by Suzanne Park
When the drinks came, we toasted and took our inaugural sips.
Actually, Candace and Jane sipped. I glugged.
Jane eyed Candace’s copper mug. “You’ve been drinking Moscow mules since I’ve known you,” Jane scoffed. “Do you drink that with your PR clients, too?”
Candace smiled into her brass mug. “I like my mules. Not all of us want to drink overpriced thrice-distilled paint thinner.” She took a sip. “Although this tastes bitter and too sweet. Ew.”
“You want some of this?” I lifted my small carafe and tilted the rim toward her.
“Nah, it’s okay, I’ll tough it out. So how’s the new job?”
Ugh. Job.
I shrugged. “Eh. It’s worse than the last one. But the pay is better, though I work longer hours so maybe it’s a wash.”
“If you hate the job, why don’t you just quit?” Jane asked, pulling out the hibiscus flower from her drink and placing it on her cocktail napkin.
Candace nodded. “I’m with Jane on this one. You shouldn’t stay there if you hate it so much. And you’re probably doing what you always do . . . you take on everything by yourself, keep piling on responsibilities, and then burn out in the process.”
Jane took a slow sip. “You could use some beauty sleep, too.” Thanks, Jane.
I sighed out of my nose. “Look, I have to do a lot of things myself, or it won’t get done. I’m in a new industry now and want people at work to respect me. The only way that’ll happen is if I don’t look weak.” It did beg the question, though, why I gravitated toward careers where I was always sprinting against an escalator always set on “down.”
Just as I thought this let’s grill Melody conversation couldn’t get any worse, Jane asked, “So are you actually dating anyone?”
Midswig, I coughed, and red wine burned the inside of my nose. “Nope.”
Not reading into my one-word, curt reply, she continued with her line of questioning. “No one? Isn’t there that cute guy on the first floor who just moved into our building? Or maybe someone your mom can set you up with? Or anyone at work maybe?”
I shook my head. First-floor guy was gay. Mom’s blind date setups—ugh. And the guys at work? Big nope. Asher was flat-out gross, and Mr. Nepotism Nolan—oh hell no. No elitist jerks. I’d only run into him that one time in the kitchen, and trust me, that encounter was plenty. “My parents are still traveling, probably scouring the planet for a suitable husband for me. And definitely no one at Seventeen Studios fits the bill.”
Jane and Candace exchanged glances.
“Well, maybe before you get too overcommitted at work, you should find time to, uh, get out there more,” Candace said in a concerned tone.
“And not be so picky,” Jane added, her judgy eyebrows peeking over the rim of her wide-rimmed martini glass.
“Hey, I’m not picky!” I practically yelled. “First of all, guys never ask me out. Ever. Never happens at the gym. Or at a bookstore. Or at parties”—I counted to three on my fingers. “So it’s not me being picky when no one’s interested. And before you ask about online dating, that’s not gonna happen. I don’t like the idea of my photos or personal info floating around on the internet.”
I drank the last of my wine directly from the glass carafe. “And I’m always working because if I wasn’t, I’d be at home all alone, drinking cheap rosé, watching Shark Week reruns in my pajamas.”
Candace giggled. “That sounds pretty amazing actually.”
This torture needed to end. “Look, if a suitor comes around and he’s halfway normal, I promise I won’t say no to a date. And maybe I’ll even ask him out instead of waiting for him to do it. I’ll be more open to opportunities. I swear.”
They exchanged looks again and nodded in approval.
The server came over with a small platter of appetizers. The smell of Belgian fries made my mouth water. “I call dibs,” I said, rotating the plate so the potatoes were in front of me.
Candace wrinkled her brow and looked around for our waitstaff. “We didn’t order this. Let’s send it back.”
I’d already eaten two fries before she finished talking. I chewed and gulped. “Sorry. I’m starving.”
The hostess stopped by our table and said, “Well, looks like you’re truly VIPs here. The chef sent this over, free of charge.”
Jane and Candace dug into the hummus and pita while I shoveled more fries into my mouth. When the server came back, she said, “How’s everything tasting?”
I nodded enthusiastically while the other two said in unison, “It’s great!”
Jane said, “We’ll take another round of drinks.” After glancing my way, she added, “And one more order of fries, please, so Candace and I can have some.”
Candace said, “Actually, no drink for me. I still haven’t finished mine.”
When the new drinks came, we clinked glasses again. “To new jobs and new beginnings,” Candace said. Translation: Let’s toast to Melody’s new gaming job and us convincing her to keep her dating options open.
Cheers, ladies. Too bad I had no options.
Chapter Five
That night I slept a full nine hours and still woke up early enough to make breakfast and an iced coffee. The three-or-more-cups-a-day java habit that had befallen me the very day I moved to Seattle cost me hundreds of dollars a year. Money that could be going toward saving for a house, or toward a fancy-schmancy coffeemaker. With my home brew in hand I took the elevator down to my apartment parking garage and turned the key in the ignition.
And . . . nothing.
I tried the key again.
More nothing.
Damn it. No more Starbucks for me, I needed a new car, stat. And I didn’t even have time or money to shop for one. Getting to work early was a top priority in case Ian had more news about the Ultimate Apocalypse game launch during our nine A.M. all-hands meeting. Walking to work in the torrential rain wasn’t my favorite option, though, so I opted to use Liftr instead, a ride-share service that specialized in short urban distances and flat fees by zone numbers. I ordered my car and waited near the garage entrance for “Paul, 4.7 rating” to show up.
Within thirty seconds a tricked-out Honda Element with a Liftr sticker on the passenger-side window pulled up next to me. I never understood how any Honda executive ever approved the design of those ugly-ass, Kleenex box–shaped cars in the first place.
I entered the back seat and said a quick hello. Paul, dressed in a trucker cap and ’70s-style wire glasses, turned around and held his stare a little bit too long. He looked more predator-like than hipsterish. Could he be deciding if I’d be today’s murder victim?
“Melody Joo,” he said quietly and turned back to face forward. OMG, I was totally going to die. He knew my name, address, and possibly my credit card information. Ohhhh fucking shit. And I was going to die in a fucking Honda Element.
He put his car into gear and drove me down the hill toward Elliott Bay, thank god, in the direction of work. He was transporting me, and not murdering me.
“Sorry if I spooked you. I wanted to figure out why you had such a low passenger grade.”
A . . . what? “Sorry, I’m still half asleep this morning. What’s a passenger grade?”
“You know how you rate the driver when you end your ride? Well, drivers rate passengers, too.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “I’d normally not pick up someone with a really low score, but right now there isn’t a lot of demand for rides for some reason, even with the downpour.”
“Uhhhh, how bad is my score?” He glanced at me again in the mirror, this time with a look of worry. Maybe he feared I was going to murder HIM.
“Do you ride a lot?” He adjusted the news radio station down a few notches.
“Like once or twice a month,” I muttered while swiping through my previous passenger history on the Liftr app.
He whistled in a way that sounded like an atomic bomb dropping. “Well, given your score, more than one driver gave you bad ratings
.”
“How bad is it?” I asked with a tinge of unhinge in my voice. Even I could hear it.
He pulled up to my office building and said, “Well, the worst score I’ve ever seen was for a guy who begged me to drive him to Mars. Your score was a little higher than that guy’s. Come to think of it, your score may be the same, actually. Looks like we’re here. I hope you enjoyed your ride! Have a great day!”
Hard rain pelted from all directions and I sprinted to my building’s main entrance. I arrived just in time for the morning meeting and sat down in the back row, next to Kat. She leaned over. “You look a lot better today.”
“Thanks, I finally got some sleep,” I said, peeling off my raincoat and hanging it on the back of my chair. “But apparently I might need a new car.” I jotted “fix/buy car” on the gajillion-item to-do list in my notebook. It was something I needed to solve quickly before I got kicked off Liftr.
Ian strode to the front of the room and looked right at me as he made his big game announcement. “Everyone, I have big news! Ultimate Apocalypse is a new feminist game concept recently approved by the executive team and the board.” As the crowd chatter faded to silence, he explained that I would be taking on a big role by assisting Maggie (the only female senior producer at this company) on this “brilliant female-friendly game that is destined for greatness.” He also named Kat as a core member of the team. I tried to feign surprise as he disclosed the news to the entire company that we’d be developing a game featuring shirtless male strippers while every other person genuinely looked shell-shocked. Those whose mouths were not hanging open in incredulity murmured in hushed tones to one another about how this game would no doubt be an epic failure.
The dude sitting to my right whispered to his neighbor, “She’s gotta be sleeping her way to the top.”
First of all, gross. Ian and me?
Second, how sexist! I shot my neighbor a look so deadly it could castrate him. He held my stare a couple of seconds but then looked away. How was this my fault that the board wanted female leadership and I was one of the only two females on the production team at the company?
Ian fiddled with the button on his shirtsleeve, answering questions as if this new project had been in the works for a while, and was not, say, an absurd joke mentioned in passing on a coffee break by two women making fun of sexism in gaming. Plenty of naysayers sat in this meeting, but no one dared to openly speak out in dissent. But at the same time, people weren’t nodding along as usual, like Ian had spoken the word of God himself. Ian had instantly lost credibility with this male-dominated crowd, and it would be hard to gain it back.
Ian fixed his stare on me. “Melody.”
I gulped. What else could he spring on me?
“The quarterly board meeting is coming up. I’ll need budget projections and preliminary revenue forecasts of Ultimate Apocalypse from you as soon as possible. Consider this your number one priority.”
I shook my head. “I’m in production, budget projections and revenue numbers belong to those guys.” I pointed to Jagger the clueless product manager and John the schmoozy brand marketing lead. Two guys that talked a good game but did absolutely zero when it came to work. Ian loved them, of course.
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “But I’m assigning this to you.”
“It’s not part of my job responsibilities,” I replied.
Crossing his arms, Ian growled, “Your job is to be a team player, Melody.”
I cocked my head. “So you’re telling me to make the revenue and finance projects my number one priority, and to also get this game launched on time as my number one priority. Which is it then? I’m perfectly capable of doing all these projects, but that won’t get UA released on time if I’m busy with forecast and budget assignments.”
Match point. Melody.
He balled his fists and his lips pursed to a thin line.
No one in the room dared to move. It was like everyone collectively held their breath to see what Ian was going to say next.
He panned the room to look at everyone’s faces. Jagger and John looked down at their notebooks, feigning an attempt to look busy. Avoiding eye contact so they wouldn’t get called on to actually do any work.
Ian inhaled a long, deep breath. “Nolan,” he said on the exhale.
His nephew straightened his posture. He had on a red-checkered shirt today, making him look like a picnic basket. “Yes?” he gulped.
“You’re good with numbers. You’ll work on this and Melody will supervise.”
Nolan’s laser beam glare shot right at me, which I returned at double intensity. Hey, I wasn’t happy about this either, Mister Intern.
Ian moved on to other lengthy and boring announcements before I could ask any questions. As soon as the meeting ended, Ian sped away to his next appointment.
The room vacated instantly, and Nolan shot me one more glare of death as he stormed out. Kat walked over to me. “Congratulations, I think?”
“Thanks, I think?” I shrugged. Being on the production team on a game originally conceived as a joke wasn’t exactly something I envisioned in my five-year plan.
People who were there for the next meeting streamed in and one of them handed Kat a notebook. She flipped through it and tucked it under my arm. “It’s yours, it’s got a bunch of budget and monetization notes in it for the new game.”
Opening the notebook, I pored over the detailed notes on budget and forecast assumptions and ideas for how to present the information. Small and neat penmanship, a few hand-drawn doodles and quick calculations in the margins. This notebook belonged to a quant whiz. Someone smart, confident, and fun. Was it weird I found this sexy?
“Hey! That’s mine!” A large hand snatched the book from my hands. Glancing up, my terrified eyes met Nolan’s narrowing ones.
As he held his notebook tight against his chest, heat flushed to my face.
While I struggled for words, he continued. “You know, this is actually worse than the alleged mug theft. This is intellectual property you stole.”
I placed my hands on my hips. “Hey, at least it’s still intact, you BROKE my mug, remember?” This intern really knew how to get under my skin. “Someone found your notebook and thought it was mine, so don’t flatter yourself and go blaming me for stealing your stuff. Stop kicking a dead horse while it’s down.”
He burst into laughter. “I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.” Amusement flickered in his warm brown eyes, momentarily distracting me from annoyance.
Deep breath, Melody. “Okay, whatever. I’m sorry for reading it. You can flip through my notebook if you want, but there’s no valuable IP there. It’s got some messy meeting notes and a to-do list the length of a football field.”
He raised an eyebrow and held his hand out. I handed over my spiral and crossed my arms.
“Wellll—” He pulled out his glasses from his shirt pocket and adjusted them so he could peer down like a distinguished librarian. “It looks like you desperately need a new car. Your 401(k) forms should have been turned in a month ago. And you really shouldn’t put your computer and network passwords on a Post-it note in here. Shady people at this company steal notebooks.” He smirked as he handed my spiral back to me. “I’ll send you a meeting request to go over the budget. Yet another thing to add to your to-do list.”
Nolan’s phone buzzed. “Crap. It’s Ian.” He texted while speed-walking out the door, cutting our conversation short.
Rude.
Just when I thought he wasn’t so bad, his climbing approval rating took a nosedive.
Waiting outside the conference room were a few midlevel guys I remembered from the meeting. They formed a circle around me, in a nonthreatening way. Some were even smiling.
One of them took a step forward. “Those things you said in there, when you called out John and Jagger . . . those two loser guys always steal people’s work and get credit for it. On behalf of all of us, thank you.” He fiddled with his hoodie zipper as he stepped back
in the circle with the others.
The entire group murmured and nodded. I could hear phrases like “dead weight,” “CEO’s pet,” and “lazy motherfuckers” emerge from the chatter. And I agreed with all of it.
“If you need our help, let us know,” another guy said to me. “But maybe you’ll have enough help from Ian’s pet intern.” The crowd dispersed quickly, like an anti–flash mob.
A slow smile spread across my face with the realization that I’d just won support from a few important players in the office. A huge win in my book.
Chapter Six
I had just put on my flannel pajamas and poured myself a glass of white wine when Jane unlocked my apartment door and walked in, as if she lived there.
My jaw tightened. “Hey! I gave you those keys for emergencies only. You’re not supposed to come in here anytime you want. I don’t waltz into your place with your keys.”
Jane paused at the door, and for a second she made me think she cared about what I said.
“I forgot to bring my new set of keys for you. I changed my locks a few months ago.” My keys to her apartment wouldn’t have worked anyway.
She plopped down on the sofa next to me and examined the half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Lifting the wineglass out of my hand, she sniffed its contents and took a gulp.
Her current like-to-hate ratio was about 65:35 and getting lower by the second.
“Wellll, did you notice anything?” She held out her left hand without giving me a chance to actually guess. Holy fucking shit, she had on an engagement ring that looked like a very luxurious Ring Pop.
“Oh wow! You’re engaged! And the ring is so . . .” I couldn’t think of the right adjective to describe that honking diamond ring without sounding like an asshole. Once you hit a certain size of diamond it went from pretty to gaudy superfast. I needed to say something.
Your diamond would make a beautiful paperweight.
