Page 13 of Things I Overshared
“Hey!” I say on my exhale. I try my best not to greet him by name because calling him Mr. Clark adds a brick to the wall of formality I’m trying to bust down. Friends call each other by their first names.
“Miss Canton.” Again, he briefly looks me over, and then his eyes dart away. He has the same disgusted expression for half a moment, but I force myself not to reveal that I notice or care.
Just because he doesn’t like my physical appearance doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. In fact, that probably helps, since straight men and women sometimes struggle in platonic friendships. He continues: “It says we’re to discuss Europe sales figures and targets?”
I step to his desk, blank and sleek, like his entire office, save the few family photos along the windowsill behind him. I move to hand him the printouts.
“Right, I brought—”
“If there are to be changes, they really should be discussed with Darrin, not me,” he cuts me off.
“Oh, well, I just thought—”
“Whatever he has approved, I approve.” He shifts in his seat after he cuts me off yet again. He is clearly about to dismiss me. I take a deep breath, inhaling my bitter defeat. I turn to exit but whip back around quickly, nerves taking over. My brain shoots an arrow to my mouth, the memory of an article I read that said Brits love to discuss the weather.
“Brutally hot today, isn’t it? Gosh, I just wish it would rain, don’t you? Like just pour good ole cats and dogs down on us so you could get out your ole brolly and take a stroll?” I can feel myself blushing. But my mouth carries on without my permission. “Brolly is the British term for umbrella, Google told me, but of course you know that. But there’s just nothing quite like it, is there? I just love it, being wet. I mean, getting wet! I mean, in the rain! I mean, walking! Out in the rain!”
Aaaaand he has started coughing.
Now I’m the one wishing for his chair to suck him into its plush fabric.
“Quite right,” he finally says, his face almost as purple as my own. “If you’ll just . . .” The words are so painfully stuck, he has to clear his throat. “Just close the door on the way out, please.”
“SURE!” I yell as I turn on a dime and run for my life.
Lord God Almighty! I guess you haven’t been hearing Susan’s prayers? Help me!
________
My face has not returned to its normal color palette by the time we gather in the conference room for the Senior All Hands. For these meetings, most of the New York office attends, joining the team in a large Tulsa conference room via video chat. Sometimes Dad or Susan or the other C-level executives conference in separately if they’re traveling, but it’s encouraged everyone be in the room together.
This means that despite his objection to these types of calls, Emerson is going to head to the conference room. I decide to follow after him so I can sit by him during the meeting. I love meetings—phone, video, or otherwise. Maybe seeing me in my element will help him open up to the idea of, well, not even a friendship at this point. Right now, I need him to open up to the idea of me, just in general, as a human.
Three minutes before the scheduled start, he exits his lair and I wait a beat to follow behind. He takes one of the last few available seats, joined by Nicole on his far side, and I sit beside him on the other. I flash my friend a smile. Double-teaming him, I like it! I turn to him with that smile, willing my face to remain calm.
“Any idea what this All Hands is about?” I ask him.
“The invitation said social media training,” he answers flatly.
“Oh, right! It did! Probably your least favorite thing in the world, am I right?” I jab at his elbow with my own.
He doesn’t respond because the ping of the meeting software draws all our attention to the giant screen at the far end of the table. Jenn, our CMO, waves in greeting, and everyone chimes in with a hello or a wave. Everyone except the statue to my left. Instead, he exhales as if he’s truly exasperated, even though the meeting has gone on all of fifteen seconds.
As she launches into the agenda for the meeting, Emerson gets up and leaves the conference room. I watch him leave, curious and confused. Can he just bail on meetings like that? Surely not. If he was invited to a high-level meeting, Dad must have wanted him present.
I forget about him as I listen to Jenn and her team talk about new social media trends and corporate guidelines. I crack a few jokes and ask a few relevant questions, as always. I just don’t see the point in holding back something that may be helpful to the group, including a well-timed joke at my expense or Dad’s or any other Canton in the meeting. It’s fun. I like to add some fun. I’m feeling pleased with myself and wishing Emerson had stayed to witness my legendary meeting skills.
Until Jenn addresses Emerson in the back of the room.
He’s in the back of the room? He’s in the back of the room.
He wordlessly nods at whatever Jenn said, leaning against the wall. He left the seat next to me at the table, came back, and instead of returning to the available seat by me, chose to stand in the back.
A lesser (or maybe sane?) person would wave their white flag at this point. But I can’t. At least, not yet. Because this thick tension with him cannot be carried onto the plane and across the sea with us. It simply cannot. I havegotto find a way to cut it.
Time for reinforcements.
WEDNESDAY 6:40p.m.
