Page 57 of Out of Office

“So, since you were little you’ve had dreams to be a millionaire?” I asked, curious, grinning when she gave me a “really?” look with a tilt of her head and everything.

“Mmm-hmm. Maybe at that age I dreamed of the dollar signs, but soon it was about the work itself, about opening doors and opportunities. To better our worlds. When I think of Colón, and Overtown, I think of what Colored Town used to be. A Mecca made by Black people for Black people. Here, come, let’s cross.” Her soft hand grasped mine, and together we crossed to stand in front of a two-story building with tall cement pillars creating arches on the front.

“This is the Ward Rooming House, it was for out-of-town Black travelers and Native Americans who couldn’t stay in Downtown Miami back in the 1920s. It is now the Ward Rooming House Gallery. A group of Black intellectuals called the Hampton Art Lovers worked on restoring it. Want to see some art?” Her eyes shined with pride and excitement, and her exuberance was so infectious, my heart tripped and restarted as we walked hand in hand together to the art gallery.

“Let’s do it.”

“This is delicious...mmm, my God,” I murmured while I took another bite full of creamy mac and cheese. Our plates were similar with both mac and cheese, collard greens, and corn muffins, but I’d ordered the oxtail and she had the turkey wings. Everything was great. The spot she’d picked was unassuming but had great pictures of the history of the area and the restaurant.

“I know, it’s good, right? Some good soul food, and it’s been here for ages.” She grinned and took a sip of her flop.

“So, the area around us, is being gentrified?” I asked.

“Yes, it has been, but many of the historic landmarks we saw today, it’s Black Miamians working on their preservation.” After going to the art gallery, we’d walked over to the Lyrics Theater, which she’d shared had seen many of the greats perform back in the day, from W.E.B. Dubois, Marian Anderson, Langston Hughes, Paul Robeson, and Whitney Houston. She’d made fun of me when I fanboyed when hearing Whitney Houston’s name.

“Was this really about sightseeing or are you trying to send me a message?” I took a sip of my flop, comically squinting my eyes at her. Her passionate recounts of her mom’s words, her delight about what Black people did with Colored Town, and what the new generation was doing with Overtown had inspired me. Now more than ever I understood her drive and her passion. It came from a similar place to mine, our love of our people, her in a macro level mine in a micro, but she was challenging me to think bigger. To be more. It was a scary but thrilling proposition.

“Am I that transparent?” She chuckled, then waggled her perfectly arched eyebrows. I got lost in her brown gaze, realizing there were some specks of amber in her eyes. God but she was gorgeous, and persistent. No wonder they called her the Silent Sniper at work—she was relentless. That knowledge made me want to take her home and finish what we’d started in the morning.

“Ah... I think I lost you.” Gen smirked, and I shrugged, snapping out of my trance.

“Can you blame me? Look at how carefree you’ve been today, and the videos you took. You’re challenging me today, so let me pay you back in kind. Remember how today felt. How making time for yourself made room for this. I’m thankful for you showing me around your city. It makes it feel more mine now too.” I reached out and squeezed her hand.

“Oh, you good...you really...” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Okay then, I guess you have things to think about and so do I.” Her brown eyes zeroed in on me, willing me to agree. I returned the impassioned plea, kissing her soft hand, savoring the silky, salty skin, never breaking the connection. Pressure built in my core as her tongue slid out of her mouth to moisten her perfectly plump lips.

“I guess we do,” I murmured, recognizing that gauntlet for what it was. We soon departed the restaurant, our hands and fingers interlaced, carrying the heat and the promise of what would happen the moment we crossed the threshold of our apartment. But even in the maelstrom of desire that had swirled around us, I couldn’t stop thinking of Genevieve’s message, and the things we could do in Colón if I only dared.

Twenty-Four

Genevieve

The steps Adrián and I took together to secure our life were a source of happiness I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Adrián’s speech to Ricard, and our day in Overtown were the fire I needed to start thinking strategically and boldly different. My goal had transformed to include me. To include my needs and my passion. My family and my well-being. Encouraged, I planned to demand more flexibility in my schedule, and the ability to work from home.

All through the day I’d fretted about opening this conversation, practicing counterarguments in the mirror. The ask felt simple, but it was a momentous occasion for me. I’d lacked imagination before, of what things could be for me.

One path, one way, one goal.

With my requirement of security, it had been so easy to fall into this structured mind frame, where vacations were not resets but rewards, where extra work was expected, and balance was eschewed. Now, that mind frame no longer served me, but the passion for the work hadn’t diminished. That was why I’d struggled so much with these last weeks at work. How could I influence my field, while being true to myself? Adrián opened the door to how that could look, and now I didn’t want to look back.

“I want flexibility, to work from home at least two days a week.”

Ricard studied me while I explained my stance, how the scope of the work that had landed in my lap required some pivoting, how constant travel for acquisitions would erode my ability to maintain balance, and how the possibility of working from home would provide a more holistic approach to my weeks. She let me speak and speak, then delivered a chilling message.

“You should have negotiated that before you took the job. We have a vision of what the VP roles are about, and collaboration is a must. This is why the regions are all under one roof, which will not change.”

The message crushed me. Her lack of compassion disappointed me, draining me of all the energy I’d canvased for the day. I walked away, discouraged and disillusioned. I needed to regroup. This couldn’t be the end of it?

Battling a deep annoyance, I reminded myself of what I signed up for when I graduated college, even before that. My goal had been simple, and the vehicle had been diligence, ambition, and drive. Somewhere along the line, though, the goalpost had transformed, and I no longer desired the next best role.

My mind and my heart had never been in opposition, but lately, my heart’s desire challenged me to look at my plans and really examine what I wanted in life.

I wanted Adrián.

I wanted health, travel, a fulfilling, balanced career, and family time.

My ambitions transformed as I expanded my view of what was possible.

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