Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,10
microscopic space, but I manage. When I stare at him, I refuse to blink. The way we sit across from each other—our backs straight, our eye contact unbroken—it’s more like we’re in the middle of an intense salary negotiation rather than a brainstorming session.
“What ideas do you have?” I employ my most polite, even voice. Maybe feigned professionalism will work this time.
His eyebrows lift in what I assume is surprise, but before I can decide for sure, he narrows them back to his standard frown. He consults his notes.
“I came up with hashtags for all the social media posts regarding the charity homebuilding project.” He slides the paper so I can see the list he’s compiled. “That way our message is consistent and clear at all times.”
“I like it,” I force myself to say.
The look on his face is one of slight shock, but again, it disappears before I can be sure.
He stares at me blankly. “Your turn.”
“We take photos of how the house is coming along a couple times a week and post to social media. We’ll attach the hashtags you came up with to stay on message. People pay more attention when they can visualize progress, even if it’s little by little.”
He nods. “Okay, then.” That’s as close to a “good job” as I’ve ever gotten out of him. I feel myself start to smile, but I pull my lips back into a straight line.
“I also thought we could partner with the local food bank and do a food drive at the worksite. I already emailed one of the coordinators there.” I slide a printout of the email across the table to him, like a lawyer handing over a crucial document to opposing counsel. “Nuts & Bolts folks can bring nonperishable food items to the site. We’ll promo it hard on social media for anyone else in the area who wants to donate. We’ll get some excellent cross promotion with the food bank by doing that, in addition to helping a good cause. I’ll write up a press release about it and send it to local media for more exposure.”
Tate nods. “This could work,” he mutters as he scans the paper.
This is a strange dance we’re attempting and a far cry from our earlier shit-fit. We’re both able to remain even, unemotional, and succinct in our exchange. We’ve never done that before, and I want to see how long we can maintain this pseudo-professionalism. It happens so infrequently.
“What other ideas do you have?” I say, keeping eye contact with him.
“Random act of kindness day. We’ll make it a hashtag to encourage Nuts & Bolts’ social media followers to do something nice for someone on a specific day of the week. We’ll tell them to tag themselves in a selfie and post it online. Hopefully, it’ll be a weekly thing followers will look forward to, which will help promote Nuts & Bolts and the homebuilding project.”
I raise my eyebrows. That’s actually a great idea. “That could work,” I say, borrowing his words.
Tate scribbles something on his pad. I jot down notes on mine. We look up at the same moment and say nothing. This must be some kind of record. Fifteen minutes into a meeting and we haven’t lashed out at each other. We’d better quit while we’re ahead.
“If you don’t have anything else, I can head back to my desk,” I say.
“That’s all I’ve got.” When I stand up, I spot a speck of notebook paper hanging from his curls, just above his forehead. “You have something in your hair.”
I stretch my hand out to his face to point it out, but he jerks away.
“I’ve got it.” His lightning-fast movement away from me is a punch to the gut. I know we’re not on good terms, but I was just trying to be decent.
“I wasn’t going to do anything. I was just—”
“I said I’ve got it,” he snaps.
My face heats on the walk back to the desk. Even the most pleasant meeting we’ve ever had still results in hurt feelings on my end. I rub my temples with my fingers, failing to massage away the tension. Faking my way through more weekly meetings with Tate will be a whole new challenge.
* * *
• • •
FOUR MILES INTO my evening jog and I still can’t shake my frustration. I can endure almost anything, even a run in ninety-degree heat and ninety percent humidity—but one-on-one meetings with a temperamental Tate for the foreseeable future? Not a chance.
I give up and