But it’s too risky. “People will find out.”
“We’re married, Liz. I think everyone here knows what happens when two people love each other very much,” he snaps.
I understand what people would think. Maybe better than he does. If I slip back into my yurt after a nighttime visit to Tobin’s “lost and found” truck, I’ll never be my own person—only his girl.
“It’s better if we don’t do personal stuff on company time. Just until tomorrow afternoon, okay? The second Craig names the winner, we can act like a couple again. I promise.”
“Sure.” His smile is so pinched, my heart can’t take it.
“It’s not for long, Tobe. I’m still moving back in tomorrow. C’mere.” I grab his hand, tugging him behind a thick copse of cedars. “We can hide here for a second. Nobody’s thinking about anything but hot water and antibacterial soap anyway. This can hold us till tomorrow,” I murmur, tucking myself into his arms.
We’re cold, and wet, and the rain keeps falling. But eventually, in the places where we’re touching, I imagine there is warmth.
Chapter Twenty-three
With luck, partners will discover that improv is a way to tell a story. A good story isn’t about uninterrupted good times. Every scene has moments of fear, contradiction, and struggle. But in the end, individual wins and losses matter far less than the choice to keep telling your story, together.
—The Second Chances Handbook
I paid forty-five dollars for this sweat-proof T-shirt, complete with built-in bra. I wore it once before, in the office, but I should’ve taken it for a test drive somewhere extreme—CrossFit, maybe?—before trusting it with the biggest day of my professional life.
I’m not just hot. I’mhumid. There isweatherunderneath my shirt.
When I imagined this day, I pictured myself acting smooth on the outside because I felt smooth on the inside. It was a pretty fantasy. I should’ve visualized myself filled with a giant ball of burrs, pointy on all sides.
All I can do is wait. And try not to check if my neck is as bumpy as it feels above this unwise low-necked pirate shirt I’ve pairedwith bright pink pants and my cat earrings. If Sharon were here, I’d google “can EpiPens clear up stress hives” and, depending on the answer, I might have tried to steal her life-saving medication.
I miss Craig’s opening remarks, my ears blocked with pressurized bubbles of pure fear. David launches his pitch, flashing his watch to a soundtrack ofmwah mwah mwah mwah. His slides for a destination wedding tour look great. There’s a spectacular artist’s rendition of a wedding party in a river raft, with the bride in a skirted white wetsuit, the bridal attendants in pink neoprene, and the groom’s side in dove gray.
It’s solid—the right amount of familiar blended with new. Still, David’s not who I’m worried about.
Tobin’s up next, then a coffee break. Then me.
Presuming I survive.
Tobin and McHuge take the stage, looking supremely snacky in their charcoal suits. They’re wearing matching oxford ankle boots, like brothers who bought their school clothes together. It’s cute. Kinda hot, really.
I’m sure it’s not a coincidence that 75 percent of the kitchen staff are managing to loiter at the back of the room.
McHuge clasps his hands, straining the shoulders of his suit; a sigh flutters up from the back. Tobin steps to the microphone and powers up a megawatt smile.
Magic sparkles in the air like they’ve applied an Instagram filter to the entire room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Dr. Lyle McHugh, PhD.” Tobin pauses to let that sink in. “Author of the highly anticipated upcoming releaseThe Second Chances Handbook. And together, we’ll marry—so to speak—the eleven-billion-dollar North American self-help industry with Grey Tusk wilderness tourism.”
I read an essay once about “room tone”—a particular sound of silence created by people paying close attention. I’ve never heardit at West by North. Our meetings have soundtracks of muffled message alert tones, gum snapping, and whispers.
I hear it now.
It’s the sound of Craig’s spine straightening. The sound of a truly disruptive pitch. It’s not even based on McHuge’s book; this is a second totally unique idea. Anybody could see its potential—luxury wilderness relationship therapy as a spin-off from a brand-new pop-culture phenom. The two of them are magic onstage, playing off each other, landing laugh after laugh.
Tobin doesn’t look at me when he describes how they would need a dedicated ops support position. Which is fine. He shouldn’t. I don’t want him to. I don’t want anyone to look at me right now, because they’d see I’m sold on the idea, too.
I’d love to do ops for this project. I’m picturing myself at the table with Tobin and McHuge, bouncing ideas around, having fun at work the way they were having fun at the community center. It wouldn’t be like working for Craig at all.
I check David’s reaction. He’s pale minty green, with a shine of sweat on his forehead. It’s not just me whose stomach is flipping harder than Simone Biles, then.
This is the winning presentation.
