by Hawkins, JD
“Excellent! But listen,” he says, his face going hard suddenly, that old stockbroker coming out from beneath the hippie, “our return-on-investment within the social media space is getting deeply concerning. Since we hired you, we’ve seen very little increase in exposure.”
“I know, I’m still just working on that whole ‘laying of groundwork’ that we—”
“Peter, Indigo, Sam—meeting in my office, now.”
“Right,” I start again, as I try to keep up with him, “so like I was saying, I was just—”
“Divinity Kombucha needs to project an image of serene power,” he interrupts. “We need to let people see just how important what they put in their body is, and how Divinity Kombucha is really life-changing.”
“Absolutely,” I agree. “I was actually thinking that—”
“Evelyn, Graham—come with me.”
There are a few of us now, following Jim as he marches purposefully toward his office.
“Ultimately,” I try to continue, “I think what would help most—”
“Life-changing. Which is why,” Jim interrupts again, “I’ve hired an outside consultant to work with you.”
“Wait, what? A consultant?” I ask, feeling my stomach drop suddenly.
Jim reaches his office and puts his hand on the knob. He smiles back at all of us, as if preparing to unveil something, then pushes the door open.
It feels like I’ve just been struck by lightning, burned to the spot.
“This is Wyatt Hyde—from NYC’s top PR firm, Greene Consultants.”
It’s Wyatt—my Wyatt—sitting nonchalantly on one of the couches that serve as Jim’s meeting area. He sees us all standing there, crowded in the doorway, and stands up to give us that invitingly sincere smile, the one I know all too well. The others go inside to start shaking hands and swapping names, while I struggle to put my mind in the present moment.
“Melina?” Jim says.
“Oh,” I say, snapping back and stepping inside the office. I shake hands with Wyatt, the broad, strong knuckles unmistakable. He gives no indication that we already know each other, and I’m grateful for a split second—before I wonder how long he’s known about this and why he didn’t tell me, warn me in advance.
Wyatt winks at me, and at Jim’s command we settle down on the couches and bean bags.
“Wyatt’s here,” Jim begins, “to provide us with a bit more of a traditional perspective. You know, being a young, vibrant, innovative and unique company, it can be a challenge for us to really get some of those conservative things right. Being an outside consultant, Wyatt can provide us with the benefits of an experienced public relations department, without us having to compromise this fabulous company culture we have.”
“I’m getting a weird energy from this?” Sam interjects.
“Oh?” Jim says, turning to focus on Sam.
“Yeah. Like…this energy that things are in flux? And it’s, like, making me uncomfortable? Such sudden change?”
“Ok Sam, why don’t you go outside and try to rebalance. Maybe a few floor poses from the hatha cycle? Feel free to come back in when you’re ready.”
Sam nods and leaves, and I wonder if I’m the only one who knows he’s bullshitting.
“I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable here,” Wyatt says, and as polite as he sounds, I can tell he’s slightly weirded out by the whole place. “My job is really to work with you guys and help you get to the next level of growth for your product and for the company as a whole—but like Jim said, without compromising.”
“We’re glad to have you,” Jim says, turning back to the rest of us proudly. “Wyatt’s coordinated and consulted on campaigns at FruiTech, Giganti-Cola, and tons of other major companies. He turned a quarter-million dollar startup in Belgium into the world’s biggest collapsible bicycle company. He took a theme park in West Virginia from the brink of bankruptcy to a cross-country chain, and then to a buyout from Five Flags. They call him ‘Midas’ in New York—”
“Please,” Wyatt says, chuckling away his embarrassment at the introduction. “It wasn’t all me. They were all great companies—they just needed a little guidance.”
Jim laughs warmly.
“We’re a great company too. But it’s time for you to step in with your expertise. So from what we’ve already discussed, what would you suggest we start with regarding…”
I zone out for what could be hours, stealing glances at Wyatt, a prickly feeling of embarrassment covering my entire body. It’s too much. He’s smiling and engaging, but I can’t help feeling uncomfortable at him seeing what a crackpot company I work for. It feels like worlds colliding, walls closing in—my private personal world with Wyatt, and this crappy job I can’t handle, a job I can’t wait to get away from. All I want to do is escape.
I wake up from my thoughts at the sound of my name.
“…you’ll be working with Melina straight away,” Jim says, “since our PR is really the critical area at the moment. Every other department has achieved optimal ‘flow state—’”
“Uh, even so,” Wyatt interjects, “I should probably review every department’s… um…‘flow state,’ just to be sure I understand all the working parts at play here.”
I study Wyatt, wondering if he’s trying to defend me somehow, but he doesn’t show anything beneath that professional exterior.
“Sure, sure,” Jim says, unconvinced. “But frankly, without better results from our social media marketing, the company won’t get the sales it needs in order to go anywhere. We’re like a Ferrari with no gas in it right now. Raring to go, but…well. You see the issue.”
“A Ferrari…right.” Wyatt nods along, and somehow I find the strength to finally say something.
“Um…I think I need to ground myself,” I mutter, my face so hot it must be traffic-light red as I say it. “If you’ll excuse me?”
Jim looks at me for a second, then says, “Oh, absolutely. Please, go.”
I nod, gratefully, and practically bolt for the door.
The grounding room is a small room on the first floor with living grass installed, where employees can go and meditate or be alone. Just in case the ability to drink at your desk at 1 PM or smoke weed in the stairwell wasn’t a relaxing enough work environment for you.
It’s empty when I get in there. I kick my plimsolls off (shoes aren’t allowed), sit on one of the teak benches at the back, then immediately bury my head in my hands as I try to wake up from this bad dream. Not only is the one guy I still felt had any kind of respect for my photography showing up to witness the shambles of a job I got myself into, but he’s now the arbitrator of all my failures there.
The one thing I had, the only reason I could keep on at this ridiculous, absurd workplace, was that the failure was my own, that it was independent of my family (the Hydes and Buchanans as much as my real family) and that my shame was private—but not anymore. Now it’s all out in the open, and god knows what Wyatt will tell everyone.
How am I supposed to work with him? I would have preferred anyone else; Becca, Cody—even Aiden. His jokes are annoying, but at least I’m used to them. Wyatt though… He’s the one person who makes me stiffen a little, who makes me conscious of how I look and act. The one person to make me care about how I come across. As cool as he is, and as understanding as he is, I never shook the part of me that wanted to impress him somehow.
The door to the grounding room opens and I quickly take a breath and fix my hair a little—not because I’m afraid of someone seeing me vulnerable, since emotional outpourings are encouraged at MESS, but because I don’t want anyone to put two and two together and realize I’m less than ecstatic about having a new boss.
Wyatt peeks his head tentatively around the door. He notices me, then the grass all over the back of the room.
“This is the…grounding room?” he says, in an amused tone.
He steps inside and moves toward me.
“No shoes allowed,” I say.
&nb
sp; He pauses for a second, then chuckles gently and kicks his shoes and socks off. He takes a few steps toward me but then slows down, his smile turning into an expression of intrigue.
“Actually,” he says, as if in thought, “this is kinda nice.”
“You’re going to fit right in here.”
He smiles and sits on the bench beside me, rolling up his pants a little, and curling his toes into the grass like he’s having a great time. The bench is long, but he still sits close enough for our thighs to touch, for me to feel small, engulfed in his musk and body. It makes me a little dizzy, a little distracted. Swaying a little as if his magnetism is drawing me in. Maybe it’s the moment, maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t dated anyone in a while, but Wyatt being this close is playing havoc with my already-chaotic emotional state.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be working with me?” I blurt out, unable to think of anything to say but the bluntest possible thing.
“I really didn’t know, Melina,” he says, sounding almost apologetic. “I was told I’d be working for an ‘innovative startup’ that was currently having issues with a ‘health and beauty product.’ I didn’t even know it was a kombucha drink until this morning.”
I shoot him a confused look.
“I thought you were some hotshot in New York? They didn’t even tell you the details of this job you moved across the country for?”
Now Wyatt’s the one who looks away, a little uncertainty on his face. I use the opportunity to check him out more closely. Whatever he got up to in New York, he still had time to keep in shape. His chest muscles strain against his shirt, shoulders broad as he leans over. It’s only this close that I realize how big and strong he is—Wyatt carries that weight with such a casual, easy swagger the rest of the time.
“Honestly, it was a last minute job I took on a whim because one of my colleagues got engaged and backed out at the last minute. And, I don’t know…” He looks at me, and I feel a shudder that runs down to my grass-cooled feet. “I guess I just felt it was a good time to come back. But this might not be—”
“Shh!”
We look up to the source of the voice and find Ira standing there. He’s an older man who takes everything about MESS as seriously as Jim—everything except work, that is.
“There’s no talking in the grounding room,” he says, his face looking sour.
“Sorry,” I whisper back.
Wyatt leans over to whisper in my ear as Ira settles down, crosslegged on the grass.
“Are you uncomfortable with having me here?”
“No!” I say, loud enough to cause Ira to tut loudly. “No,” I say, more quietly, leaning into Wyatt and feeling a little heat from doing so. “It’s just…well…things aren’t going that great here…I’m not doing that great here, and…”
Wyatt looks at me with a sympathy that I find almost painful. His hand squeezes my shoulder for a moment, and his touch sends a current racing through my body, stunning me into a tight silence for a few moments.
“So yeah,” I say, sighing and smiling at my own inability to find the words, “it’s just weird knowing you’re going to be my boss and telling me what to do, you know? Kind of sudden.”
“Don’t think of me as your boss,” Wyatt says, as he stands up to leave, “think of me as an ally. We’re in this together.”
The words, his voice, that familiar face, it all sucks the anxiety out of me, it all feels like it could almost be true. And it’s not like working in close proximity to that perfect body is going to be totally unpleasant…
The door shuts behind him, and I let out a long breath.
Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.
3
Wyatt
Being a consultant isn’t easy, especially when you’re fresh out of college and trying to make it in the financial center of the world. I studied hard and had enough internship credits under my belt to get an entry-level position at Greene Consultants right after graduation, but they didn’t go easy on me. It was a baptism by fire for the first few years.
I was just some young punk in my early twenties with a penchant for nice suits and classic watches, being sent in to fix failing factories and some pretty high-turnover businesses. It takes a lot of balls to tell a guy who’s been doing a job for thirty years that he should be doing it differently. It takes brutal honesty to tell a manager who doesn’t like you that he’s being too hard on his people. I learned quickly that you need a certain amount of swagger, a decent sense of humor, and a willingness to get your hands dirty yourself.
Soon enough, though, I was getting results, and promotions, and the higher-ups had me playing in the big leagues, sending me out to work with major companies looking to rebrand themselves or increase their efficiency by one or two per cent—because even that amounted to millions of dollars in profit. I earned myself a reputation, respect, and pretty much an easy ride for the rest of my life.
And with success came rewards. Enough money to unlock the entire city. Private shopping suites after hours at the best labels, reserved tables at the highest-rated restaurants in the world, invites to exclusive parties and private planes to Hamptons weekends where the supply of wine and supermodels was infinite. I went from work to play and back again for years straight. Barely enough time to sleep, let alone regret anything.
I’d always liked the finer things. I’d always dressed well, been good with women, and confident in my work—but New York ramped everything up to an extreme. Which is why everyone who knew me didn’t understand why I took the job at Mind, Energy, and Spirit Syndicate Inc., with the agreement that I’d go ahead and set up a new west coast office for the firm if everything worked out.
I told them it was because I missed California, that I wanted to be closer to my family. I told them that I was restless and hungry for a new challenge, that I’d conquered New York and wanted to be the best in California as well. It was true enough—but only half the story. The reality is, I wanted more than even New York could offer me. The wealth and the women, the cars and the clothes—they were all great, but once my body was satisfied, my soul still felt crushed. I needed something more real, more fulfilling. I don’t know what, but if I wasn’t finding it in New York, I might just find it in California. And if not, I could always try someplace else. Maybe I’m just too restless to settle down in one place.
Now here I am, at the end of my first week of work here, powering up my computer in my new ‘office’—a small room that smells halfway between a flowery bath bomb and an Indian restaurant. This job might be the hardest one yet—how do you fix a company where the lobby is mainly used for bicycle races?—but despite the quirks, I feel enthusiastic and happy, and I don’t know why. Is this hippie stuff actually rubbing off on me?
“You wanted to see me?” Melina says, and I look up to see her in the doorway.
She’s wearing a red plaid shirt over black leggings that show off her curves. Bangles and bracelets stacked on her forearms, the sleeves of her shirt pushed up. And those eyes. After all these years, I still can’t look at her like she’s something familiar. She still has this power to make me stop and stare for a second before I can adjust myself back to normal.
“Yeah,” I reply, gesturing at the seat opposite the desk. “I’ve been meeting with everyone individually this week to get an overview of how things work, and you’re the only one left on my list.”
“Saving the best for last?” she teases.
“Always,” I grin. “But to be honest, I think I already have a clear sense of what you do here. So I figured we’d come up with a game plan together and then jump right in.You cool with that?”
“Sounds good.” Melina steps into the office, taking her camera off her neck and putting it on the table beside the range of kombucha drinks and the tablet I was working on. I slide over a coffee I picked up for her on my way into work and stand up to start talking.
“Is this a latte?” she asks, peering into the cup.
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��Of course,” I say, meeting her eyes. “I know what you like.”
“Thank you.” She blushes and looks away, taking a quick sip.
“So.” I clear my throat, force myself to stop thinking about the lush curve of her lips, and forge ahead. “To begin with, I think what we really need to do is start with the product—find our USP—”
“What’s a USP?” Melina asks.
“‘Unique Selling Point,’” I reply, and Melina nods though she still looks confused, “an angle that’s unique. We don’t have much mindshare now, so if we just zero in on one specific thing that sets us apart, and really hammer that home, we’ll have a platform to build a strategy on. The kombucha market’s incredibly flooded right now, so we’re up against a mountain. But that doesn’t mean we can’t differentiate ourselves. There’s plenty of…”
I stop to look at Melina, and she looks like she’s about three sheep away from falling asleep.
“You’re not interested in this stuff?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I know all this, Wyatt.”
“I’m sure you do—but stepping back and starting with the basics can help give us a better view, you know? Fresh eyes. We’ve got to start with the product—what’s good about it? What’s different about it? What’s unique and exceptional and sellable about—”
“Have you tried it?” Melina interrupts with a small smile as she sips her latte.
“What?”
“Have you actually tried the drink?”
I look down at the three bottles on the desk.
“Actually…no.”
“Maybe that’s where we should start then,” Melina says, suddenly sounding so innocent I’m getting worried.
“Sure,” I say nonchalantly, grabbing one of the bottles.
“That’s ‘Original,’” Melina says with a dubious look. “I wouldn’t start with that one. ‘Green Mist’ has the least aftertaste.”
I look at her and smile, then shake my head a little and continue unscrewing the bottle. Melina winces as I bring it to my lips, as if she’s watching me take a physical blow.
