Page 12 of Handle with Care
He sets his mug down, jaw set. “Well, I thinkyou’rebeing a dick.”
“Seriously? You can’t even come up with a better insult than that? That’s so weak,” I challenge him, annoyed but entertained at the same time. “You can’t just copy me. C’mon. Since we’re having it out.”
“May I remind you this is aprofessionalworkplace?—”
“Are you saying you want me to meet you out back by the dumpsters after school and have a fight?” I ask, incredulous. Maybe I underestimated him.
He stares at me as though I’m truly unhinged. Maybe I am. Why am I provoking him so much?
“They’re called wheelie bins here. And no, I hardly want a fistfight.” Mr. McLaren—Will—sniffs at me in an offhand way, like he doesn’t want to waste a perfectly good wheelie bin on me. “I didn’t want that as a child in school, and I certainly don’t intend to start now.”
“Good.”
Not that I want a fight either. Verbal or otherwise. I mean, when I had been in school, I mostly spent my after-school time with the other odd kids, out in the art room or watching the theatre kids rehearse. It was the best way to avoid the bullies.
We’re back to eyeing one another uncertainly, measuring up each other for size. He presses his lips flat. I don’t feel any better having confronted him. It’s not like how I imagined I’d feel, euphoric, like I was the physical manifestation of the pooroverriding the rich in a surge of putting order in the world again. Instead, I feel… kind of bad? What the hell?
Will’s standing by the window, backlit with the impressive London view, with his arms tightly folded across his chest, and I’m mirroring him, right down to the pressed lips. I don’t even know when we got up. Or if anyone overheard our fight. What an embarrassing thought. God, we could both get fired.
His cheeks are still flushed, and so apparently are his lips, to a deep red. There’s no harm in looking for a second—and, um, focus.
“I’m sorry for not calling you by your real name,” I offer tentatively into the silence. And I mean it. It’s not a sham apology.
Will works his jaw, visibly makes his shoulders relax, and puts his arms down by his sides. He fidgets with his pockets.
“It wasn’t very kind of me.” I meet his gaze, looking as sorry as I can, trying to be appealing in a way that usually wins people over. “And I can do better.”
Will doesn’t look convinced. “I’m… sorry that you think I’ve been selfish.”
I frown at him. A total fail on the apology front. I should have known better than to fall for this or think he would come clean too.
“Okay, okay. A lot better. I promise I’ll do a better job of being more mindful of others at the museum,” Will says at last. “Admittedly, I’ve been focused on myself.”
At last, I let out a long breath. “’Kay.”
We stare at each other again in the uncomfortable stillness of the room. What else do English people say when calling a truce?
“Let’s shake hands on it,” I try. Is that weird? I don’t know. But I’m committed now and stick out my hand. Don’t think about actually touching the guy. Shake hands and move on.“Let’s just do the work. God knows there’s enough of that to go around.”
“Excellent idea.” He looks relieved. He takes my hand and shakes it, and it’s everything I can do to stay focused. His hand is as hot as his gaze is cool, and his eyes turn out to be a beautiful silvery blue up close. Then he smiles, and he’s really something to look at then.
As my face heats up again, I snatch my hand away and turn back to the laptop that I’ve brought, hurriedly opening it before sitting a safe distance away from him. “Right, let’s get at it. There’s loads to do, like Lily said.”
“Right. Yes. Let’s focus on the work.”
When I glance up fleetingly, he looks as relieved as I am at the idea. He sits down too, finally, and opens his laptop.
“’Kay.” I sit straight in my chair. “We need a plan.”
We look at the printout that Lily left us of all three hundred and twenty-seven exhibits. It’s a thick stack. It’s in tiny font. There’s so much color coding. We don’t even know what the colors mean. Do we need to know? Who can say?
Neither one of us makes a move to touch the stack of paper. Will’s expression is pensive, like he might be having second thoughts about leaving Development for Curatorial.
“What’s three hundred twenty-seven minus seventy-five, anyway?” I wonder aloud, my usual skill with calculations dead on arrival, thanks to the late night and one too many drinks. All I know is that it’s not enough exhibits on-site and a whole lot of work ahead.
Mr. McLaren pulls out his phone and does the math. He looks deflated, drops his hand with the phone to the table. “Two hundred and fifty-two.”
If Will’s looking glum, this is my time to shine. After all, I might not have great math skills, but I’ve got the museum studies degree and two weeks’ experience here in Curatorial onhim, plus my previous volunteer experience in a museum. And I’m motivated to keep on giving him a wide berth as much as I can.
