Sam. Which of course I would, but it just makes me feel secretarial to be told to do it.
I hate feeling secretarial.
And I'd run the hell out of the Friedrich Trains account if I had it. It belongs to Harold at the moment. He's one of the product managers who objected the loudest over the gender bias reporting we were asked to submit a few months ago. Not surprisingly, he believes that boys are the primary user of toys by choice, not because the advertising has historically targeted boys. I don't agree. Everyone loves trains. If the account was mine I'd develop a train set called the Reindeer Falls Express and market it as a family heirloom item—meant for everyone. A set that would be taken out each Christmas when the tree went up, the track laid in a perfect circle at the bottom. And then I'd develop a toy version made out of wood to appeal to younger parents seeking toys with a vintage feel. And I'd market it to boys and girls.
Something I tell Nick when we're on our way back to the hotel late that afternoon. After twenty minutes of silence I can't take it anymore and I burst forth with all of my ideas. Not only because I'm passionate about everything the Reindeer Falls Toy Company does, but because I'm passionate about alleviating awkward silences.
"I know you would," is his response. That’s it. The entirety of his response.
I want to kill him. What the hell does that mean? That he wouldn't? That my ideas are terrible? That he thinks trains are for boys too? Urggggh!
I slump back in my seat and plot his demise. I'm overreacting. I know it. I know it.
"They're good ideas," I finally manage through clenched teeth.
"I never said they weren't," he replies like he hasn't a care in the world.
We don't say anything for the rest of the trip. That evening we have a work dinner with a local vendor. It's a blessedly large dinner, so I beeline for the opposite end of the table from Nick when we arrive. I end up stuck between a boring guy who wants to talk to me about American baseball on one side and a woman who wants to talk to me about Nick on the other. It's still worth it because I need the distance from Nick.
Worth it—and horrible all at the same time. Because I catch him glancing in my direction a few times when I'm glancing in his and it's torture.
"Is he seeing anyone? Do you know?" This from the woman beside me. The one clearly enamored with him, based on the focus of her every question.
"Engaged," I tell her, before I even know what's coming out of my mouth. But really, is it my job to find him a hookup for tonight? I don't think so. "To a nice girl in Reindeer Falls. He talks about her nonstop. Spring wedding. Totally whipped."
"Whipped?" The woman's brows rise and I contemplate that the meaning of the word may not have translated in the way I'd intended. The woman's English is flawless, but her native language is German. I glance over to Nick. He's staring at me, his head bent so he can hear what the man next to him is saying. "Yup," I reply, doing my best to keep the smile from my face. "It's always the quiet ones, right?"
"I suppose," she agrees and with one last lingering, but now slightly puzzled glance at Nick, she turns her attention to the person sitting on the other side of her.
I take a sip of wine and smile. It's a smug smile. Sue me.
"You looked cozy with Hans," Nick comments as we walk back to the hotel after dinner. The restaurant we met at is only just around the corner from our hotel so we've not bothered with a cab.
"Who?"
"The guy looking down your shirt at dinner," Nick replies drily.
"Oh, him. Sure, he was lovely." Lovely, if you enjoy that sort of thing. "Maria wanted your number," I offer, against my better judgement. Why am I telling him that? Do I want to see what he'll say? Do I care?
"Maria?"
"The woman sitting next to me at dinner eye-fucking you all night."
"Hmm. Did you give it to her?"
He's stepped behind me a bit to give room to a couple passing us in the opposite direction so I can't see his face. I refrain from jabbing him in the ribs with my elbow before responding.
"No. I told