Chapter 2 - Dinner Without Job Titles
Grant’s mother served dinner at a table that could have accommodated my entire department.
There were only five of us.
His father had died six years earlier, I learned when Evelyn explained that Grant still insisted on sitting where he could see the driveway.
“His father used to do that,” she said.
Grant unfolded his napkin.
“Mother.”
“I’m explaining the chair, darling. Not revealing state secrets.”
My father smiled into his water glass.
For the first ten minutes, conversation stayed safely away from the reason we were there.
The weather.
Dad’s recovery.
The train my parents had taken from Pennsylvania.
Then Evelyn asked how I liked working at Northbridge.
I nearly choked.
“Mother,” Grant said again.
“What? It’s a reasonable question.”
“It’s a question with the CEO sitting beside her.”
I set down my fork.
“I like the work.”
Grant turned slightly.
“The work?”
“I work in operational reporting. We help people understand why something that looked efficient in a presentation isn’t working in real life.”
Dad nodded proudly.
“She makes spreadsheets sound like detective stories.”
“They sometimes are.”
Grant watched me with an attention that felt different from being assessed.
“What do you enjoy most?”
I considered giving a safe answer.
Instead, I told the truth.
“When the numbers explain something people have been blaming themselves for.”
His expression changed.
I continued.
“A regional hospital client thought their staff were ordering supplies badly. The reports showed too much emergency purchasing. But the delivery windows in the system didn’t match their actual receiving hours. People were working around a scheduling problem.”
“Westhaven,” he said.
I blinked.
“Yes.”
“I read the summary.”
“Then you read Dana’s name.”
Silence.
My fork stopped above my plate.
I had not meant to say that.
Grant placed his glass down carefully.
“Did you prepare that analysis?”
I felt all four people watching me.
“I worked on it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Grant,” Evelyn said quietly.
He looked at me again.
This time, his voice softened.
“You don’t have to discuss work here.”
Relief arrived so quickly it almost hurt.
“Thank you.”
We changed the subject.
My father told a story about me entering a school science fair with a project explaining why his hardware store inventory never matched the shelves.
“I was twelve,” I protested.
“She color-coded my entire stockroom.”
“It needed help.”
“She also presented me with a written recommendation concerning employee compliance.”
Grant covered his mouth.
I looked at him.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I said nothing.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m admiring your early commitment to governance.”
The table dissolved into laughter.
Even I joined in.
Later, while our mothers argued affectionately about dessert, Dad asked Grant to help him move closer to the fireplace.
Grant did it without fuss.
He adjusted the footstool, moved a table within reach, and asked whether the chair was comfortable.
Not performatively.
Not while checking whether anyone noticed.
I noticed anyway.
In the kitchen, my mother touched my arm.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“Really?”
“Really. Evelyn showed me a picture of him at a company charity event, and I recognized your office logo. I knew you might refuse.”
“I would have wanted to think.”
“I know that now.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Mom, I need my job. This isn’t just an awkward story.”
Her eyes filled.
“I didn’t think about that enough.”
It was the first honest answer she had given all evening.
I squeezed her hand.
“Please think about it next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
From the dining room, Evelyn called, “We’ve been formally retired from matchmaking!”
Grant appeared in the doorway.
“Put it in writing.”
Near ten, the rain eased.
My parents were staying overnight, and Evelyn offered me a guest room.
I declined.
I wanted my apartment, my old couch, and at least one room in which nobody had known me since birth or signed my paycheck.
Grant drove me to Queens.
For a while, we listened to the tires moving over wet pavement.
Then he said, “I owe you an apology too.”
“You didn’t arrange it.”
“No. But in the elevator, I called it medieval.”
“It was.”
“Still.”
I smiled toward the windshield.
Outside my building, he stopped beneath a flickering streetlight.
“Monday will be normal,” he said.
I looked at him.
“Can you guarantee that?”
He considered the question.
“No. But I can guarantee you won’t be expected to pretend this happened as part of your job.”
For some reason, that answer mattered more than reassurance.
I thanked him for the ride.
As I stepped out, he said my name.
I turned.
“For what it’s worth, Emma, I’m glad you made it to dinner.”
I stood in the rain long enough to watch his taillights disappear.
May you like
Then I went upstairs and admitted something to myself I had absolutely no intention of telling anyone.
So was I.
