Page 18 of Big Boss
Erica's giving me a look that I can't quite decipher. But things between us have definitely taken a detour that neither one of us was expecting.
7
Erica
“You’re kidding, right?”I can feel my face heating, despite my conviction that there is absolutely no way in hell that the man sitting there in that incredible bespoke suit asked me to go on a date with him.
And yes, I know he only means a fake date. But let’s face it, I’m not exactly in high demand for any sort of date, fake, real, or anywhere in between.
I'm the weird girl that people prefer to pretend doesn’t exist. I've always passed it off as part of being an artist, and people have generally accepted that the offbeat clothing and occasionally brightly colored hair is just part of my persona.
It gives me an extra layer of protection from the people around me. They don't look past the initial layer of bright colors or striking prints. And if they don't look too closely, they won't catch me humming to myself, tapping my hands nervously against my body, or even chewing on my hair or nails when I really get going.
My own family was so embarrassed by who I am that they barely talk to me these days. And I’ll keep scraping by in a tiny apartment in a bad part of New Orleans forever before I ever move back home and let them hurt me again.
I’m fine by myself. I spent the entirety of my college years alone even in crowds, and my life now is no different. And if nobody looks too closely, they won’t see how difficult it is for me to pretend to fit in.
I've gotten better over time at some things, like maintaining direct eye contact when I’m speaking with people, at least one on one. And I can usually pay enough attention to a conversation to at least make it sound like I'm within the normal limits of weird.
Because I learned young that a certain amount of weird is okay, but too much weird gets you thrust far outside of the normal social circles as possible, with your lunch tray dumped into your lap by one of the mean girls. Even my own mother had no sympathy, basically shrugging off the years of bullying. After all, what else could someone like me actually expect?
So now I make it my business not to let myrealweird show. At least not all of it at once. I try to keep the humming and the tapping and the chewing on my fingernails or picking at my skin or clothing under control, and the best way I've found to do it is through being very deliberate about every single aspect of my life.
When I'm in control, then I don't let myself be out of control.
Except for whatever in the name of all crazy bosses is going on right now.
"You're kidding," I say flatly. It stings a little, even though it shouldn't. It's not all that different from when that incredible disaster of a human being, Mike Grandfield, told the entire school he was going to ask me to prom, and then when I asked him about it at the urging of Diane—a girl who I foolishly thought was my friend—he starting lurching and shaking like he was having some kind of seizure.
I was worried, even when the kids around him all started laughing. It took me a few more minutes to figure out he was actually making fun of me. My tics. The movements of my body that I couldn’t always control, especially way back then.
"Who would take a shitshow like you out to prom?" He yelled the words as loudly as he could, and it felt like everyone in the entire city laughed at me. Because even my own parents knew I was a mess—that I shouldn't be allowed out in public the way that I am. That I needed to be hidden, controlled, and taught how to blend in. Because I couldn’t act normal often enough for it to count.
I can feel my face heating at the painful memory, and my hands start itching to move, so I wad them up into fists, lest they betray me. "That's not funny, Tate. I don't find it funny at all."
The worst part is I can hear the little quaver in my own voice. This man. This almost stranger. He's going to ruin me and all the composure I have worked so hard for with his very deeply un-funny jokes at my expense.
He stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language, one he doesn't understand. Then he stands up and strides toward me. And before I can figure out his next move, he’s wrapping me back up into his well-muscled arms for the second time.
And it hurts. It rubs something raw in my heart to have a man like this touching me, even if it’s just because I’m such an emotional wreck. I’ve always worked to regulate my feelings because I know I’m not able to get back to medium easily.
And this morning, I’ve already run the full circuit of all my feelings. Contrite, check. Horrified at the prospect of losing my job, check. Awkwardly turned on? Yes, also check.
How is it that this frustrating, hot mess of a man can put me through the emotional wringer in the blink of an eye? Also, if it ends with him cuddling me like this, I’m definitely down for so many more emotional breakdowns. Give me all the feelings if I get to keep him close to me like this.
He’s petting my hair again, and I lean into his touch. I know even as I do it that I’m damning myself by thinking even for a moment that the man who is touching me might care. That I could be anything to him other than the source of his problems, the person who singlehandedly sank his chances with that heavily perfumed shining star, who is apparently some sort of famous singer. Allegedly.
Great job, me. This isn’t the first time I wish that Tate hadn’t hired me. I’ve never felt so deeply unqualified to do basic job tasks. Like, okay, I can get coffee for us and answer the phones, but I don’t have a clue about anyone who moves in Tate’s circles, and that’s been the cause of not one but two of the most embarrassing moments in my adult life, all within the last week.
Besides, Tate’s a grown man. He definitely doesn’t need me acting like I’m anything to him other than a stumbling block. I’m positive I’ve misunderstood him anyway, the same way I’ve been caught off guard by every single interaction we’ve had since he stole my coffee.
“Erica,” he murmurs, the sound of my name warm and delicious along the side of my face. I want him to say it again, and the urge to ask him is so strong that I bite my lip to stop myself from begging him to say my name in that resolve-weakening voice of his. “It’s okay,” he finally says, his words barely more than a whisper.
Finally, I look up at him, force myself to look directly into his eyes, despite the urge to linger along the planes of his perfect face. I take a shaky breath.
“I’m sorry, but it’s not okay. I’m happy to help you with whatever you need, but I’m not here to be some sort of punchline to you. I’m better than that.” I wipe at the few tears that have managed to escape onto my left cheek.
He reaches for my face and wipes the other cheek free of tears. It’s always so difficult for me to deal with cleaning up messes I can’t see, especially when they involve my body.
