Page 3 of Falling Slowly
I blinked, confused. Judging by their cutesy logo, Rubie Ridge Art Retreat was set in the mountains and, according to their by-line, all about supercharging your creativity. It made no sense. I wasn’t the star of the agency, by any stretch. Not like Charlie, the Creative Director. Or even Teresa, our Art Director and my only office friend. But there it was—my name printed at the top of the welcome letter.
I glanced around the production floor. If I was getting this, everyone else must have been gifted a new car. But I saw no other envelopes or anything out of the ordinary. Only neat rows of silver iMacs and the expressionless faces staring at them, filling the room with the ever-present sound of faint clicking. George didn’t believe in playing music. “This isn’t a bar!” he’d shout from the top of the stairs, causing the brave soul who’d thought to cheer us with a song to quickly turn off their speakers. If workers seemed too relaxed, they obviously weren’t productive.
“Anyone else got this? It’s about an art retreat or something.” I raised the envelope. The three people currently sharing the room with me shook their heads and raised their eyebrows.
“Is it like a flyer or something?”
“I guess so.” I slipped the envelope into the pocket of my bulky cardigan—a fashion choice I hoped came across as hipster rather than homeless. At least it was short, not the gathered drape style Mom went for.
I was about to sit and continue Photoshopping another realtor with brilliant veneers for a client website when I noticed Charlie in the doorway.
Tall, blond, and so stupidly good-looking, it always seemed like he was modeling the clothes he wore, making sales on everystep. I ordered my eyes to focus on the screen before he noticed the half-witted expression on my face. But I was too slow. His gaze flicked to me, and to my shock, it lingered. Those ocean blue eyes held mine and his lips parted as if words were forming on them, but nothing came out.
Two things were off. Charlie wasn’t usually around on Fridays, and he never looked at me like this. He usually approached me like a smiling hurricane, launching into his first request before he’d even reached my desk, quickly offloading everything that was momentarily taking up space in his uncanny brain. I hadn’t fully figured out why he chose to do that in person when we had online job tracking tools and email, but it must have had something to do with how Charlie operated. Verbally. Enigmatically. With showmanship.
It was hard to say no to him in person. Via email, I could have questioned some of his craziest ideas, but when he stormed my desk and asked, I caved every time. I found the mystery font he thought was called ‘raindrops something’ (it wasn’t). I recreated his corrupted file. I figured out how to roll out his campaign in twenty different formats.
Charlie had free rein. Largely because he was the boss’s son, but also because the clients loved him. I could see why. His work was ambitious and visually striking, albeit a little half-cooked. When it came to the realities of this world, like the pixel ratios or the awkward grills on the back of a bus… well, Charlie didn’t think that far. It was up to me, his trusted production assistant, to make it all work without compromising his amazing idea.
Despite his chaotic ways, he was charming. So charming that every woman under fifty, even Teresa, turned into an eyelash-batting vixen around him. Everyone but me. While they twirled their hair and giggled, I tried to keep my resentment and jealousy under control.
When I saw him approaching, I took a deep breath and repeated my mantra:Oh, Charlie!
It was all about the tone.
Instead of openly despising his disorderly ways, obscene paycheck, and life of luxury, I chose to think of him as an adorable Labrador puppy who also happened to be a creative genius.
When I had to delete 357 items off his paste boards to see the actual design, I sighed‘Oh, Charlie! He finds inspiration within chaos’.
When I saw he’d been linking from his downloads folder again, I took a deep breath and said‘Oh, Charlie! His ideas flow too fast for file management’.
The most confusing part of working with Charlie, however, was the way he showered me with exaggerated praise: I was a lifesaver. He didn’t know what he’d do without me…
To a casual onlooker, it may have seemed like Charlie worshipped the ground under my feet.
Yeah, right.
But Charlie wasn’t smiling now. He wasn’t walking towards my desk with that ‘I just emailed you…’ face. After a moment’s intense staring that transferred a fresh chill into my spine, he swiveled on his white sneakers and headed towards the staff kitchen.
My fingers slid into my pocket, grasping the odd letter. Did Charlie know something about it? I gathered my courage and followed him, my heart pounding somewhere behind my forehead.
“Charlie, hey…” I waved my hand at his back, waiting for him to turn. “Do you know what this is?”
He leaned on the fridge, running his fingers through his perfectly, purposefully messy hair. “Looks like an envelope.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m talking about what’s inside. Some sort of art retreat program. Nobody else got one so I assume it’s a mistake, or a clever ad. Maybe they expect me to call and then try to sign me up for a timeshare.”
His brief smile was chased by an uncertain look as he studied me. What was this new intensity in him? What was going on?
My chest and cheeks felt warm, and I fixed my gaze on the fridge door. Someone had written an ode to beer or urine using poetry magnets.
The golden liquid glistens…
“Relax, Bess.” Charlie grabbed the envelope, forcing me to look at him. “George wanted to reward people who worked on the Biased beer campaign.”
I always cringed when he called his dad George but kept my face neutral.
“Teresa was in the Biased team and she didn’t get one. Nobody else in Production did.” I folded my arms, fighting the urge to look away.
