There’s something about being tangled up in another person’s limbs, half asleep, that can feel more intimate than just about anything.
Alex’s gaze shifts from the war room whiteboard to my face. “When this is over,” he rasps, eyes like storm clouds fit to burst, “can I have you for, like, forty-eight uninterrupted hours?”
My cheeks flush. Alex notices. His mouth pulls up, revealing traces of amusement behind the urgency that’s been driving him forward for days on end.
“I don’t think I’ve spent forty-eight uninterrupted hours with anyone since I was a kid,” I admit. “Not even Miriam or my parents.”
“You like alone time,” he says. Not a question.
“Sometimes,” I admit. He waits, silently asking me for more words. “Did you ever go to sleepaway camp?” I ask.
“Does boarding school count?”
“Not if there was air-conditioning.”
“Ah,” he says. “Then no.”
“Well, I did, once, when I was twelve. It was in Missouri, and it was, like, this arts and crafts camp thing? You know, decoupage and whittling and songwriting and scrapbooking classes, all interspersed with pool time that gave me an ear infection and Bible school that was pretty progressive, looking back, but anyway. I hated it.”
Alex laughs hoarsely. “Why did you go to arts and crafts camp?”
“Dad thought it would be good for me.” I roll my eyes. “Miriam was doing an adventure camp in Colorado, and I didn’t have any other friends, which worried him, so it was either that or sports camp, and when it comes to art, I can at least pretend to care.”
He laughs again. “How long was it?”
“It was supposed to be for a month, but I made Dad pick me up after two weeks.”
“I am picturing,” he says, arms stretching behind his head, straining the fabric of his shirt, the seam riding up past his stomach, “a twelve-year-old fuming silently at a picnic table under an awning, cutting up magazine pages from an old Frame issue to glue back together. In the background, there is a cappella, and also, someone is making a friendship bracelet.”
“Okay, you definitely went to sleepaway camp.”
“Swear I didn’t.”
I smile. “Anyway. It wasn’t even the activities I hated, or the people. They were cool, and the low-stakes crafting was fine. But really, I just hated that I never got to be alone. We all slept in this giant tepee, and I never felt like I could breathe, you know? When I go on a trip, I just want to be able to breathe and relax. Otherwise I get—” I rub at my side uncomfortably. “It makes me, um, anxious.”
“Okay. Noted.” Alex looks at me thoughtfully. “What about forty-eight uninterrupted minutes? I’m begging.”
I laugh. “No, I want to. More than forty-eight minutes, I mean. Miriam’s schedule has been insane, and honestly, I’ve been alone a lot recently.”
“Yeah.” He shifts in his seat. Sighs. “Me too.”
* * *
The day of the presentation, I wear a navy blazer from Chico’s that Jerry’s mom gave me last Hanukkah and pointy, uncomfortable black shoes. My hair is tied back in a serious-girl bun. I’m not speaking in front of the stakeholders, but I get to be in the room, and I want to look the picture of professionalism. Meanwhile, Alex is wearing a blue tie with white snowflakes, and Christmas tree socks beneath his slacks. I catch glimpses of them as he paces in the boardroom. His hair is combed, suit pressed, and other than the bags under his eyes, he looks perfect. That first-day smile is fixed on his face.
He makes his way over to me. “Nervous?” I ask.
The gold in his irises is warmed up today, almost sparkling. “Not for this. Never for stuff like this.”
I want to ask what, in that case, he does get nervous about, but the boardroom doors swing open, and Dougie Dawson walks inside.
I’m halfway expecting him to look at Alex, grimace, and escape to the other side of the room, but when he spots us both, his eyes light up and he comes straight over.
And then he … smiles. Gleefully.
“Alex Harrison.” Dougie sticks out his hand, the gruff tenor of his voice slipping over me like a warning. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve been working on.”
Bewildered, Alex accepts Dougie’s handshake. “It took a village,” he says—probably reminding him that if he tanks this project, it’ll devastate more people than Alex.
“It really is a shame your father couldn’t stick around to see this,” Dougie says, his tongue running over the top row of his yellow teeth. “Guess you’ll have to settle for me instead.”
Alex doesn’t say a word, but his shoulders square and his posture straightens. He cocks his head just slightly. The stare he aims at Dougie is so intense that Dougie is the one to blink first.
“Like I said.” Dougie starts to back away. “Looking forward.”
Once he’s out of earshot, Alex turns his stare on me. “He didn’t even acknowledge you,” he grumbles. “I’m sorry.”
“That is not a thing I’m going to lose sleep over.”
“He can’t screw with this,” Alex mutters, cracking his neck. “It’s a decision by majority vote, in the end.” But they’re voting on something else entirely.
I still don’t know whether Dougie’s enthusiasm is a good omen or the nail in our coffins. He could’ve had a change of heart; maybe he’s looking to be persuaded. Either that, or he’s indulging us as his last act as CEO.
As we settle into our seats, and the projector cues up, the secret truth vibrating around the room is also written on half the faces I read.
The presentation goes like this:
As a shoo-in for editor in chief and the original genius behind Bite the Hand, Gus talks first—about the brand’s roots, intent, and niche. Editorial stuff, writerly stuff, contributors and content, website tech, distribution platforms and frequency.
Branching from Gus are Saanvi and Amanda, who talk about social media—to the fear and chagrin of everyone in the room who didn’t understand what Gus meant when he said, “No print, ever. I wouldn’t even call it a magazine. I’m not joking.” And funny enough, it’s not an age demarcation between the people who buy in and the people who don’t, because the oldest woman in the room is the wife of the late Harold Cooper himself, a man who was one half of the original duo who founded Little Cooper. She watches YouTube, made obvious when she said hello to me at the door, followed by “I also have quite a few allergies! What part of Tennessee are you from?”
Then it’s Don with the financials. Simply put, he slays.
And then there’s Alex, who takes it home. He talks about meaning, purpose, how Bite the Hand will help give Little Cooper the edge it desperately needs.
“Be the change you want to see in the world,” Alex says, strolling casually in front of the projector. “An overused platitude mainly reserved for Pinterest boards and the HomeGoods sale aisle, but if Little Cooper was a family, which I’d like to think it is, then Bite the Hand is your ten-year-old kid who wants to reach for the stars. And that kid deserves the best chance at success, which in this instance means an income statement, revenue stream, and editor in chief.”