Page 56 of Things I Overshared
We climb into the car, and I greet Charlie and then get busy chugging my coffee. I also take a couple bites of banana, making sure to break it into pieces instead of inhaling the thing porn-star style. Don’t want to add to my already glowing image.
After five whole minutes, I’m sure, Emerson is staring at me. I look over at him, and he looks down with a half grin, then out the window. But he’s back at it minutes later.
I don’t look at him when I speak up. “Don’t do that.”
“Pardon?”
“You’re staring.”
“What?”
“You’re staring because yesterday I blacked out and said something about your stare, and now you’re using it against me, which is a real class-A dick move, don’t you agree, Charlie?”
“Uhh . . .” Charlie turns maroon and starts fiddling with the air vents.
“He agrees with me,” I say to Emerson. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again. “And remember everything nice I said about you was past tense. So . . .” I shrug.So? Wow. That’ll show him, Samantha, really slick.
Our meeting today is with one of our big suppliers. It’s not as fun or as high stakes since they’re technically trying to sell to us. However, we want them to give us better deals on our massive orders that we know support a huge chunk, if not the majority, of their operation.
As usual, the beginning conversation is all numbers and reports, most of which Emerson leads. I pipe in a lot more, however, talking about specific needs for specific lines, why we order the way we do, etc. Emerson doesn’t know the drill-down specifics of our products like I do.
By the time we break for lunch, I’m feeling like a bit of a rock star. If I hadn’t been there to catch a few things this morning, Emerson probably could’ve been pressured into orders that look better in a spreadsheet but would’ve been worse on the retail floor.
At lunch, the wine flows and the laughs roll, more so than usual, since even though we’re footing the bill, it feels like we’re the ones being wooed. Again, I talk to both Paul and Rhonda about their families and hobbies, anything to get us off shop talk for a while. Both of them gush about their children and, in Paul’s case, grandchildren as well.
“Goodness me, you really have a gem here, don’t you?” Rhonda gushes to Emerson suddenly, gesturing at me.
“I’ll say!” Paul chimes in. “You know, it’s not just the lovely face or the last name either. Wasn’t sure what to expect when a Canton sister herself was coming to call, but I’ve never met anyone who can spout off details like you, Miss Samantha, dear.”
“Yes, she is impressive.” Emerson looks at me just for a second. “Canton Cards is very lucky Samantha happens to be a Canton.” He looks back to Rhonda. I wasn’t smiling or blushing before, but now I most definitely am.
“Th-Thank you,” I manage to say.
“You’re clearly born for it, definitely found your calling, I’d say,” Rhonda says.
“Definitely,” Paul adds.
Then Emerson decides to stare at me, the jerk. I chug some water.
Thankfully, the conversation moves on. Not because I mind being the center of attention, I clearly don’t, and I don’t have a huge problem accepting compliments. If people work up the courage or the kindness to say something complimentary, the least I can do is graciously accept, not hem and haw and make them feel awkward. I want them to feel energized so they walk around the rest of their day throwing around more and more little compliments like confetti.
It’s not compliments. It’sthatcompliment. I was born for this? For . . . sales? For saving the family business three cents per unit on a ceramics order? I try to shake it off. This line of thought never leads me anywhere sunny, and honestly, I’m in a bit of a dark place already with the year I’ve had and this trip so far. But the comment nags at me all day.
On the drive home, the same thoughts, about my purpose and my job and my so-called skills, bounce around my brain like pinballs. At some point, I realize Charlie has asked how the day went, and Emerson, to Charlie’s shock, answered that it went very well.
But I’m watching the city pass by. I’m romanticizing again, I know, but I can’t help but think of it. All the people the car passes, headed home from work, off to happy hour, meeting for a date. So many hopes and dreams, and disappointments too, on the faces.
We pass a crowd of people as we drive and then in the lobby of our hotel. How many of them are doing what they wereborn to do? How many are painters or engineers or teachers, doing something big, building something larger than themselves? Canton Cards is much larger than me and my family, of course, but it used to feel like it expanded across the universe. It doesn’t feel that way anymore. I can’t remember the last time it did.
“Okay. I can’t take it,” Emerson blurts as we get into our room. I’m surprised, like I almost forgot he was there, except I could smell him. I may have inhaled his scent on the elevator. And I may have known in every cell of my arm that his hand was only about four inches from mine.
“What?”
“Where’s the recap?”
“What?” I almost laugh the question, because the Emerson standing before me is more than just depleted—he’s . . . bothered.
“The recap. Every day, you’re so energized after our activities, you’re practically bursting, so you recount each moment, and then you blast your music, or blare your show, or make noise in the kitchen.”
