Page 26 of The Hard Launch

She stands up and walks to the left side of the board. We have the headline for each piece of the project on a sticky note, and they’re arranged by priority in three columns, sometimes stuck together when there are dependencies. We do the riskiest pieces first, because they tend to have more unknowns; it’s better to find surprises earlier than later.

“Our shortcut’s not over here,” she says of column one. “All of these are necessary. Agreed?”

“Yeah,” I say, joining her at the board. I examine each sticky note in column three for things that could get the ax and let us move the finish line closer.

“Logging?” I ask, pulling the sticky note off the board. “If it’s just for troubleshooting it can come later.”

“Yeah, but we’ll need it to track impressions,” she says. “Can’t launch without that.”

She’s right; I put it back. Those impressions are important for billing, but also for display on the advertiser dashboard that’s in column two. The dashboard that, as written requires a bunch of other data and real-time updates.

The dashboard that’s probably not really necessary at launch. We could get by with just sending an email for at least a few months.

I reach over to grab the dashboard sticky note at the same time Lacey does. No. I reach over just slightly before she does, because her hand lands right on top of mine.

I look over at her.

“Great minds,” she says softly, but she doesn’t move her hand away. I spread my fingers apart so hers fall in between mine. I hear my pulse in my ears.

“You’re left handed,” I say, but the observation comes out in a low whisper. I watch as she slides her hand down, running her fingertips along the inside of my forearm.

I take half a step toward her, and she slips into the narrow space between me and the whiteboard. Her hand keeps traveling up my arm to my shoulder, and it comes to rest on my neck.

Another half step closer. I lean forward and breathe her in. She smells like fresh air and the orange trees at my aunt’s house when they’re covered in tiny white blossoms.

I have one palm still on the whiteboard, and the other one has found her thigh. I reach just inside the hem of her skirt and grasp her leg, pulling her to me. Her breath catches.

“This is a terrible idea,” I say softly into her ear.

And before she can respond, we both see the lights flicker on across the main office and hear the chatter in Spanish as the cleaning crew comes through for the night.

We release each other simultaneously, like we’ve been caught stealing. I step away and swallow hard.

She turns back to the whiteboard. Exhales.

“So I think we’ve identified where we can trim scope,” she says, plucking the Post-it note out of its column and moving it the Fast Follows section. She looks over her shoulder at me. “Disaster averted, right?”

I nod, but I’m not sure I agree.

Glenn and I do our weekly one-on-one over Zoom the next day. Normally we grab a coffee and walk, but we won’t be doing that for a while.

“I don’t know why I thought having a hangover would make this situation easier,” he says, yawning. “Celebrating wins might be a younger man’s game. You don’t look any more exhausted than usual.”

“That might have more to do with the number of shots you took, than your age,” I tell him.

“Fair point. And for that reason, thank you for having them close the tab at ten. I didn’t even see you leave.”

I tell him that Lacey and I ended up back at the office.

“I have to say—as a person who spent the last week trying to make peace between two toddlers—I’m so glad you and she have figured out a way to work together,” he tells me.

“There’s no more fighting in the sandbox,” I tell him.

“That’s apparent. You guys did great yesterday in the demo.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I’d do without her,” I say. In context, this is an absolutely true and normal thing to declare. I’m not sure what it is about my delivery, but Glenn pauses and squints through his camera at me.

“I don’t need to remind you to be careful about anything, right?” he asks.