Cliff’s desk is coated in paperwork and bright morning sunlight. In the middle of the chaos sit two fluffy donuts from the mall bakery. A printer on the side desk chugs out the last of its job as I tentatively take my seat across from him.
“Jolene!” His grin buzzes through me. “Apologies for the mess. I’m hoping you like the honey crullers to make up for it.”
He grabs the freshly printed docs, shoves them in the stapler, and plops them on the desk in front of me. Then he tilts his screen toward me, revealing the first slide of a PowerPoint. “So you can follow along.”
I slide the papers toward me and read the headline: “Communication in Business.” “Can I keep this? It looks unputdownable. Maybe you should send this to a publisher, turn it into a bestseller.”
He nods evenly. “In that case, I’ll need to sign the first edition.” He leans over me and a cloud of warmth floats between us. He bites the cap of a Sharpie off, signs the paper, and holds my gaze. “Is that bullshit out of our systems then?”
I nod. “I’m good.”
“Great. We’re just going through the PowerPoint together. The handout is for additional notes.” He clicks his mouse and the first slide swipes across the screen.
I put up my hand like I’m a child in a classroom. “Cliff, isn’t this a PowerPoint presentation?”
His jaw squares into quite a pleasant grump face. “What are you playing at?”
“I just meant you should present. I feel sort of . . . I don’t want to give notes, but where’s the showmanship?”
“You nail one amazing presentation, and now you’re the expert, huh?” He says it teasingly, but the praise makes my heart expand anyway.
“Pretty much. You said you wanted me to do well. A student can only go as far as their teacher allows.”
His nostrils flare a tad, but his lips curl up. He stands, splays his arms dramatically, and announces, “Effective communication in the workplace has three key cornerstones . . .”
As he continues, my eyes drift from the monitor to the yellow legal pad sitting open beneath it covered in Cliff’s neat, boxy handwriting. On the top I see the words: Employees to support.
My own name catches my eyes like a snare. Next to it, the only words legible are isolation, colleagues, and help her feel safe.
Each word presses into me like a wound.
Cliff pauses as he realizes where I’m looking. Instantly, he is sweeping the papers together into a giant pile. “Sorry, no offense—just realized I’ve left a lot of my work papers on the desk.” He stuffs the sheets into a folder identical to the maroon one I keep in my own drawer.
“No need to apologize.” I force my expression neutral. “I didn’t mean to be snoopy.” The irony is not lost on me.
He shakes his head. “Nah, it’s more that I don’t want any distractions from the amazing show I’m putting on.”
“Impossible.”
His expression warms. “Hey, Jolene, you really did do a great job at the conference yesterday.”
“Thanks,” I say, still forcing myself not to look at the maroon folder in his arms. “I was a little nervous at first, but I’m glad I didn’t fumble too much.”
“I didn’t notice any fumbling.” He gestures toward his monitor. “But this show will help strengthen your skills. Which leads me to the second foundation of communication: body language.” He swipes his hand across his body, fingers wiggling like he’s in a boy band. When I don’t laugh, his expression drops. “What’s up? Why are you looking at the talent like they’ve upset you?”
I can’t stop thinking about that damn folder—all the notes he makes for everyone, the individual meetings, the donuts. I swallow. “You’re just . . . you’re great at this. Your job.”
He actually cares. So much. Did I lose that part of me? I definitely had it once.
Cliff’s eyes widen with surprise, like he’s been caught doing something other than being a total tool with a PowerPoint. “Jolene, kissing ass isn’t a good look.”
“I’m being serious.” I look straight into his eyes, hoping he can tell how much I mean it. Cliff stares back, something strange brewing behind his expression. Then he looks away sharply toward the window.
The mood has quickly turned weird, so I say, “Doesn’t it ever get to you, though? Dealing with office fucks and evaluating them on their personalized levels of bullshit?”
His mouth curls upward. “I mean, yes, I can think of times where people’s bullshit in the office does annoy me.” He stares at me again pointedly.
I bow my head. “Oh yes, I know I’m annoying. But anyway, it’s cool you’ve found something you’re really good at. The world needs more people who think they can save it.”
It’s tiny this time, but Cliff tenses again. Another look toward the window, the little golden flecks in his irises catching the light. “Jolene, I . . .” His eyes shift and he shakes his head, like he’s physically pushing a thought away. “We should get back to it.”
As he shuffles toward his mouse to wake up the monitor again, my eyes drift toward the windowsill where he’d been gazing. The glint of a picture frame sitting there catches my eye. The cars! It can’t be. I’m out of my chair in an instant. There’s a little boy with Cliff’s same smile, hair combed back and a wash-worn shirt, sitting in the driver’s side of the car.
Holy shit, it’s exactly what I thought. “Cliff, is that you in a tiny car clapping with your hands above your head?”
His nod is stiff.
“Is it? Were you on—”
“Yes, that’s Kidstreet. My sister and I got on it during some community outreach week.”
“Oh my god. Oh . . . my god. Cliff! This is everything. I wanted to go on so bad, but I didn’t have a sibling. I knew all the trivia. Did you win?”
His grin is all I need. “We should get back to the—”
“What did you pick? For your prize?” I hold the frame like its solid gold. It’s so niche and incredible. It’s unbelievable I didn’t see it before.
“The Nerf gun.” His tone is even, but I can tell he’s glowing.
I drop the frame back onto the sill and put my face in my hands. “Oh, Clifford. You were one of the chosen few that got to scale the winners’ toy mountain, and you’re telling me on this day, the day of my anti-harassment training, that you didn’t choose the moon boots? They were the only choice.”
He shakes his head. “The moon boots weren’t as good in person. I put tons of thought into my choice and tested everything for way longer than the producers wanted. They weren’t used to that.”
I detect a trace of hollowness in his tone. My chest twists as I imagine the boy in the picture carefully investigating the toy mountain, surrounded by frustrated men in suits trying to rush him.
Then I realize I’ve lost myself staring at adult Cliff with the same brown eyes. I clear my throat and say, “Cliff, I’m about to lose my shit all over the place right here. This is all so, soooo cool.”
He grins shyly. “If I’d known how heart eyes you’d go, I’d have said something earlier.”
We both jolt at his words. His temples redden as a buzz rushes across my skin.
“Sorry—that wasn’t what I . . . I meant as a great icebreaker. Nobody else remembers that show.” He tilts his head. “What are you grinning about? Wait, let me guess. You’re picturing young HR me making sure the producers form a cohesive team.”
I stifle a grin and nod.
“That’s fine. I’m picturing young Jolene walking around a playground rolling her eyes. And when did you master the fine art of sarcasm—high school? I’m imagining you stab-typing witty texts on your BlackBerry by the lockers.”
My stomach drops. “No. I was . . . quiet in high school.”
He raises a teasing eyebrow. “Really? That’s hard to imagine. Did you go to high school around here?”
I shake my head on impulse. “No,” I say, sharper than I intend.
There’s no way I’m naming the town. Those sorts of details can stack up fast. If he looks up my high school, the article about Ellie’s death always shows up. He’ll wonder if I knew her . . .
I return to my seat and curl a little deeper into the chair.
Cliff’s eyes flash with confusion, and the energy in the room deflates. “Sorry,” he says haltingly. “I didn’t mean to, like . . .”
I should’ve lied like a normal person. Being weird about it just makes people want to ask more questions. So I quickly paste my smile back on and say, “If you really want to know, in high school I had questionable fashion, read epic fantasy and paranormal romance like it was my job, and yes, I had a BlackBerry—but I used it for some snake game only.”
He laughs. “Now that sounds like you.” But there’s still some tension creasing at the corners of his eyes. How can he read me so well, so often?
My eyes dart again to the maroon folder sitting on his desk, and I think of that little note again: help her feel safe.
I hear myself say, “I don’t really like who I was back then.”
I instantly regret my words. It’s far too close to the bone. But Cliff nods and leans an inch closer across the desk. “Well, I don’t know what you were like then—aside from that you grew up dreaming of working at Supershops, of course—but the Jolene of now is pretty great.”
His words are like a warm blanket. It’s not much, but it still feels like a small piece of the weight on my shoulders has been lifted.
“Want to get back to it?” he offers. “After we finish, I can draw out the Kidstreet studio set for you. It was way different from how it looked on TV.”
“That would be lovely.”
We finish the presentation without further interruption, and Cliff brings his A game to the performance. I can’t help being charmed by his commitment.
But the whole time one thought presses the back of my mind: If only we didn’t have matching maroon folders.
When I return to my workstation, a new email already sits in my inbox.
From: Clifford Redmond
To: Gregory Hall
Subject: Quick meeting?
Hello,
After some initial meetings with employees, I’d love to meet and discuss the direction my reports seem to be heading. I also have something somewhat sensitive to discuss/an idea on how to manage an employee in the mandatory course—could prove beneficial for the company.
All the shit inside me hardens.
How could he go straight to Gregory after that meeting? What could he be saying about me? I shouldn’t have been so loud, so myself, in front of him.
Gregory: How is 4 pm? I’ll have Rhonda book a meeting room.
Cliff: Perfect.
So perfect.
A meeting appears on Cliff’s and Greg’s schedules. It’s booked in the boardroom behind me. The one Caitlin just snuck into to make a call.
I rack my brain, replaying every single thing I said in Cliff’s office. Did I joke too much? Did I not listen to the presentation well enough? Or did my comment about high school make Cliff decide to look me up after all?
I can feel the blood rushing away from my head. I look down at my hand, clenching my mouse in a death grip.
I need to know. If he’s going to tell Gregory about my anxiety, or my behavior in our sessions, or anything else that will affect my life here—I need to hear it with my own ears.
If Cliff knows about what happened . . .
No, I can’t even think about that. But what are Mr. Cliff’s ideas? What after that meeting could they be discussing?
The door clicks open behind me. Caitlin emerges with her shoulders slumped, phone in hand. And an idea hits. It would be such a simple move. I look down at my phone sitting on my desk. I can’t be in the room, but my phone can.
Sometimes to really play the game, you need to take a bit of risk.