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The chalkboard sign reads Your Pets Will Love Us. We Shih Tzu Not.
Sleep-deprived, a perma-frown has been sitting on my face all morning. But this chalkboard sign. Bet has me smirking before I pull open the door. Whatever they are paying their magenta-haired receptionist, I’d bet it’s not enough. Bet’s got it going on. They need to keep this marketing genius.
Two dog owners, one cat owner, and someone holding a cage with a towel over it, containing what I hope is something harmless and feathery, like a parakeet, sit spaced out among the chairs in the waiting room. Bet’s face lights up when she sees me. Mason said he eats lunch at one o’clock. The waiting patients have me second-guessing my surprise, but there’s no packing up now. I’ve been spotted.
Bet slides the window open and leans over the slim counter. “Hey, there, sweetheart. How’s your baby?”
“She’s doing good. All better. Home with her mommy now and happy as can be.”
The door behind Bet opens, and Ashley’s head pops out like she’s searching for someone, then disappears behind the door again.
Bet’s oblivious to the action to the side of her, as she smiles at me with a hopeful expression. “Are you looking to adopt? I can help you if you are. We have the most adorable puppies right now at the humane society where I volunteer. There’s this one puppy, oh, my goodness.” Her hands go to her heart, and she rocks her entire chest left and right as if hugging the referenced bundle of joy. She’s a hoot.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility. Need I remind you? I almost killed a dog recently. Let’s give it some time. I stopped by to see if Mason is around.”
As the words stumble out of my mouth, the door behind her opens once more. Mason steps out, and the moment he sees me, those enigmatic orbs shine and a smile spreads across his face. Within seconds, he’s through the second door into the waiting room and his arms are around me, circling my waist and pulling my body close to his.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
His instant warm embrace fills me with a bubbly, fizzy sensation. The warmth from his touch and the low rhythm of his heartbeat also soothe as I return his hug, blinking away my awe at my physical reaction. I whisper, fully aware we have an audience, “I thought I’d surprise you for lunch.”
He pops a quick kiss on my lips and spins me toward the door. He’s in scrubs, and the way he ushers me out, situating my body in front of his as a shield, has me giving him the side eye. As soon as we spill out to the sidewalk and the chilly winter air, his fingers weave through mine. “Don’t you need a coat?”
He grins. “Nope. I wasn’t prepared for my reaction to holding you. These scrubs hide nothing. Had to get out of there fast. Trust me. The cold air is a good solution.”
He runs his thumb over my knuckles as we charge New York style down the sidewalk. “Are you guys busy today?”
“Normal day. Lots of check-ups. You okay with a deli?”
I nod, and he ducks into a deli with a back area of tables for eating. There are no windows, and it’s a little dark and cramped down toward the back, so not my first choice for lunch, but I’m with Mason, so it’ll do. And he doesn’t have much time.
We stand at the counter, and I order a Greek salad and sparkling water. He orders a Philly cheesesteak and grabs a root beer out of the nearby refrigerator. Before Mason finishes ordering his lunch, my requested salad, taken straight out of a refrigerator, is pushed across the counter to me. The plastic top condenses from the change in temperature. Salad may not be the specialty here. Small pink square tiles dot the floor of the back room, and blackish grout fills the gaps. I check out the table, and it looks clean enough, so I sit. One bald man with spectacles, the New York Post in one hand and half of a giant sub in the other, sits in a back table.
“Do you come here a lot?” It’s not the kind of place I’d pick, but some of these little hole-in-the-wall delis pack a surprise with insanely delicious sandwiches.
He shakes his head, both arms resting on the table with his gaze fixed solidly on me. “Nope. I’m more of a street vendor or pack my lunch kind of guy, but I figured you’d want to sit. And the PB&J I packed from home can be my afternoon snack.”
A man with a heavily stained white apron steps into the dining area and delivers a foot-long sandwich wrapped in shiny silver foil. The enormous sandwich could feed a family of four. When Mason sets it down on the table, it almost spans the entire length of the brown plastic top table, but Mason expresses zero surprise or dismay in the size. I sit, gobsmacked, as he unwraps the top portion and prepares to bite into it. He glances at me, sets it down, unrolls it, then picks up half. That’s good. Watching him hold the equivalent of a loaf and eat it with two hands left me unsettled, if a bit mesmerized.
“They have the best Philly cheesesteak. Want a bite?” He pushes the greasy, cheesy concoction my way, and I lean over for a small bite. I close my eyes in ecstasy because, holy moly. The cheese and meat and crispy white toasted bread with a hint of butter blend seamlessly. I moan, and his eyes darken. I know that look. “Do you have plans tonight?”
I flip the plastic lid off my salad. It’s drenched in dressing and feta cheese. Digging my plastic fork through the lettuce, I search for any brown edges. “Yeah, I do. Wednesday night is my yoga class. I’ve already signed up.”
He pulls two napkins out of the container on the table and sets them up like a placemat then places half his sandwich on them. Maybe it’s a good thing he has a PB&J for an afternoon snack, because I’m totally eating his half of the sandwich he laid out for me.
“Tomorrow night?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “No plans.”
“Come over for dinner again.”
“Will Kara be there?”
“Yeah, she wants to see you. She’s been thumbing through our cookbooks searching for the right recipe to make for her new friend.” He flicks his finger on my nose. “You.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, I don’t know. She’s a kid.” The sandwich attracts my focus, and I momentarily forget what I’m talking about as I take a big bite of buttery, cheesy goodness.
“She is a kid. She’s my kid. And you’re my girlfriend. Right?”
I almost choke on the meat and cheese I hadn’t quite swallowed. Girlfriend? “What?” I grab my Diet Coke in an attempt to help the sandwich go down. Once I’m safe from requiring the Heimlich maneuver, I set my drink down. “Girlfriend? That’s a compound word.”
He squints, and he’s kind of smiling, but I’m not. No, not at all. “So, not ready to take it there yet?”
“No. That’s big. That’s huge. It’s a double. It’s two words.” I thrust two fingers in the air. He has to understand. He has a kid. This can’t be what he wants. I’m his kid’s friend.
He takes an enormous bite of his sandwich, and we both sit in silence. He sets the sandwich down and wipes the grease off his fingers with a napkin. “Are you seeing other guys?”
“Mason, it’s been less than a week. When would I see other guys?”
He peers up at the ceiling then back at me. “Yeah. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Sometimes I jump into things. It’s a problem I have. Sorry.” A sheepish, barely there smile appears. “No double words. Got it.”
Doubt fills me. Oh, Mylanta, was Mom right? How is Kara gonna feel when I move away? And what is up with Mason? Guys don’t jump in like this. This is not normal behavior. I shift in my seat. It’s this hard plastic seat, and it’s impossible to sit comfortably with a bony tush like mine.
His knees nudge mine. “Hey. We’ll take it day by day. Okay? And to Kara, you’re a friend. She doesn’t know what dating is. Not really. She’s happy to have a new friend.” I shift my feet so they cross with his below the table, and my muscles relax. “She hung your art up on the wall. The drawing you sketched and she colored.”
Those verdant eyes stare into mine, and he reaches under the table and squeezes my knee. A frisson of energy passes through, and I have this odd desire to push back the table and climb on his lap, to pretend we’re all alone and the bald man in the corner doesn’t exist. “I’d love to come over tomorrow night to hang out. Have Kara pick out a recipe and then send it over to me. Tell her the two of us are going to cook for you. Oh, I forgot. Here’s some lotion.” I pull a tube of hand lotion I brought for him.
“Thank you?” he asks. There’s no telling what he’s thinking.
“For your hands. You wash your hands so much. Dry skin. Use it.”
He pulls me close and kisses me. It’s one of those kisses that leaves you stunned, and warm, and filled with happy. He murmurs in my ear, “Are you still asking that 8-Ball about us?”
I slowly shake my head and smile.
He pops a quick kiss on my lips. “Good.”
I’m still replaying our lunch date when I return to the office. One particular word keeps coming to mind. Girlfriend. I haven’t been someone’s girlfriend since college. There I was, so critical of Olivia, and I’m getting compound-worded within a week of the first date.
I round my desk and find a tangerine Post-It note affixed to the front of my monitor. It’s from my boss, Maxwell, asking me to come to his office when I’m back from lunch. I glance at my watch, immediately calculating to determine if I’ve overextended my lunch hour. It’s no secret around the office that I take my hour for lunch. I’m not like Anna. The whole ‘first to the office and last to leave’ thing never worked for me. I’ll work hard during the day, but I’m not going to kill myself trying to climb the proverbial ladder.
I lift the Post-It and head to his office, fiddling with the paper as I round the cubicle maze to his office. When I tap the frame, he peers over his monitor. “Hi. Can you close the door?”
Well, goosh ah tah. That’s never a good sign. I close the door and drop into one of the seats across from his desk. He steps around and takes the seat next to mine. I shift, sit up straighter, and inch my chair a few inches away from him. Body space and all.
Maxwell smiles, then leans across his desk for his notepad and pen, drops back into his seat, crossing one leg over his knee, and places the notepad on his thigh. He’s a good guy. We’ve never had any issues. I thought he liked the work I’d done recently for Heineken.
My fingers tap out a beat on the armrests while my knees bounce. “Am I in trouble?”
He laughs out loud. “No. Exact opposite. I called you in here with good news. You have earned a promotion.”
“What?” I exclaim. I was promoted from assistant art director to art director about a year ago.
“Yes. As you know, Laura is leaving. You’re already doing the same kind of work Laura did, but you aren’t managing anyone right now. I believe it’s a good point in your career development to gain experience managing others.” He flips his notepad around so I can see it. It has the names of the different groups in Creative with circles around them and his name is in the center of all the circles like the sun. So, he’s showing me how my group would theoretically fit into his world in some kind of creative person’s version of an organizational chart. He continues explaining what the senior art director role would mean, which accounts he’d have me working on, and which employees, meaning physical, live human beings, I would manage.
“I don’t have any experience managing people.” He pauses in his monologue with a quizzical expression, like I just announced I can’t do basic math. Maybe I interrupted him. Probably another reason he should give this idea serious consideration. I hear myself breathing in rapid breaths as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. “Do you offer training?”
He chuckles and sits back in his chair, then lowers his resting leg to the floor. With slow, steady words, he says, “You will be a good manager. You’re great with people. Everyone loves you. But why don’t you take some time to think about it?”
I enthusiastically nod, my movement so strong that my chest rises and lowers as I rock my body. Yes. Time. Time to think about it. It’s a big step. I’ve been pretty happy with my worker bee status. This whole notion of being responsible for a team, for people’s growth and development, nurturing someone else’s creative skills, that’s a whole big shebang.
Phrases come out of nowhere, my motivational Pinterest board come to life.
One foot in front of the other.
Just keep swimming.
From the acorn grows the tree.
It is only the first step that is difficult.
My bouncing knees still, and I pull my shoulders back, resting my hands on my lap. “I would appreciate some time to consider the promotion. I am grateful for the opportunity, but I do not want to accept the promotion unless I can commit to being in the role. I have some...responsibilities that might require I return home. I would like to give this opportunity the serious consideration it deserves.” Yowza. I wish I’d been recording myself. Give it up for sounding professional and adult-like.
“Absolutely. I had heard someone mention you had plans to move home one day. I had hoped this promotion might persuade you to stay.” He tosses his notepad onto his desk as he stands, and it lands with a thud. “But I do appreciate your taking this seriously. If you take this position, while we obviously can’t require you remain with us for any specific amount of time, we would appreciate it if you planned on committing to remaining in the role for at least another year.”
“Of course. Completely agree. Thank you.” A massive shock of pain reverberates through my shin, and I shriek, “Mother!” I grip my shin, and see I collided with his ultra-low glass coffee table.
Maxwell peers over at my huddled form. “You’re not the first person to do that.”
I hold out my index finger, pull back my thumb, mimicking a gun, and cluck my tongue. “Thanks, Cheech.” He chuckles again. The man has a low laugh. I force a smile then limp down the hall into Anna’s office to debate the merits of accepting an increase in responsibility while squelching that nagging guilt about an ancient promise.