Page 11 of Handle with Care
What exactly have I gotten myself into—and with Mr. McLaren too?
Chapter Six
When Lily leaves us alone to digest the whirlwind of exhibition information and spreadsheets, we’re in a chasm of awkward silence so deep that I might have fallen into the molten core of the Earth. Now, I could complain, but that won’t help us get anything done.
I run my hand through my hair, flick my gaze momentarily to the broad windows to look at London’s skyline beneath filtered cloud. It’s a moment to ground myself, let this new reality wash over me. Let myself half pretend for a moment I can fake being a boulder in a creek in one of those visualization exercises where water flows around me, babbling brook style, as opposed to raging floods, where the waters keep rising?—
Okay, forget visualization.
Instead, I try to scrape up some aspirational leadership skills like I was told I had, back in grade three when I rallied kids for a longer recess break at school. My leadership skills promptly left me after that, even if Stephen says I’m more influential than I think.
We eye each other in awkward silence instead. The strained moment becomes two strained moments. I open my mouth at last to speak, but he beats me to it.
“Late night with your Grindr hookup?” Mr. McLaren asks pointedly. “You look positively wrecked.”
“Us lesser mortals need to use apps to date. I’m guessing you have a girlfriend or whatever and don’t bother with tech, but I’m new in town. So sue me.”
“Touché.” He takes a long pause and takes far longer than necessary to sip his tea rather theatrically. He considers me over his mug, thoughtful. There’s a hint of a smile playing over his lips, the bastard. “I do hear Americans are quite litigious.”
“I’m not an American!” I’m indignant. “I mean, and even if I was, so what? Like I can sue you for being seriously annoying.”
“Where are you from, then?”
“Canada,” I say witheringly. “If you cared to know anything about me, you should probably have figured that out by now. Rather than making assumptions.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve done very little to get to know me. Therefore, we’re even.” His lips twitch and turn into a frown. His eyes are an intriguing shade that I can’t quite figure out in this strange boardroom light. “Wait. No. Actually, we’re not.”
“We’re not?” I stare at Mr. McLaren. Who does he think he is, royalty or what?
He shakes his head. Dark waves move like water, something out of a hair commercial. It’s seriously ridiculous. It makes me upset all over again. “Actually, I’ve got something to say to you about assumptions. And being rude.”
“You’re callingmerude?”
“For the record, on the first day we met, I introduced myself with my forename and my surname and even a short-form name, and yet you insist on calling me Mr. McLaren behind my back. Don’t think I don’t know.” He gives me a devastatingly cold look. Vicious, even. “And now you have most of the museum staff calling me that too, when people think I can’t hear them.”
I open my mouth. Shut it. My face is on fire. And though I’d rather die right now than admit it, he probably has a point. Okay, a very valid point.
Mortified, I slump a little in my chair at the callout. And I’ve got to do a gut check whether I’m embarrassed because I’ve been caught or embarrassed because I’ve been a jerk.
“It… escalated.” I decide to come clean as my conscience twists deep in my pancreas. “I didn’t think it would go so far.”
“I would appreciate it very much if you stopped calling me Mr. McLaren, thanks. Just… Will.” He stares at me, the planes of his face hard and unyielding, his eyes are now a cold silver in this light.
“Okay… Just Will. I would also appreciate it if you didn’t splash me with your car next time it rains.”
He scowls at me. “You don’t know when to stop. And that was an accident.”
“You—Will—” I say sharply, to prove to him that I totally know his name and I can call him that, no problem. “—have an entitlement issue.”
He stares at me, wide-eyed. To be fair, neither one of us can believe my mouth is still going, independent of my better senses. “Are you trying to get sacked?”
“Listen. You waltz around here, making messes and not even bothering to be considerate. There’s a whole building full of people working together in this museum, and you’re leaving crumbs and mugs and paper jams everywhere and generally not being helpful. You’re being selfish, assuming like we’re all here to pick up after you?—”
He flushes. It’s not an unbecoming color, but his eyes flash with danger. For a moment, he has no words. Instead, he makes a sound suspiciously like a huff.
“You’re being terribly presumptuous—” he snaps.
“I think you’re being a dick. Or a—aprat.”I fold my arms defiantly across my chest, pleased with my word choice being culturally appropriate, but unfortunately, we’re no further ahead in cross-cultural understanding.Then, I think of the night out with Raj, and the now long-gone fun we had, and his generally wise warnings.
