Sign Me Up by Dulcie Dameron
Jamie
my chest as I sit at my desk and sip my third cup of coffee. It’s doctored to perfection with a splash of half and half and a sprinkling of coconut sugar. It tastes like liquid hopes and dreams so I’m counting on it working its magic any minute now.
I stifle a yawn and resist the urge to drop my head onto my forearms. I didn’t get home until late last night after attending a soccer game I was designated to report on. It was notably entertaining. I watched in awe of how uncoordinated five-year-olds could be. All except for one boy who seemed to carry the entire team. Of course, his dad was the coach.
Coach Dad would run the entire length of the field with his son’s team, hollering out what to do, play-by-play. It was annoying, yes, but also a little sweet. It made me wonder if I’ll ever have a home and family of my own one day—the white picket fence kind of life. With kids and a husband and soccer games of our own to attend.
At the rate I’m currently going, it doesn’t seem likely.
My last boyfriend, Mike, who I'd foolishly thought might be the one, was charming and beautiful, but after seven months of dating, he just didn’t seem as into me as I was into him. After multiple times of him leaving me out or blowing me off, I ended it. That was almost two months ago now, but my heart is still a little sore. Probably more so from rejection than anything, but still…even that hurts.
And coming out of yet another failed relationship has me wishing there was someone who could give me more than what my career can offer.
From the time I was little, the only goal I truly clung to was to grow up and be a writer. I was the girl in third grade who carried a pencil behind her ear and a notepad in her back pocket, ready to jot down anything that inspired her. From the way Nonie’s blueberry pancakes melted on my tongue to the playground drama at school, it had all found its way onto my little notepad. I just knew I was destined to be a writer.
That’s why I pursued a degree in journalism and also why I started up Just Read Jamie, my blog dedicated to reading and reviewing my favorite fiction books. But lately, it all doesn’t feel like enough.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful for my work, because I truly am thankful to be where I’m at, even though writing sports statistics and facts while blogging about fiction on the side isn’t what I had envisioned a writer’s life to be. I realize, though, that this may be just a small, first step on the path toward what I really want to do—become a writer whose stories are worth reading.
So, I’m content to bide my time and pay my dues like the rest of the world in order to accomplish my end goal. But every time I’ve thought of that end goal lately, it seems hollow without someone to share it with. Maybe it didn’t while Nonie was alive and Pops knew who I was, but now that she’s gone and he doesn’t, it all just feels…empty.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering it’s time to pay for Pops’s care center bill. Thankfully, he checked himself in when things started to get bad with his mind… things like forgetting what basic household items were used for, wandering outside in the middle of the night, forgetting my name… It breaks my heart thinking of how fast he’s declined since Nonie died. The sudden tightening of my chest has me rubbing the spot over my heart, trying to ease the sting of loss that threatens my composure.
Deep breaths, Jamie. Take deep, cleansing breaths.
The therapist I briefly saw after losing Nonie recommended I do deep breathing exercises when the pain seems unbearable, so I lean back in my swivel chair, close my eyes, and focus on my breathing. Dr. Weeks, the aforementioned therapist, tried to diagnose me with grief-induced anxiety and shove meds in my face, saying my episodes, as she referred to them, sounded like panic attacks.
I wasn’t interested in being prescribed meds or being slapped with a label like that in the midst of my grief, so I kindly ignored her and never went back. I do, however, take the advice she gave me about the breathing exercises. I figure it couldn’t hurt.
After a few silent minutes, I open my eyes and see a very handsome, very masculine face looming over my cubicle wall. It scares the living daylights out of me, and I fall backwards in my chair, tipping it over and landing flat on my back.
My legs flail straight into the air as my skirt hikes precariously up my thighs, most likely exposing the revealing lacy, pink underwear my roommate Daria convinced me to buy last week. My eyes shoot to Parker’s, whose are blown wide. A lump of regret hits me hard in the stomach.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will this embarrassing situation into oblivion, frantically trying to pin down my skirt. I have a sudden flashback to first grade when Bobby Hauck lifted my skirt in front of the whole class, showing off my bright red undies with Minnie Mouse on the front. I vowed then and there to never wear brightly colored undergarments again for as long as I lived.
See what breaking a vow gets you? Absolute mortification.
I toss myself to the side, trying to extricate myself from my compromising position, but the chair’s arms are holding me hostage. The next thing I know, Parker is at my head, lifting behind my shoulders, trying to maneuver me to my side.
Finally, we succeed, and I rest on my knees, breathless. He kneels in front of me, but I can’t raise my face to look at him. And, to add insult to injury, my cheeks flame hot and probably match the shade of the underwear he just glimpsed.
Why couldn’t I have just told Daria to eat dirt when she suggested I needed to add a pop of color to my wardrobe in the form of lacy underwear? What nonsense! Don’t get me wrong, I like girly things from time to time, but the color pink should be relegated to cute coffee mugs, planters, and my Hello Kitty robe, not my underthings.
Maybe I’m just a prudish grandma at heart—I mean, I was raised by one—but I’ll stick with buying the black, comfortable unflattering granny panties that completely cover my rear-end from now on, thank you very much.
Parker taps the top of my knee, urging me to meet his eyes. When I don’t, he tips my chin upward with his finger and forces me to make eye contact. You OK? he signs with a look of concern.
I roll my lips together and give him a curt nod. My body may be fine, but my pride is most definitely not. Parker has seen the barely-there lacy, pink underwear and is probably scarred for life.
His finger lightly grazes the bottom of my chin, trailing upward to my cheek, and a tingle courses through me. If it weren’t for the fact that I just flashed him, I might lean into his comforting touch. But as it is, I’m still too embarrassed about what I know he saw.
A throat clears from behind Parker, and I peek around him to see Stefan staring at us with raised brows. “Am I interrupting something?”
Parker turns, sees our boss, then gently pulls me to my feet. He looks a little sheepish but starts using his hands to mimic what exactly happened. I force myself to speak, thoroughly embarrassed now.
“I was an idiot and fell backwards in my chair,” I explain to our boss.
Stefan looks between us, unconvinced, but quickly changes the subject. “I need you two in the conference room in five. I have an important announcement to make.” With one last look between Parker and me, he stalks off, leaving us awkwardly alone again after my little impromptu tumbling act.
“Thanks for helping…” I start to say, but then realize Parker is turned away from me and can’t see my lips. I grab his arm to get his attention. “Thanks for helping me,” I reiterate.
He smiles, then signs, Sorry I scared you.
I let out a self-deprecating laugh. “The fault was all mine.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners and he hooks his thumb over his shoulder, indicating we make our way to the conference room. I smooth down my skirt as we walk, my mind going over multiple worst-case scenarios. I have no clue what this meeting could be about, but even the notion that Stefan may be switching up our assignments for the quarter makes sweat bead on my upper lip.
As much as I resent the fact that I’m only covering local sporting events, I would hate to have to relinquish my role to someone else. Someone like Lucas, the boss’s pet.
Once we make it to the conference room, the only two seats available at the long table are side-by-side in between Lucas and Les. On one hand, I’m elated that Parker and I will be able to sit together. On the other, I’m frustrated that we’ll be sandwiched between the world record holder in longest, most boring copier conversations ever, and the man-child who puts people down with his expertly crafted back-handed compliments.
Mercifully, Parker walks toward the chair beside Lucas. I know he’s taking another bullet for me, so I hurry beside him to the seat next to Les, the lesser of two evils in this instance.
Les gives me a self-assured smile, and we all face Stefan. He’s standing at the head of the table and behind him is a board covered up with something resembling a sheet. Are we about to witness some kind of surprise presentation? The uneasiness that plagued me before walking into the room doesn’t let up once I’m seated.
The Sign Language interpreter comes in and sits off to the left of where Stefan is standing, ready to do her job. She must work as a freelancer, because she’s only here for meetings and things of that nature. I wish I knew enough ASL to be able to sign for Parker. Then he’d only have to look at me and not the pretty petite interpreter. An unbidden surge of jealousy rises to my surface like an ugly pimple needing to be popped and I’m not sure why. I shove it back down before I’m tempted to dissect it and focus my attention on Stefan.
“I called all of you in here today to address something that has come to my attention, but also to share some good news,” Stefan says to the group. My eyebrow raises slightly. What has come to his attention? And good news? That’s unexpected.
Our editor-in-chief stuffs his hands in his pockets and jingles his keys, which I’ve learned is a sign of nervousness. “I’ve been made aware that our office environment lacks a certain...friendliness. Camaraderie, if you will.”
Parker knocks my knee with his and I meet his surprised expression. Others look around too, appearing completely baffled by our boss’s words. Stefan has never tried to bring the employees together, in friendliness or otherwise. The atmosphere here is more closed-off than any job I’ve had before.
Suddenly, I’m struck with the realization that this meeting must have something to do with the employee survey he e-mailed to everyone last week. The e-mail stated that it would be completely confidential and anonymous, plus we’d receive a five-dollar gift card to the local sub shop if we completed it. Naturally, I did the thing because only a fool turns down a discount on a sub sandwich from O’Malley’s Subs.
But now I distinctly remember there being a question on the survey asking us to rank the overall friendliness in the workplace on a scale from one to ten. I may have been a little hangry that day and rated it a one, then left a quip in the comments section about how I could have easily rated it a zero, but they didn’t give me that option.
Now I’m regretting not eating that candy bar Parker offered me a few minutes before opening that survey. If only I’d known an entire meeting would be based on my lousy rating, I’d have snatched that baby up and devoured it, curing my hunger while also saving the rest of us from having to endure this awkward meeting.
Hindsight is twenty-twenty, folks.
“That’s why,” my boss continues, startling me from my thoughts. “I’ve decided to include some mandatory morale-boosting activities into your work assignments for the next few weeks. Things like trust building exercises, out-of-office field trips, that sort of thing.”
Surprisingly, Lucas raises his hand first. “Are you saying we’re going to have to spend time with each other outside of work?” His face contorts with disgust, and I suppress my urge to laugh.
Stefan gives Lucas a pointed look. “Most of the activities I have planned will happen in the afternoons during work hours, but yes, some will be scheduled outside of regular work hours. In those cases, you will not be forced to attend, but I will strongly encourage it.” Stefan’s gaze roams around the room, looking each of us in the eye to drive home his point.
I hate the term strongly encourage. Basically, he’s manipulating us without looking like an overbearing ogre of a boss and saying we must comply.
Lovely.
I try to gauge Parker’s reaction to the news, but his attention is focused on Lucas. With the way Lucas is low-key scowling at his co-workers you’d think we ate his moist-maker sandwich for lunch. I let out a chuckle thinking of that Friends episode where poor Ross has that happen to him, which only makes Lucas scowl in my direction. His outward disdain surprises me. Lucas’s rudeness is usually sugar-coated but leaves a disgustingly artificial taste in your mouth at the end, yet right now, he’s not even trying to disguise it.
“Personally,” Stefan continues with a smile that appears almost painfully uncomfortable for him, “I’m looking forward to these little excursions we’ll be taking together. Which brings me to our first one.” He turns and grabs the “sheet” on the poster board behind him and whips it off, unveiling a poster of a…pumpkin patch?
My gaze swings to Parker as I squeeze his thigh in a death grip. His muscles twitch under my palm and I immediately release him, wondering what the heck I was thinking touching him like that. But I can’t help it, I’m just so…so shocked by this random turn of events. When I drag my gaze up to meet his, his brow is scrunched low, a hundred questions in his eyes.
Me too, buddy. Me too.
“This is Corny Acres Pumpkin Patch where we will be having our first employee adventure.” Stefan’s voice cracks on that last word, forcing me to stifle a giggle. Seeing my boss this far out of his comfort zone is wildly entertaining. “Since this will be our first camaraderie exercise, I expect everyone to be there with bells on.”
Who is this person and what has he done with my boss, Stefan Sanders? The no-nonsense, gruff, impeccably dressed man who has the knack for making people feel the need to impress him—and always acting underwhelmed even if they do? I expect that any minute now Ashton Kutcher will be popping out from under the table yelling, “You’ve been punked!”
Unfortunately for those of us around this table, Ashton doesn’t make an appearance. And this workplace disaster train that we are all stranded on is heading full force toward a cliff without any sign of slowing down. I look around the table once more, wondering what’s going on in everyone else’s heads.
Beside me, Les starts rubbing his hands together like he’s about to start in on a riveting lecture on the lifecycle of some obscure insect none of us have heard of. On the other side of Les, Gladys Mullins taps her bright red fingernails against the table, eyes narrowed, lips pursed, appearing none too pleased.
Jordy, a girl fresh out of college who started working as Stefan’s assistant six months ago, simpers on the opposite side of the table from Parker, waving to get his attention, then pointing to the poster board like he can’t see it for himself. Gee whiz, back it up, Jordy!
Parker’s eyes are locked on me with a look that says Please save me. Meanwhile, the rest of my co-workers look as dazed and confused as I feel, like we really are in some kind of hidden camera scenario.
Stefan steps forward and passes out a brochure to each of us. “I’ll be sending out an e-mail this week with all the details, but plan to keep your afternoons open next Friday.” When he’s finished with his task, he says, “Now that we’ve got that covered, it’s time for the good news.”
Right. Because none of what he just said was good news. My eccentric co-workers and me spending bunches of time together outside the office? Worst. News. Ever.
“The famous YouTuber, Paris Dawson, has returned to her small hometown, just a few miles down the road from Treemont. There have been numerous rumors circulating about her and her movie producer ex that she’d like to put to rest. Since she’s leery of tabloids and most national news sources, she’s agreed to give the Gazette an insider’s interview, in exchange for us printing the truth. And with her recent rise to popularity, I expect this article to go viral.”
My ears perk at this revelation. An exclusive interview with Paris Dawson? The most down-to-earth yet insanely gorgeous lifestyle and beauty blogger ever? Um…yes, please! Sign. Me. Up.
Then another idea sprouts in my mind like a brand-new baby plant. Paris recently wrote a book about her almost instant rise to YouTube fame. If I’m able to interview her for work and it goes well, there might be a chance she’d meet with me again and allow me to quote her on her new book. My blog subscribers love when I do author interviews, but if I was somehow lucky enough to be able to sit down with Paris or even get some fiction recommendations from her? They’d absolutely eat it up!
That’s it. It’s decided. I have to score this interview.
“But Miss Dawson has made it clear she doesn’t want to sit down with just anyone,” Stefan continues. “She wants to give her side of the story to a reporter she can trust…someone with empathy, morals…someone devoted to writing up the truth—in its entirety.”
My stomach sinks to the floor when Stefan’s eyes graze over me briefly. Does he think I don’t do that? That because I add my own unique flair to the sports section, I somehow lack morals?
Like he’s already guessed which way my thoughts have run, Parker loops his foot behind mine and tugs it toward him. The sudden warmth shooting up my leg makes my midsection quiver. I can’t meet his eyes with the physical sensations his touch delivers but I’m guessing he means to offer me some form of silent support. And for that, I’m grateful.
But holy cow, when he reaches under the table and runs his knuckle along the top of my thigh, my whole body threatens to convulse in a shiver. It’s incredibly distracting. I bat Parker’s hand away as discreetly as I can and he stops, turning to face our boss.
“I haven’t decided which reporter will get this opportunity yet.” Stefan grabs the back of his chair and leans forward, making it creak under his weight.
“You mean, it’s up for grabs?” Another co-worker, Eric, a beach-bum lookalike in his mid-fifties, asks the question with a cocked eyebrow. He may insist on wearing Hawaiian shirts and flip flops in the office, but Eric takes his job seriously. The only person Eric’s style really bothers is Lucas. Something about not wanting to see the man’s hairy toes. And I’ve got to agree with him on that one.
“There are still some things I’ll need to discuss with Miss Dawson, but let it be known that if you’re vying for the interview, I expect your full participation in the employee morale-boosting project.”
Again, my stomach dips. He’s basing his decision on whether or not we gladly sacrifice our free time to participate in this ridiculous social experiment? My hands tighten on the sides of my chair as I scream internally. Especially when I see Lucas plaster on a smile that could rival some of the clowns from my nightmares.
I don’t like things I can’t control. Everything in my life is purposefully organized because I thrive on living within a certain set of parameters. That’s why I eat healthy, work out regularly, and stick to the same, solid routine I’ve cultivated over the past few years. Because it limits the amount of things I can’t control.
But this weird co-worker kiddie field trip thing we’re being forced into just to be considered for an exclusive interview with Paris? It has me feeling like I’m spinning off the rails into outer space.
There are only four people who would qualify as reporters on our small-ish staff: me, Lucas, Gladys, and Eric. While I’m relegated to the sport’s section, Gladys does the community bulletin board, Lucas writes up the breaking news reports, and Eric takes most of the lifestyle stories from in and around the area. At first glance, Eric would probably be the best choice for the interview since it’s within his wheelhouse and he’s got seniority, but it’s clear that Stefan wants us to work for it.
“That will be all for now,” Stefan says. “You’re dismissed.”
At his last word, I scamper from the conference room, needing to make it back to the safety of my cubicle where there is no Cyborg Stefan making his employees go on field trips to boost morale. Where we don’t have the prospect of a promotion in the form of an exclusive interview with a well-known celebrity riding on whether or not we play his childish games.
I can’t even believe this is happening. I’m so rattled, I’m contemplating making myself a fourth cup of coffee. Just as I’m about to reach my safe zone, there’s a gentle tug on my arm.
I turn and face Parker. You OK? he signs.
Sometimes, he’s so considerate it turns my insides to mush. “Yes, I’m fine.”
I motion for him to follow me into my cubicle, then sit in my chair. He leans back against my desk in front of me, waiting for me to explain. “This whole thing just weirds me out,” I say, keeping my voice as low as humanly possible while still making sure Parker can read my lips along with my broken Sign Language.
He quickly signs something back, but I don’t understand all of it. “I didn’t catch that last phrase.”
He nods and grabs the notepad and pen from my desk to begin writing. I’m thankful he doesn’t get irritated with me for not understanding him all the time. As usual, he’s the picture of patience as he scribbles away on his notepad, then shows it to me.
This is my fault.
My brow wrinkles in confusion. “Your fault? How so?”
As he continues writing, my eyes are drawn to the way he bites his lip in concentration. I know I shouldn’t find that action so attractive on my friend, but I can’t help it. Before I can slip into a daydream about how I want to tug it free from his teeth, Parker flips his notepad around for me to see again.
I was the one who gave the overall friendliness of the office a poor rating.
I burst out laughing at Parker’s admission. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who was hangry the day we got the email. “That’s hilarious,” I say between laughs. “I did too. Then I said I would’ve rated it a zero, but it didn’t give me that option.”
Now both of us are laughing, him more loudly than me. The guy has no volume control when he laughs, and I love it. I also love that Parker has no clue how deep and manly his voice sounds, because if he did, he’d probably be using it to sweet talk all the ladies. Instead, the rich, warm sound is mostly reserved for me when I’m gifted the opportunity to make him laugh.
“All right,” I say with a sigh. “It’s time for us to get back to work.”
Rising from his seat on the desk, Parker nods, then signs Later right before his hands quickly form the letters P-I-N-K-Y.
Wait…did he just…?
My mouth falls open and Parker laughs again before sauntering back to his side of the wall. That infuriating man just gave me a new nickname based on the color of my unmentionables. If my face wasn’t turning every shade of said color right now, I might have the gumption to slug him.
Looks like I’ll be hiding myself away in my bubble of safety for the duration of the day. A girl can only take so much shock and embarrassment in one morning.