Me. It’s ME.
“I’m… I’m shaking,” I say, when I trust myself to speak. “Oh my god, I can’t…” I fan myself with my hands, blinking. Craig laughs—with me, I note.
I did it. All the work, all the sacrifice, all the struggle. I made it, with my own idea. My own voice. Alone.
I wish Tobin were here.
I wish he could see me win this job, right now, and it wouldn’t mean he had to lose. He’d shout with happiness, and that would unlock the scream inside me. He’d pick me up and twirl me around and kiss me hard, hard.
This joy is so fierce, and so lonely. It’s not the bursting pleasure of the first kiss with the person whose little glances leave you weak, or the soft sweetness of marrying your true love. It’s molten steel, fiery and raw, and I can’t temper it on my own.
“Thank you. Thank you so much! I can’t—you mean it? I can’t believe it. Oh, sorry, I’ll keep my voice down,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “I’m just so, so excited to be moving forward withthe project. There are so many tours I’d love to discuss; I don’t know where to start. Maybe you can tell me what part of my pitch resonated most?”
Fishing for compliments is a dangerous game, but apparently caution is for losers. I’m starving for praise. Salivating at the thought of Craig saying he can’t believe he overlooked me all these years.
“I mean, I hope you loved all of it, but it seemed like Tobin and McHuge’s—I mean, Tobin and Lyle’s pitch caught everyone’s attention.”
“Well, yes, naturally. Theirs was a game changer. Original. Special. The exact pitch I’ve been looking for. Can’t wait for you to develop it.”
There’s a bubble in my ears, and it’s filled with the tinny static of snow and electricity. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the pressure. “So we’re… developing Tobin’s tour, too? I mean, that’s great! So great. But you didn’t say anything about mine and—did I really win?” This feels like a breakup speech that softens you up with “You’re an amazing person” before hammering you with an obviously untrue “It’s not you, it’s me.”
“You won, Lewis, never fear. I figured out what you want. You two were smart to coordinate that way, so I knew it was double or nothing.”
No. Please, no. “That’s not what we did.”
“Sure you didn’t.” He winks. “Yours pushes opportunities for guides; his needs extra ops capacity? Classic. Love it. You’ve come a long way. With my mentorship, that is. Get ready to be very busy developing your husband’s tour.”
Dazed, I ask, “What about my tour?”
“You can do that on the side. We know you can handle the workload.”
The sizzle of frozen vapor on hot wires is so loud, the onlythought I can hear isI can’t cry here. “So… mine wasn’t the winning pitch?”
“Here’s some advice from your mentor, Lewis. The winning pitch,” Craig lectures, blithely smashing me to smithereens, “is the one that snags both halves of Grey Tusk’s hottest tourism supercouple for West by North. If I don’t promote you, you’ll look elsewhere. If you go, he goes, and so does his pitch.”
My sweat turns to ice. “I won because you want to keepTobin?”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” Craig protests. “He’s a guide. Not head office material. He’ll need assistance to develop this tour the way it should be done. And he put ops support right in his presentation—so, let’s give him who he wants.”
A disbelieving breath comes out of me, like I’ve reached over my shoulder and found a knife in my back.
“I can’t cry here,” I mumble, looking for an escape route.
“No need to congratulate me! You’re a chess master, Lewis. Never saw you coming.”
“No!” Too much volume, not enough control. “Notcongratulations. I said I can’tcryhere, Craig.” Too late; old tears, made hot by fresh injustice, prickle behind my eyes.
“That’s not what you wanted?” Craig’s neck flushes a bricky red. “We can do it the other way—him in first place, you in second. You’re the handler, he’s the talent. You’re still on the same team.”
I dig my fingers into my hair, forehead in my palms. “Tobin and I are not ateam,Craig! When will you—no, when willanyonelook at me and see me?! Not him!Me. I’m not his handler. I’m not hisanything!”
The sole of a brand-new men’s dress shoe makes a certain kind of squeak when it stops short. It’s loud enough to cut through the rise and fall of lunchtime conversation, quiet enough to stop my heart.
I don’t want to turn my head. I don’t want to know who came to an unexpected stop when they heard what I said.
As it turns out, it’s McHuge.
He takes Tobin by the shoulder.
