Page 62 of Loathing My Boss
“You, sir, are the powerhouse of the cell.”
He laughs—blissful—and something weird flutters in my chest.
So, naturally, I destroy it. “I’m glad you got blueberry pancakes instead of chocolate chip. The antioxidants are good for your aging, unstable powerhouse cells. Antioxidants help prevent Alzheimer’s, which I’m certain you are entering the risk years of.” Scooping eggs onto my toast, I crunch.
Viktor, cheeky fellow, asks, “Are you aware that’s white bread you’re eating, sweet pea?”
“Iam young and spry. The carbs hitting my system like pure sugar aregoodfor me.”
“My elderly wisdom suggests that’s not how that works.”
“Your elderly wisdom can take a long hike off a short pier.”
This isn’t so bad, I think. I just have to ignoreyesterday, and the past two years, and the entire decade. If I just dwell onthismoment,rightnow, I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not a horrible, vindictive person who sold her best years for cheap, uncalled for vengeance. I’m only bantering with my boss bud, eating eggs on toast…and drinking chocolate milk.
Because, canonically, I am a toddler.
I still don’t understand why Viktor likes me.
Not one bit.
But, while I’ve shoved my copious amounts of guilt out of sight, can I see any potential that I might grow to like him? Assuming, of course, this isn’t one giant prank. And it probably is.
On thepro chances I learn to like himside, he said hello and goodnight to Potato.
Unfortunately, on the con side, he’s very sweet, and soft, andcomplacent. I don’t love those traits in people. I don’t love feeling like he’d let me get away with abusing him if we were a couple. I don’t want to hurt someone I care about. I need someone who stops me when I go too far without pushing me away. Which sounds like a balancing act no one should have to deal with.
Maybe I’m just not cut out for a relationship like the one he wants.
Maybe we need to quit while we’re ahead.
Opening my mouth, I attempt to broach the topic—but a pancake hits me in the face before I can.
The syrupy thing skids down my face, falling in the rest of my eggs, and I sit, stone still shocked, as a child a booth up looks over the honey yellow seat at me, points, and laughs. His mother—horrified—says, “Oh my goodness. I’m so sorry.Jaime, sit down.”
Viktor turns, and the woman pales, sucking in a breath. “M-Mr. Bachelor.” She scoops her son up, pinning him toherself and clamping his flailing arms as she drags him to her side of the table. “I’m so, so sorry. Please forgive him.”
Whatever expression Viktor shares with the woman…it makes her writhing son still, then cry.
As she shushes the tiny mongrel, I shudder, never to be clean again.
While Viktor rises and kneels at my booth, an employee rushes to our table, wringing his hands. “I-is there a-anything I can do to help, Mr. Bachelor, sir?”
Viktor doesn’t look at him. “Damp paper towels.” He gets a napkin off the dark wood table, pulls it through the condensation on his water glass, then begins the tedious job of cleaning me up. “Eyes on me, sweet pea,” he murmurs, tilting my chin. “That’s it. Good girl.”
The paper towels arrive, but I don’t hear the waiter’s sniveling past the pound of my heart in my ears.
Goodgirl?
Me?
I’mthe good girl?
Surely this man did not justgood girlme.
I’m a bad girl, a terrible girl, a rotten, horrible,notgood girl.
Also, in other news, have I mentioned how weak I am to the endearmentsweet pea?
