Page 57 of The Business Trip

“Hi, I’m Miranda, and I’ll be your server today. It’s a pleasure to have you with us. Are you ready to order?”

Trent turned toward her. She was very pretty, with red lipstick that made her features pop. Red lips always reminded me of Allison, but I pushed that thought down.Twenty-seven years ago, Jasmine, twenty-seven years ago.Trent looked the waitress up and down.

“Hiya, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll take the biggest piece of chicken you’ve got, all right?”

He put his hand on my wrist. Reflexively, I jerked it away. His touch reminded me of Glenn giving me the bruise that was hidden under the pink blazer. Who did Trent think he was? Touching me so soon? Putting his arm up over my chair, his legs splayed open in front of me? I could tell all of his clothing was super high-end; I could see the large silver watch on his wrist; could smell the eucalyptus bodywash that I had seen in the shower. But his gut protruded over his belt, and he had so much gel in his hair that it was practically shining.

“Stephanie, what would you like?” Trent asked, reaching for my wrist again. I put my hands in my lap.

“Chicken is fine,” I told the waitress and tried for a slight smile. I needed the protein.

“Anything besides water?” she asked both of us.

“Coke,” said Trent in that bellowing voice he had. I shook my head. I didn’t want any more caffeine right now. The waitress walked away, and the person on the other side of Trent asked him a question about some sports team in Atlanta. Trent was forced to turn toward him, and I used that moment to angle my chair to the woman on my other side. I began asking her all kinds of questions just to keep the conversation going and keep Trent away from me. I could hear Trent and the guy he was talking to changing the subject and now comparing notes about how they had managed to scam various workers over the years to do things at their condos for less money than it should have been.

“And the guy barely spoke English, so I really got him good on that one! He never knew what hit him!” Trent guffawed, and I winced, anger rising as I thought of all of the workers I knew who scrambled for every penny.

We made it through lunch, me wolfing down some chicken and drinking a lot of water to try and clear up my headache. During dessert and coffee, Trent pulled out his phone.

“Let’s get a selfie!” he said to the whole table. “The best lunch group at the conference deserves a picture!”

“No, really, that’s OK,” I protested, thinking that photo evidence was the last thing I needed. What if he posted it and someone who knew Stephanie recognized that I wasn’t her? “We can do it later, OK, Trent?” If I could hold him off, I could disappear before this happened.

“Later? No, we have to do it now! Why put it off? Come on, gang.” Trent was already hustling the entire group into a huddle, and most people were complying, the women fussing with their hair and sucking in their stomachs as they posed with one hand on their hips, trying to make themselves look thinner.

“Come on, Steph, you stand right next to me,” Trent said, wedging his body tightly by mine. He put one arm around my waist and squeezed my side provocatively as he extended the other arm up with the camera in one hand. I was trapped again, trapped by a man and what he wanted. I started to feel angry. But the rest of the table was laughing and jostling in for the picture. They were acting like sixteen-year-olds rather than forty- and fifty- and sixty-something news directors.

“We have to get closer, I can’t see you all,” commanded Trent, and he moved in even more behind me as everyone scrunched together. He pushed his crotch against my behind.

“Whoopsie, pardon me,” he whispered in my ear.

I fought back nausea.

To the group, he bellowed, “OK, picture coming in five… four… three… two… one…”

When he said “one,” I turned my head, hoping he would see more of my hair than my face in the final shot or maybe it would be blurred.

“Going on social right now!” he called out. “Who wants to be tagged?”

“Me!” called several of the women, and the whole group began crowding around him.

Trent looked over at me.

“Steph, what’s your handle?”

I didn’t even know what that meant.

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

“Aww, come on. We’re just having some fun. I’m going to caption it, ‘The Lunch Bunch, best News Directors in the country.’”

Did no one ever grow up? People who ran newsrooms still did this kind of stuff?

I needed to get out of here. It was suddenly very clear that I couldn’t possibly stay put any longer. If people kept taking pictures, if Trent kept coming on to me, if I kept having to talk at this conference and make shit up, I might lose it and make a mistake. My original plan to stay all day looked ridiculous. I needed to bail. And I was thinking about Stephanie in the suitcase. I had to see if housekeeping had obeyed my orders and not come in today. Plus, I desperately needed ice.

“I already posted on Facebook today, I’m good,” I said.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and called out, “Planet earth, here is your social media gift for the day!” He hit a button.

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