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I snorted. Simon was sarcastic but not derisive. From what I’d gathered over the past week, Weston was generally liked, but more than that, he was well respected. I suspected Simon might have a tiny crush, but that was understandable.
“Really?” I whispered.
“I think that’s the vibe he’s going for. It keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure.”
Weston lifted his eyes from his screen, catching me staring. His lips curved at the corners, and he nodded. I barely managed to nod back, but he continued to watch me walk to my desk.
He was in my periphery when I sat down. My stomach plummeted. How was I going to do my work with him right there?
The next time I glanced his way, his attention was back to his computer.
I shifted the few papers on my work surface around and something yellow caught my eye. A Post-it had been stuck between two printouts. Brow pinching, I read the neatly printed words:
When elephants are stressed or having hard times, they hug and comfort one another by putting their trunks in each other’s mouths.
Miles.
This had to be from Miles.
His sense of humor obviously hadn’t matured since high school.
I tucked the Post-it in one of my drawers, ignoring the swirl of nausea in my stomach and knot of hurt in my chest. The four years Miles spent teasing and bullying me during school, I’d learned if I ignored him, he’d move on. For a while, at least. A reaction was exactly what he wanted, and he wouldn’t be getting that from me.
My guard was down when I arrived at my desk on Tuesday.
Stupid.
I should have known better when Miles was involved.
Baby elephants suck their trunks like baby humans suck their thumbs. When they get mad, they throw tantrums.
I tucked that one on top of the other one. Waves weren’t my thing, but I’d come from an office where making waves meant drowning under them. I could safely take these Post-its to HR here, surely, but then what? Miles was Weston’s brother. He wasn’t going to be fired, probably not even reprimanded. Not that I wanted him fired. I simply wanted him to forget I existed.
I sucked up my anger. There was nothing I could do today, and there was too much work to be done to spend time thinking about Miles Aldrich and his immature antics.
After lunch, I went to my first creative department meeting. Weston attended, but he didn’t lead. He sat on the side of the room, his tablet in his lap, seemingly taking notes as the heads of each team spoke.
Andes put out a quarterly catalog that was more like a magazine. In an age where most things had gone digital, the Andes catalog was something consumers regularly requested to have sent to them in the mail. Not only were the photographs beautiful, the short articles never failed to be interesting. I was guilty of being one of the hundreds of thousands of people who read it cover to cover.
When my editor, Salma, spoke about the topics of the articles planned for the next edition, Weston interrupted her with a wave of his hand.
“I’ll be visiting some of our factories in California in a few weeks. Let’s do a write-up of that. You choose the angle.” He scribbled on his tablet like now that he’d spoken, it was a done deal.
Salma’s brow dropped. “That’s a great idea, Weston. The thing is, it’s been decided for months we’re focusing on lifestyle.”
He cocked his head. “I understand. As I said, you choose the angle.”
He put a period at the end of his sentence that was so firm it was almost audible. Salma, a woman in her forties who carried an air of having her shit together, seemed flustered by Weston’s abrupt demand. He wasn’t cruel about it, but he wasn’t leaving this topic open for discussion.
Salma’s fingers worked the screen of her tablet up and down, up and down. “I don’t see how we can fit in a story about a factory—”
I cleared my throat, crossing my fingers my interruption would be appreciated. “What if we interview factory workers who wear Andes on their off days? The audience might be interested in how the people who make their coats and hiking gear use those products in their everyday life.”
Weston’s expression started out annoyed with Salma’s reticence, but as I spoke, he slowly slipped into a half smile. Salma wasn’t shooting death glares at me like Dick the dick would have been. She was nodding, glancing from Weston and back to me.
“Actually, that would be fresh.” She tapped her stylus on her chin. “Why don’t you take that, Elise?”
From across the room, Miles started a slow clap. He looked around, but no one joined him, which didn’t seem to affect him in any way.
