she would soon detonate if I didn’t diffuse this hostile situation right away.
“A Liftr driver informed me of some unusual activity on my account, and apparently my passenger rating is really bad.”
My parents, having a muffled sidebar conversation in Korean, whispered words like cheongmal (really), aigoo (oh geez), ssawoseo (argue), and then in English, “black person driver.” Uh-oh.
My work commute moved faster than the GPS had predicted. I needed to wrap up this conversation before I entered the no signal parking garage entry ramp. “Hey, Mom? Dad? I’m pulling into my building now, so I have to go. I’m going to remove you from my Liftr account today, okay? My car is dying and I need Liftr. If you want me to set up your own account, I can help you with that, but not now. Maybe this weekend.”
I had every right to remove them for their questionable conduct. So why feel so bad about deleting them from my account? I was a few steps away from being banned from the service, and I needed that riding option in case of an emergency. Like my car not starting. Nope, you will not feel guilty about this, Melody.
Rather than raise hell, my mom said without any fight in her voice, “We don’t use it much anyhow. Just few time when we going around downtown. Why you drive to work? You should walk. You need more exercise.” Was this one of her proud you need to be healthy like your dad and me moments, or one of her let’s talk about your weight segues? Since I’d moved to Seattle a few years ago from Chicago I’d gained about ten pounds. And she noticed, because she mentioned it every few conversations.
“I’ll call you later!” I zoomed down the garage ramp and took my pick of widely available parking spot options. The only other car here? Ian’s fucking new Tesla.
Before I could put my stuff down in my office, I heard Ian bellow behind me, “Melody! You’re here. In my office, NOW.”
I had been quiet, how did he know I was here? With my overstuffed computer bag, old raincoat, and worn-leather purse hanging off my arms like a TJ Maxx last-chance clearance display, I padded over to the executive corridor.
Ian scooched out of the doorway to let all my schlepped belongings and me through. On the wall monitor were my forecast and budget PowerPoint slides I had put on the shared drive the night before. Seated in one of the guest chairs was Nolan, running his hand through his wild brown bedhead hair, scrunched flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other. His gray plaid shirt was covered in “left in the dryer a few nights” wrinkles. He had a rolled-out-of-bed-after-being-with-a-gorgeous-woman-all-night look about him.
“Nolan and I have been going over the forecast and budget numbers you both prepared for the board.”
I bit my bottom lip and stared hard at the screen. I never told Mr. Intern I’d be doing everything without his consultation.
Ian continued. “For the most part, it’s correct. But your assumptions aren’t spelled out, and most of your calculations aren’t shown in detail. The board gets super in the weeds and really gets off on rolling around in data.”
I waited for an apology for his crass remark. Of course, it never came. “I need you to do all of this over. Show the work this time with a bottom-up granular approach instead of a top-down one.”
My brain finally woke up. “Do it all over? That took hours! I don’t have time—”
Nolan leaned forward from his chair and adjusted his glasses. “Not a problem. I’ll work on the number crunching, and Melody can review the final version. We’ll send it to you this evening.”
A grimace flashed across Ian’s face. “Okay, but this afternoon we have the nine-hole tourney at the country club. Who’s going to be my caddy if you’re working on this?”
My mouth opened to respond, but Nolan’s no, don’t you dare glare made me bite back my words.
Ian sighed. “Send it to me by one P.M. today so we have time before the tournament to review it if I have questions.” Then he shooed us away to make a call.
Once we were out of earshot, Nolan muttered, “He woke me up before sunrise so we could go over the numbers. You know, the ones you worked on yourself and didn’t even have the courtesy to share with me.”
“It was easier to do myself,” I huffed. “I had too many