Page 68 of The Goode Girls of Maple Lane
I stop stirring, suddenly sensing where this is going, desperate to find out if I’m right.
Everett carries on with the butter, so absorbed by his task he doesn’t notice my stillness.
“Word spread,” he says. “Brandon’s... well, Brandon, but he’s good at what he does. He also interviews well, which is where I struggle most. I get anxious and fumble my words. Everyone I work with knows this. They also knew Brandon would nail it.” He pauses just long enough for me to swallow a swell of nausea on his behalf. “They all follow you on TikTok and knew I’d helped with branding and video production. Someone suggested I add your account to my portfolio before the final interview. I argued against the idea. It felt like an abuse of the rare opportunity you gave me todo something nice for you. But Brandon kept walking around like he’d already picked out wall art for his new office, my colleagues were freaking out that he was about to become their boss, pressure built, and in the middle of an interview I was stammering and sweating my way through, someone asked if I had anything more vibrant and joyful. So I panicked and pulled up your account.” He stops there, sets down the bowl of softened butter, grips the edge of the counter with both hands, bends forward, and exhales as though he’s been holding his breath for a century. Or at least for the last forty-eight hours.
I reach toward him on instinct, ready to comfort him by rubbing his back, but I retract my hand before touching him. We’re not there yet, though I no longer sense we can’t get there.
“So you weren’t using the account for your portfolio all along?” I ask.
“God, no.” He straightens up with a rueful shake of his head. “I made a choice in the moment, under stress. I used the work I did on your account to prove I could do the kind of work the position might require. That’s all. And I never said I managed the account. Just that I helped with branding and content creation. But I knew when I did it that I was doing it for selfish reasons. I was exploiting something personal for professional gain.”
He pivots toward me. I pivot toward him. For several seconds, we regard each other, standing too close in a kitchen that’s only nominally a kitchen, but also not close enough.
“I thought—” I start.
“I know,” he says.
“But you didn’t—”
“I did. Just not the way you thought.”
“It doesn’t sound so bad, now that I know the whole story.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The look on your face Monday night...”
I feel myself grimace. I can only imagine.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “If you’d asked about using the account for your interview, especially if you said it might be the only way to keep that toxic waste of a skin suit from getting a job you deserve and he doesn’t, I would’ve been on board.”
He flicks at the edge of the counter where the laminate coating is peeling, realizes he’s doing it, and busies himself with tearing open the brown sugar and measuring it out.
“It felt so selfish,” he says. “Like giving you a gift and then asking for it back. And I’d already been too focused on my application and not focused enough on us. I didn’t want to turn the TikToks we made together intoone more thingthat was about my job. I didn’t want you to thinkthatwas what was most important to me. Not you. Not Aggie. My goddamned career.” He packs the brown sugar into the measuring cup with fast, fierce punches of his fist, denting it with knuckle prints. “I don’t know. Maybe I also thought that if I couldn’t earn the promotion with the work I’d done professionally, I didn’t deserve it. It should go to someone else. Guess I changed my mind on that one.” He punches the sugar again, this time hard enough to make me flinch.
I reach out to halt his motion. “Everett...”
“Sorry.” He flexes his hand as I retract mine. “It’s just, Monday, when you heard—”
“I was blindsided. That came out of nowhere. After I trusted you so implicitly.”
“I know.” He hangs his head, shaking it slowly. “I know. I know. I know.”
That’s a lot of I knows, I think, but it’s a joke only I would get.
“Even if you didn’t plan to use the account for your interview,” I say, “you should’ve at least told me after you did it. I would’ve supported you. I would’ve understood.”
“I know,” he says again. “I meant to. Itriedto. But I was so ashamed.”
“More ashamed than you are now?”
He lets out a breath of humorless laughter. “Definitely not.”
I attempt a smile but I don’t get very far with it. All this stress. His and mine. My shock. His shame. The mental contortions I’ve put myself through, trying to make sense of his actions. Whatever he’s put himself through over the last few days. The near certainty we were over. And for something that now seems so insignificant, just a series of small, imperfect choices, their impact catalyzed by an unexpected announcement. I can’t even be that mad at Everett for not telling me. Didn’t I avoid talking, too, making matters worse? Aren’t we both at fault?
“We have to be able to trust each other,” I say. “And talk to each other.”
His expression grows stern, etching a crease between his brows. “Of course we do.”
“How do you suggest we do a better job of that?”
