“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” He squeezes my hand and his voice is so patronizing that if I didn’t know the value of the hand touching me, I’d consider breaking it. “I’m just not interested.”
I yank my hand away from him, ignoring the way my skin still tingles from his touch and using every last bit of restraint I have, I pull out the chair across from him and take a seat. He opens up his mouth to speak, but this time, I talk over him. “As I was trying to say, I’m Elliot Reed. Mr. Mahler sent me.”
His mouth falls open and finally—FINALLY!—no words come out.
If I wasn’t so out-of-my-mind furious, I might even get some pleasure out of this moment.
But I can say, with one hundred percent certainty, that nothing Quinton Howard Junior does will ever bring me pleasure.
Four
“You . . . you’re . . . I mean . . .” Quinton stumbles over his words so hard, it’s nearly impossible to think this is the same graceful man out on the field every Sunday. “I thought you were a man.”
“Did Mr. Mahler tell you I was a man?” I ask. “Do you think I look like a man?”
The truth is, because of my name, this has happened before. But unlike now, nobody has ever made me feel so small during their confusion. So the joy I’m feeling watching him stumble around is profound.
“No, no!” He holds his hands out in front of him as his eyes damn near bulge out of his head. I swear I can see a blush creep up his dark brown cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. I just assumed I was meeting with a man.”
“Well, you know what they say about people who assume things.” And yes, while I know my job depends on me working with this guy, I can’t help but to stress “ass” because . . . well, because he’s a giant one.
“Yeah, about that,” he starts, but I’ve heard enough and I already want this meeting to be over.
“No need. You made yourself clear and that’s fine. I’m here to do my job.” The rejection was bad enough, the last thing I need to do is sit here while he lists all the reasons I’m not his type. I like to torment myself enough on my own, I do not need the physically flawless jerk to do it for me. “I’m hoping we can both be professional from this point forward.”
Considering I just called him an ass, I definitely need the reminder just as much as he does.
“Yes, of course.” He nods his head vigorously. “I really am so—”
“Sorry. You’re so sorry, got it. Moving on.” I’m here for a reason, and every second we sit here with the bullshit apologies is a second I could be doing my job. I just want to hurry this along, and, ultimately, go drown my sorrows at the fully stocked bar less than twenty feet away from me. I grab the fully decked-out iPad that the Mustangs supplied me with from my purse and swipe out of the Twitter app covered with endless tweets about the man in front of me before opening my notes. “So, we both obviously know why we’re here.”
“Because I’m making Mahler and a large portion of the country uncomfortable.” The words come out conversationally, but there’s an undercurrent of anger powering them.
I was not expecting it.
And from the way he shakes his head and then aims a perfectly white, perfectly straight, perfectly fake smile at me, he wasn’t expecting it either.
I’m not sure which part surprises me the most, the fact that he showed me his anger or that he’s so good at hiding it. I never saw it during his interview.
I put the iPad down on the table and level my stare with his. “Is that why you’re doing this? To make people uncomfortable?” My words don’t have any of the malice the reporters had. I’m honestly curious. Unlike Mahler, I don’t disagree with the stance he’s making. I just can’t help unless I understand his motives and goals.
“No.” He slumps down in his chair as he deflates before me. Like the confidence helium he sucked down before meeting me has finally dissolved. “It’s not that at all and I hate that the point I’m trying to make is now being lost in the politics of it. That people are saying that I’m trying to get attention. They have no idea how personal all of this is to me.”
Aha!
I move to write it down, but I’m not a therapist and I don’t want to spook him out of telling me more. So I make sure to tuck that little nugget of information into the depths of my memory.
“Of course it’s personal. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t do this at all.” I try to relax in my chair, which, though insanely cute, is not the epitome of comfort. “I think I have an idea that could make everyone happy.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the expression that crosses his face says everything. He thinks I’m full of shit. Which could be accurate. I want everyone happy, but I really don’t want to take a journey down to the unemployment office.
But, last night, as I was reading the comment section filled with the scum of the world, an idea popped into my head. And sitting in front of him, seeing that this is something he actually cares about and not a publicity stunt, I know it’s the only angle I have with him.
“You don’t have a foundation.” I open my email and click on one of the six messages I sent myself for this
