“By stubborn, do you mean extremely hot?”
“No, I definitely do not mean hot.” I used to think he was hot, but the whole “could cost me my job” thing has changed my mind. “Do you understand how good I am at my job? I’m really fucking good. All he had to do is reach out to me and I would’ve helped him organize this! Do you know how many people would love to have me at their back? Now the Mustangs—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Liv cuts me off. “I know you love a good rant, but I think you forgot that I don’t actually care about the Mustangs. I just wanted to talk about his pretty face and white spandex pants.”
“This is why I didn’t invite you to the game.”
At least Marie will pretend to care about football.
“And this entire ‘the Mustangs turn me into a ranting lunatic’ is the reason I would’ve said no even if you did ask.”
“Fair point.”
I’ve known Olivia Pearson since freshman year of high school. I don’t know if it was because my dad thought nuns could replace the missing female presence in my life, but he sent me to an all-girls Catholic school when I was in kindergarten and kept me there until high school. It was fine. I definitely didn’t hate it. Still to this day, I have a soft spot for plaid pleated skirts and cable-knit tights—it’s probably the only reason I joined the field hockey team too. But I wanted to have the full “what you see on TV” high school experience. Mainly, I wanted Friday Night Lights. And lucky for me, so did my dad. He played hardball, but I promised straight A’s and he gave in. But the luckiest part for me was that Liv was assigned the seat next to me in my first period class and had an affinity for the spoken word. And since I really like to listen, we decided we’d be best friends.
She still likes to talk.
“So, since this is a work lunch, does that mean they are going to pay? HERS has really good cocktails, you should order a few of those bad boys.”
I almost don’t see the light turning red with how hard I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure if you caught the part where I told you my job is literally hanging by a thread, but I think getting trashed when I’m supposed to be wrangling a grown-ass man is probably a bad idea.”
“Well, I get off in a couple hours, want me to meet you there?”
“Doesn’t that mean you should be working now? Don’t you work on commission?”
Liv has had her job at Nordstrom since we graduated from high school. She’s the most stylish person I’ve ever met. Which is why her fashion blog has taken off the way it has. She doesn’t need her day job anymore, but she loves her clients . . . and I love her discount. She’s a true freaking friend.
“Eh.” I can picture her tossing her perfectly highlighted mane over her shoulder. “I had a huge sale this morning. I’m in the back going through inventory now. But yes to drinks, right?”
“Yes.” My phone buzzes in my cupholder, telling me I’ve arrived at HERS. “I have a feeling drinks will be mandatory after this.”
“Yay! Best Monday ever!”
At least for one of us.
* * *
—
IF I HADN’T sat in traffic for half of my life (only a slight exaggeration) to meet the man who holds my dream job in his hands, I’d be stoked to get an afternoon, work-sponsored trip to HERS. I don’t like the term “guilty pleasure,” because if I’ve learned anything the past couple of years, it’s to not feel guilt over things that bring me joy. But if I had to label one thing as a guilty pleasure, it would be my love of reality television. And Love the Player is at the top of my reality TV obsession. Not only does it take place in my city, but it’s based on my favorite football team! It’s the only reality show my dad actually liked watching with me. I’ve wanted to go to HERS for the longest time, since so much of the show is filmed there. It’s too bad that my first time going might also coincide with the fiery crash of my career.
I luck out and find a parking spot on the street in front of HERS. But as soon as my feet hit the pavement, I don’t want to move. So many conflicting thoughts run through my mind. I want to prove to Mr. Mahler that I’m the best person for this job. I worked my ass off for this job and I didn’t get it by running from a challenge. But on the other hand, I’m having a hard time sorting out my thoughts about Quinton Howard Junior. I completely respect the stance he’s taking. It’s brave and admirable. But on a personal—and selfish—level, I hate that I feel like I’m being forced to choose between two parts of myself . . . again. This is my dream job. It’s been my rainbow after the darkest, worst year of my life. I refuse to just walk away. There has to be a way I can keep everyone happy and I guess it’s my job to figure it out.
With that thought, I pull back my shoulders, plaster a smile onto my face, and open the door to HERS like I own the place.
Even on a Monday, the place is far from empty. Music drifts from the speakers just over the rumbling of conversations taking place and glasses clinking. The wall by the front door is covered in flowers and a pink neon HERS sign that I know for a fact is used as the background for many an Instagram post.
“Welcome to HERS,” a woman with the thickest, blackest, most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen greets me. “Would you like a table or are you going to the bar?”
Bar. God. I wish I was going to the bar.
“I’m actually meeting someone, but thank you.” I feel myself cringe, but if she noticed, she doesn’t let on, which makes me like her even more. Maybe if I get fired, I could try to get a job here and she can be my friend. Plus, I’m really good at drinking . . . maybe that could translate to my skills behind the bar too.
“Great.” She smiles and her teeth gleam against her brown skin that, even inside, sparkles. “Please let me know if I can help you find them.”
Unfortunately for me, Quinton Howard Junior is the only thing more noticeable than the meticulously decorated bar I’m standing in. I was hoping he would be in some spot that made him hard to find, or even better, would be late. But luck just hasn’t been on my side these days.
For the second time today, I thank Liv for convincing me to splurge on my shoes. It’s impossible to have a timid stride when you’re wearing four-inch, five-hundred-dollar shoes . . . and that’s science. Even if on the inside I’m a nervous wreck, at least I look confident in my approach.
Not that it matters much, because even though Quinton looks directly at me as I’m walking toward him, he dismisses me just as quickly.
Rude.
“Hello, Mr. Howard,” I use the voice that Marie mocks me endlessly for. “Nice to meet—”