Page 19 of Playbook
I’m pretty proud of it actually. I don’t get to use a lot of creativity on the other projects I’m given. It’s all consistency and following the style guide.
I glance around the table to gauge the reaction of management, and they’re all smiling and nodding. Not in a super excited way, but in what I like to think of as the executive nod of approval. It screams “that’ll do.”
The VP of our department is perhaps the most impressed. She sits forward and turns her gaze to the three other executives. “I think it’s quite good. Any objections?”
There are none, and I allow myself to feel a little excitement. The entire company is going to be wearing T-shirts I designed. It’s sadly the coolest thing that’s happened since I started working here.
“Great job, Wayne.” She beams at my boss. “You have a wonderful eye for design.”
My cheeks heat with the compliment she doesn’t even realize she’s giving me, and I wait for Wayne to correct her assumption that he did it.
He doesn’t.
“Thanks,” he says instead. “I thought it had a nice, simple but sophisticated, fun feel to it.”
That’s exactly what I had said to him when I submitted it.
The meeting adjourns and everyone is quick to leave. I hang back to talk to my boss. When he sees it’s just the two of us, he offers me a small smile. There’s no hint of remorse on his face or even embarrassment like I would expect from someone who justpublicly claimed my work as theirs.
“You went with my design,” I say, trying to keep my calm.
“Yeah. They loved it.”
“Why didn’t you correct them when they assumed you came up with it?”
“Ah, you know how the executives are,” he says, casually gathering up his laptop and notebook. “It looks better for the whole team if it comes from me.”
“But it didn’t come from you.”
“You work for me, so in a way, it did.”
I don’t know what to say or even feel. I’m angry and hurt. I feel betrayed, but then silly because it’s just a dumb shirt design.
He starts to walk out of the room, but turns with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your raise.” Wayne’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Human Resources has put a freeze on raises company-wide. I’m sorry.”
After work, I swing by to get my mail and have another letter from Brogan. I must have read the last one a dozen times. Did I spend an embarrassing amount of time wondering how he wanted to make it up to me? Yes. But there was no way I was replying. I don’t want to be another woman sending him embarrassing mail.
London,
I don’t know if you got my last letter. Someone should really invent read receipts. Anyway, I feel really bad about not forwarding my mail sooner. Also, I’m not reallyinto collecting panties—used or clean. How about dinner or drinks this weekend?
Brogan
His number is scrawled along the bottom. Dear god, the man gave me his phone number. Does he really think I’m going to call him up like he’s just some normal guy? I try to picture what it would be like to go out to dinner with Brogan, and laugh. It’s too ludicrous to even imagine.
I stuff the letter into my purse and head home. Alec has been gone all week to some big weatherman conference or something, so I order takeout and pour myself a glass of wine.
I flip through the channels while I eat and drink. I have a few new projects that I need to work on, but I’ve found that I’m able to be more creative if I take a couple hours break between jobs to reset.
There’s nothing good on and I’m about to turn off the TV when I see his face. Brogan. His and several other Mavericks players’ team photos are lined up, and the sports announcers talk about their expectations for the season.
I pull out his letters from my purse and reread them. They’re sort of oddly sweet. He does seem sincere in his apology. He’s just misguided in thinking I need him to take me out like I’m some sort of fan. I feel like I’m getting a pity invite or something. Or worse, he’s just trying to have sex with me. I don’t need a relationship or anything serious from a guy, but I don’t think I’m cut out for casual with a guy who is used to women throwing themselves at him. I know guys like that. They’re only interested until they feel like they’ve “won.”
Either way, something tells me he’s going to keep sending me letters until I make it very clear that we’re all good and that I’m absolutely not sleeping with him.
That’s the only rationale I can come up with when I find myself pulling out a piece of paper and writing him back.
Dear Brogan,
