Faker

by Sarah Smith

  She gazes at us tenderly, beaming with immeasurable hope and excitement. I stutter through a few more “ums,” fighting the urge to scream.

  After giving us an encouraging squeeze on the shoulders, she claps her hands in delight. “Wonderful! Just wonderful, you two! This idea is so very touching. You know, if you produce some outstanding results with this project, I think I could get you both a week of paid time off each. Maybe even two!”

  When I’m back at my office, I plop down in my chair, stunned. I now have to squeeze in bicker sessions with Tate in addition to my regular work during the week. Great.

  “That was a weak showing in there.”

  I stop typing to see Tate hovering at my open doorway. “What?”

  “Look, I know you don’t want to do this extra project, but it’s for a good cause,” he says. “Quit whining and suck it up.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Maybe you should have consulted with me before announcing your grand plan to Lynn.”

  He shakes his head at me. “Like you would have said yes.”

  My silence is a reluctant agreement. I would have absolutely shot it down.

  “How will we even get this project off the ground? We have a hard enough time sitting across the hall from each other.”

  “Ah yes, here we go with the theatrics. Give it a rest, Emmie.”

  “Do you know how long it takes to build a house from the ground up? About a year. That means we’ll have to work together—one-on-one—for the next twelve months.”

  He stares at me with a neutral expression, as if he’s suddenly forgotten our volatile work history.

  “This has disaster written all over it.”

  “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

  He pushes off my doorframe and runs a hand roughly through his blond waves before looking at me. I glare at him. He glares back. We are beyond ridiculous.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Let me know how you feel after we’ve both gone hoarse from yelling at each other.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Would you prefer if we collaborated over the phone? Or we could do all of our meetings via Gchat, not a single word muttered out loud the whole time. We’d still be four feet from each other, but we wouldn’t technically be inhabiting the same space. Would that meet your standards of conduct in the workplace, Ms. Echavarre?”

  “Don’t even go there. Maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to work with you if you showcased a smidgen of professionalism, instead of sarcastic comments and snide remarks.”

  I catch him clenching his jaw before I look away and grab the first object that comes into view. Distracting myself by thumbing through a multi-tool catalog doesn’t work. I’m too wound up to come up with anything coherent to write at the moment.

  “Quit being so dramatic,” he says. “Who knows? You may actually enjoy working with me. Stranger things have happened.”

  The most obnoxiously smug expression clouds his face. He knows the thought of having to work with him directly is making me crawl out of my skin, and he loves it.

  “Fat chance,” I say.

  “Give it time. I’m quite charming.”

  “You’re not. Believe me. I know charming, and you absolutely are not it.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? And what’s charming, Emmie?”

  “The exact opposite of you.”

  He crosses his arms, still facing me. I’ve still got my nose in the catalog, trying to demonstrate it’s more interesting than him.

  “Is that so?”

  I drop the catalog on my lap, tilting my face up to him. I may be sitting, but we’re in a standoff for sure. Our stiff posture and scowls make us look like two cowboys aching to draw our guns and blast each other away.

  “It doesn’t even matter. When we’re together, it’s always a complete disaster.”

  His face drops. I can’t put my finger on his expression, but it is no longer smug.

  “I see,” he says quietly before clearing his throat. Stepping away from my doorway, he walks the few paces to his office.

  I flip back around to my computer. We don’t say a word to each other the rest of the day. An email pops up on my screen. Tate sent me a meeting request to talk about Nuts & Bolts’ charity work promotion project tomorrow afternoon. My first instinct is to decline, but it will just postpone the inevitable. We have to work together whether I like it or not. I reluctantly click “Accept.”

  three

  Photo op?” Tate pins me with an incredulous stare. “You can’t be serious.”

  I bite back the curse I’m aching to let loose and settle deeper into the chair that’s shoved in the corner of his office. “What exactly is wrong with that? We take a photo of the family one of the days that they come to see us building the house, then post it on social media. I can include it with the press releases I send to media outlets too.”

  “It’s pretty damn invasive.”

  I crumple the paper that’s covered with my ideas. Twenty minutes into our first official one-on-one meeting for the charity homebuilding project, and I’m already fighting the urge to flip his desk. He’s shot down every single one of my suggestions so far. How will we manage these meetings once a week as Lynn requested?

  “How would it be invasive? We would ask the family’s permission, of course.”

  I aim for the wastebasket, but the crumpled ball of paper lands a foot away. Tate rolls his eyes, then leans over to throw it in.

  “You didn’t think this through, did you?”

  “How about instead of trashing my ideas, you come up with something.”

  I glance at his yellow notepad, which is covered with red ink. Red is for correcting. What kind of savage writes in red ink?

  He drops his pen on his desk. “Did it ever occur to you that this family might be intensely private? Yeah, we can ask to take a photo of them to distribute for media purposes, but they might feel like they can’t say no. We’re the ones building their house, after all. Maybe they don’t want their faces plastered all over Twitter and Facebook.”

  I frown, but inside I’m thinking that’s actually a good point. He didn’t have to be so cruel in his delivery, though.

  He tilts his head to the side. “This family has little kids. School-aged kids. What if their classmates see them on social media, and they make fun of them for being poor?”

  I shake my head. Given how I grew up, I should have thought of this.

  “Fine. No photo of the family. But I think posting photos of Nuts & Bolts employees working on the site would be good press.”

  “If you insist.” His hardened face accompanies the uncaring shrug he gives me. “I’m of the opinion that it would be better to convince the Nuts & Bolts owners to make a donation for the kids’ college fund after the home is built. We post about that on Twitter and Facebook, it’s an instant hit.”

  I frown at my notepad. “Doubtful.” It comes off more like a scoff than the mutter I intended.

  “Oh, that’s a helpful reaction.” His face turns red. “Any other brilliant ideas?”

  “Nope. I’m done.” I bolt up from the chair and dart back to my office.

  I hit the space bar on my keyboard until my screen springs to life. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tate standing in my doorway, facing me.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s pointless to meet with you if all you’re going to do is criticize my ideas. Don’t bother setting up another meeting until you’re ready to get something done.”

  When I focus back on my computer, Tate is still standing. There’s a soft huff of breath, then the rasp of his voice. “Noted.”

  He walks back to his desk while I deep breathe my way through the frustration. A minute later, Perry from the Purchasing department walks into my office. He doesn’t even bother to knock.

  “Miss Emmie, a wor
d if you will.”

  Perry’s politeness is an act. Once a month, he drops by someone’s desk to correct a supposed mistake, no matter how insignificant, and launches into a condescending explanation. August is my month, apparently.

  “I see you posted on the website that we’ve got a dozen of those new hammer drills in stock. You know, those green ones.”

  Perry says “green” like I don’t know the brand name. It triggers my boss-bitch mode.

  “They’re called Hitachi, Perry.” My back is ramrod straight and I stare at him without blinking.

  He rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, we have zero in stock. I don’t know why you would even put them online. Remember that email I sent you?” He lifts a smug brow at me. “I guess I get it. You’re new after all.”

  I’d laugh if I weren’t so pissed. I’ve worked here for two years. “New” is code for female, and he’s used it on me before.

  I employ techniques from every article I’ve ever read about how to be bulletproof when working in a male-dominated environment. My steady eye contact, my posture, my firm tone. It all works together to assert, to say, I know my shit, Perry, and I don’t have time for yours.

  “First of all, Perry, lose the eye-rolling. It’s unprofessional, and I won’t stand for it. Second, no, I don’t remember that email because you haven’t emailed me in months.”

  The words flow out in a hard rhythm that’s so unlike how I normally speak.

  I pull up a message from three months ago and turn my screen to him. “As for those Hitachi hammer drills”—I emphasize the brand name once more before pulling up the inventory software and pointing to the screen—“you most definitely ordered them because those are your initials, PP, right next to the inventory info.”

  PP. As in Piss Poor. Perpetual Pesterer. Perry the Plague.

  His chapped lips purse before he exhales, clearly annoyed. Good. I want to frustrate him; I want to showcase his mistake; and I want him to think twice before confronting me with his mansplaining incompetence again.

  “I don’t remember entering it in the inventory system,” he mutters.

  “Don’t remember?” Tate chimes in.

  Perry and I both twist around to look at Tate. He tosses Perry a death glare from behind his desk. Tate is the only person in the company who Perry hasn’t tried to confront. From the corner of my eye, I could swear Perry flinches.

  “I don’t believe I was speaking to you, Tate.” There’s a barely detectable tremor in his voice.

  Tate’s frown is like a bullet to the face. I have to look away, it’s so uncomfortable.

  “That’s irrelevant.” Tate’s low groan booms. “If you haven’t noticed, Emmie’s office is just a few feet from mine. You’re practically in my office.”

  Perry opens his mouth but seems to lose his nerve after waiting a second too long.

  “When you come here to speak to her about nonexistent mistakes, I have to deal with your voice. Your volume. Your presence. It’s all unnecessary.”

  Perry shuffles out of my office, head hanging low.

  A ping of longing hits my chest. It’s times like this that catch me off guard, when we unwittingly work together to show up the company know-it-all. It makes me wish that despite our history, we could get along.

  Writing boring descriptions about drill bits for the next hour is the only way I can distract myself from that hopeful feeling. It’s pathetic to want to be liked by someone who has made it clear they don’t like you. Forty-five minutes later, Tate crowds my doorway once more.

  “Hey.” His jaw clenches, but his eyes are soft. “Try again? We need to get this done at some point. May as well be now.”

  The urge to scoff is strong, but I shove it aside. He’s right.

  “Okay,” I mutter and follow him to his office.

  I notice he’s moved the second chair from the corner to in front of his desk. It’s a tight squeeze in this microscopic space, but I manage. When I stare at him, I refuse to blink. The way we sit across from each other—our backs straight, our eye contact unbroken—it’s more like we’re in the middle of an intense salary negotiation rather than a brainstorming session.

  “What ideas do you have?” I employ my most polite, even voice. Maybe feigned professionalism will work this time.

  His eyebrows lift in what I assume is surprise, but before I can decide for sure, he narrows them back to his standard frown. He consults his notes.

  “I came up with hashtags for all the social media posts regarding the charity homebuilding project.” He slides the paper so I can see the list he’s compiled. “That way our message is consistent and clear at all times.”

  “I like it,” I force myself to say.

  The look on his face is one of slight shock, but again, it disappears before I can be sure.

  He stares at me blankly. “Your turn.”

  “We take photos of how the house is coming along a couple times a week and post to social media. We’ll attach the hashtags you came up with to stay on message. People pay more attention when they can visualize progress, even if it’s little by little.”

  He nods. “Okay, then.” That’s as close to a “good job” as I’ve ever gotten out of him. I feel myself start to smile, but I pull my lips back into a straight line.

  “I also thought we could partner with the local food bank and do a food drive at the worksite. I already emailed one of the coordinators there.” I slide a printout of the email across the table to him, like a lawyer handing over a crucial document to opposing counsel. “Nuts & Bolts folks can bring nonperishable food items to the site. We’ll promo it hard on social media for anyone else in the area who wants to donate. We’ll get some excellent cross promotion with the food bank by doing that, in addition to helping a good cause. I’ll write up a press release about it and send it to local media for more exposure.”

  Tate nods. “This could work,” he mutters as he scans the paper.

  This is a strange dance we’re attempting and a far cry from our earlier shit-fit. We’re both able to remain even, unemotional, and succinct in our exchange. We’ve never done that before, and I want to see how long we can maintain this pseudo-professionalism. It happens so infrequently.

  “What other ideas do you have?” I say, keeping eye contact with him.

  “Random act of kindness day. We’ll make it a hashtag to encourage Nuts & Bolts’ social media followers to do something nice for someone on a specific day of the week. We’ll tell them to tag themselves in a selfie and post it online. Hopefully, it’ll be a weekly thing followers will look forward to, which will help promote Nuts & Bolts and the homebuilding project.”

  I raise my eyebrows. That’s actually a great idea. “That could work,” I say, borrowing his words.

  Tate scribbles something on his pad. I jot down notes on mine. We look up at the same moment and say nothing. This must be some kind of record. Fifteen minutes into a meeting and we haven’t lashed out at each other. We’d better quit while we’re ahead.

  “If you don’t have anything else, I can head back to my desk,” I say.

  “That’s all I’ve got.” When I stand up, I spot a speck of notebook paper hanging from his curls, just above his forehead. “You have something in your hair.”

  I stretch my hand out to his face to point it out, but he jerks away.

  “I’ve got it.” His lightning-fast movement away from me is a punch to the gut. I know we’re not on good terms, but I was just trying to be decent.

  “I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just—”

  “I said I’ve got it,” he snaps.

  My face heats on the walk back to the desk. Even the most pleasant meeting we’ve ever had still results in hurt feelings on my end. I rub my temples with my fingers, failing to massage away the tension. Faking my way through more weekly meetings with Tate will be a whole n
ew challenge.

  * * *

  • • •

  FOUR MILES INTO my evening jog and I still can’t shake my frustration. I can endure almost anything, even a run in ninety-degree heat and ninety percent humidity—but one-on-one meetings with a temperamental Tate for the foreseeable future? Not a chance.

  I give up and head back home to my duplex. I’m stripping off my soaking wet clothes in my bathroom when my best friend Kaitlin rings me.

  “Emmie! What are you up to?” Her singsong greeting chirps against my ear. No matter how annoyed or angry I am, the sound of her voice always perks me up.

  “Just trying to give myself heatstroke by going for a run. How about you?”

  “Show-off. Libby’s teething, which means she’s a howling, restless mess. I’m taking her to the indoor playground at the mall to hopefully help her burn off some energy. Wanna come? I need to be around an adult for a while.”

  Spending time with Kaitlin and her baby daughter is my favorite pick-me-up. “Let me get cleaned up. Meet you there in a half hour.”

  When I arrive, I spot Kaitlin sitting on a bench near the main play area. Baby Libby bounces happily on her lap. I bend down to hug Kaitlin and then scoop up Libby. She squeals with delight.

  “I swear, you are the only person she will let grab her out of her mama’s arms,” Kaitlin says.

  I scoot next to Kaitlin on the bench while Libby balances her impossibly tiny feet on the tops of my legs.

  “I consider that to be the highest compliment a person could ever receive.” I kiss Libby’s chubby cheeks, and she giggles. “You love your auntie Emmie, don’t you?”

  From my purse, I fish out a small container of ice cubes and hold one up to Libby’s mouth.

  Kaitlin squeezes me in a one-armed side hug. “You’re amazing. I completely forgot to bring the bag of ice cubes I set aside in the freezer.”

  “You’re busy remembering a million things every day. I can manage a single cup of ice cubes.”