculous would I sound making a complaint about Brett’s hard-to-define creepiness? He doesn’t say anything that’s outright inappropriate and keeps his hands to himself. His off-putting vibe exists in subtleties: standing too close, the way he says certain words. It would be easy for him to say I was taking it the wrong way. Then I would look like the overly sensitive female who can’t handle working with men.
“Whatever message you think you’re sending? It’s failing.” Tate frowns at me, and it’s pure condescension.
“I’m not a damsel in distress. Back off.” I stomp to my desk.
When I glance up, he’s staring at me. There are a few seconds where I think he’s going to say something, but the hard look in his eyes fades. He turns to his computer instead, the sound of his fingers banging on his keyboard filling the ro
om.
Pulling the camera from my desk drawer, I snap photos while I listen to another episode of Eat Bulaga! But even a wasabi-flavored-bun-eating contest set to dance music doesn’t ease the frustration coursing through me. I’m strong, I’m capable, and I don’t need Tate’s help to fend off anyone, not even creepy Brett.
two
The next morning kicks off with a mandatory company meeting. Some surprise announcement. I’m annoyed at first because the last time we had a surprise meeting, it was to scold us about tidying up the break room better. I’m not in the mood for a lecture, but it saves me from listening to Tate physically assault his keyboard for the rest of the morning, so I’m tepidly on board. He beats that thing like it owes him money.
I find a corner seat in the back. The AC kicks on from the ceiling vent above, blowing freezing air directly on me. I glance up and shiver, then slide over to the next chair. There’s a soft thud next to me before Tate’s blond curls bleed into my peripheral vision. I roll my eyes, but then there’s warmth. The fabric of our sleeves barely touches, but I can still feel the heat from his body skimming across my arm. He’s like a human radiator. The comfort is so unnerving, I have to lean away.
“Scooting away from me? Are we in preschool?” he says, scribbling on the yellow notepad he always carries. He’s a diligent notetaker in every meeting I’ve ever seen him in.
A faint evergreen scent hits, throwing me further off kilter. His cologne. My mind flashes to a lush green forest in the Pacific Northwest. The pleasant image it conjures makes me want to smile, but I bite it back. Why must someone so unpleasant smell so delicious?
Refocusing, I side-eye him cattily, zeroing in on his outfit of jeans, gray T-shirt, blue hoodie, and sneakers. “Nice outfit. Are you going for the billionaire douchebag look today?”
Normally, I’m not one to judge when it comes to dress code. My work wardrobe is a special form of armor selected specifically to deter stares in a workplace populated by dudes eager to gawk at anyone appearing remotely female. The jeans, V-neck shirts in muted colors, and assortment of cardigans I rotate every week are as dull as they are predictable. But if Tate’s in the mood to start a tiff, I’m willing to bite back.
“I guess it makes sense,” I say. “You work in social media.”
Several seconds of silence accompanied by a hard scowl prove I’ve rendered him speechless. I give myself a mental high five and wave at Kelsey from Accounting as she scans the room for a place to sit. It’s mostly full at this point, so I scoot over a chair and let her have the seat closest to Tate.
She slides her voluptuous body close to Tate’s chair, her head locked to the side as she stares at him. Even though she’s midforties, she never misses an opportunity to ogle the younger guys at Nuts & Bolts. A gruff sigh leaves Tate’s mouth, accompanied by an eye roll. Her shoulder-length sandy blond hair bounces as she slides out of her trance and back to the present. She flashes one more smirk at him, but he’s not even paying attention anymore.
Lynn, the Nuts & Bolts special projects manager, stands at the front of the room. “Good morning, everyone!” she says with an impossibly wide smile.
Her cheery and wholesome demeanor is out of place in this establishment, and that’s why I love her. Half of our workforce prefers to keep to themselves while the other half curses loudly with every other word. Lynn is short, adorably curvy with a bob haircut, and always wears dangly earrings. Today they’re gold feathers. She possesses a type of fun-mom energy that sets everyone at ease.
“Apologies for the impromptu meeting, but I have a bit of exciting news to share.” She clasps her hands in front of her. “Nuts & Bolts has taken on a charity project. We’re partnering with the Midwest Family Homes Foundation to build a house for a family in need.”
A wide smile splits Lynn’s face while she claps excitedly. It takes a few seconds, but the rest of us eventually join in on the applause. I can’t help but grin too. This sounds like a worthy cause.
Lynn explains that Nuts & Bolts will be building a single-family detached home at the north end of the city.
“Employees aren’t required to participate in this homebuilding project, but we very much hope you’ll want to. No outside time will be required for you to take part. Those who choose to volunteer will be doing so Monday through Friday in shifts that fall within the eight-to-five workday. During the homebuilding days, you’ll essentially work half a day, then head to the site. Once five o’clock hits, you’re free to go home!”
Heads bob up and down across the room. I spot a few “not bad” faces. It seems this hard-to-please bunch is on board with doing a bit of volunteer work to get out of their normal workday duties.
She explains that a small group of employees with construction experience will direct the project while the rest of us will be assigned smaller-scale tasks.
Furious scribbling fills the space to the left of me. Tate’s ability to make noise in a quiet room is surpassed by none at Nuts & Bolts.
The clipboard Lynn has passed around lands in the hands of one of the guys from Customer Support. He squints at the sign-up sheet. “We start building next week? Isn’t that when that heat wave is supposed to hit?”
A sliver of worry flashes in Lynn’s eyes. “Unfortunately, yes.”
A wave of soft groans echoes through the room. A few people mutter about crossing their names off the list.
Lynn’s formerly cheery face morphs into a frown. “I’d expect more from a group of professionals.”
Awkward silence cuts the room, save for my stifled laugh of disbelief. I’ve never seen Lynn turn from joyful to disappointed so quickly, and it’s strangely amusing. I didn’t think she had it in her to be so curt. Both Kelsey and Tate turn to look at me with incredulous expressions. Laughing during awkward moments is a bad habit that’s taken years for me to harness.
Lynn purses her lips. “Everyone in this room possesses skills that could improve the life of a family in need, and you’re worried about feeling hot for a few hours a day? I’m disappointed in you folks.”
When she tuts, heads droop in shame. A few muttered sorries follow.
She crosses her arms while scanning the room. Her stance reminds me of a mother scolding her misbehaving teen in an after-school special.
“I’m certainly not going to force any of you to volunteer, but let’s try to keep in mind that the heat wave will be temporary. I’ll be there sweating it out with all of you every day, and so will the rest of management. A few days of discomfort will result in a better life for a deserving family.” Lynn’s arms fall back to her sides. “Also, food and drink will be provided at the worksite for all volunteers.”
Half the room lights up. Nothing like free food to draw people to a noble cause.
Lynn ends the meeting with some words of encouragement. “Be sure to check your email inboxes tomorrow; there’s more info on our first day of volunteering to come! And please feel free to come to me with any ideas you folks have. We want to make this project the best it can be!” She points a finger in the air. “Oh, and don’t forget, Kelsey is leaving us in a couple of weeks! She’s moving to Florida for her husband’s new job.”
Lynn makes an exaggerated sad face, using her fists to wring fake tears. Kelsey laughs and claps.
“We’re having a going-away happy hour for her at Jimi D’s next Friday,” Lynn says. “Drinks are on Nuts & Bolts till seven. Everyone’s invited!”
The room empties, but Tate remains seated. “I have an idea I’d like to run by you, Lynn.”
I stand up to leave but halt at the sound of my name.
“It involves Emmie and me, actually.”
I peer down at him. “What?”
He gestures to my chair, beckoning me to sit down. Like I’m a toy poodle he’s training.
“Oh, how wonderful!” Lynn shuts the door and joins us. I let out a sharp exhale and sit.
“Um, what?” I’m unable to hide my shock. Tate wants to work with me on a special project? What in the ever-loving hell?
Lynn claps her hands in merriment before Tate dives into a laundry list of ideas. There’s mention of posting in-progress photos of the house to Nuts & Bolts’ social media pages, sending press releases to local media, and a community service hashtag.
“It could take Nuts & Bolts’ online presence to the next level while promoting the company within the community. All for a good cause,” he says.
He reiterates that he will be in charge of social media, while I will be in charge of writing media releases and pitches. I dry swallow another “um, what?” All that registers in my brain is extra work on top of my day-to-day copywriting duties.
Lynn beams at us, her smile bright enough to power an entire city during a blackout. “Well, I’m certainly impressed at the initiative the two of you are showing. Seeing you come together like this for a good cause is so inspiring. I can’t wait to hear what other ideas you’ll come up with after you’ve had time to meet about this project, to really strategize one-on-one.”
Lynn continues in full-on excitement mode, suggesting that Tate and I meet weekly and update her periodically to ensure this special project is a success. My throat dries up. Work with Tate one-on-one? Meet with him every week? Hell, no. It’s already impossible for us to exist in separate offices across the hall from each other. I have to get out of this.
I whip my head to Tate. “As great as this idea is, I don’t know how much I’ll be able to contribute. It’s your idea, after all, and you just sprung it on me three minutes ago.”
Tate frowns.
“Oh, Emmie. Don’t sell yourself short!” Lynn says. “Nuts & Bolts’ website content has vastly improved over the past couple of years because of you. I know you’ll be able to apply those stellar skills to the charity homebuilding project.” She gestures to Tate, calling him a social media rock star. He raises an eyebrow when she looks back at me. “This project will be dynamite. I’m sure of it!”
