I tell her how much I wish I could find a guy like that. How lonely I am. How I feel like a failure, letting myself get walked all over. This isn't how it's supposed to be. We're supposed to be strong, capable, modern women. We're not supposed to take any shit.
I write all of this, and then, for some fucking reason, I actually press "send."
I immediately pass out in my armchair.
The next morning, I wake up just in time to throw on some clothes and catch the train. Forgoing my usual beauty regimen, I know I'm going to deal with some complete crap from Mr. Risinger, but that thought doesn't mortify me as much as the memory of what I wrote to Natalie McBride last night.
I force myself not to check my email.
I make it until lunch.
"Meghan," Mr. Risinger intones, as he brushes past my desk. Always with his hip so close to me, trying his damnedest to be unnerving. Besides my mother, he's the only one who calls me by my full name, and I fucking hate the sound of it.
"Mr. Risinger," I say, in as neutral a tone as I can manage. I can feel his eyes raking over me, and I begin to formulate a comeback.
"Rough night?" He's resting his fingers on my desk, just slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore. "I noticed you didn't ride your broomstick today, but you certainly look the part."
"Yeah, the rest of the coven had me up all hours," I say, slamming the heel of my hand down on my stapler. "Speaking of which, how's that plague of frogs coming?" I clap my hand to my mouth in mock chagrin. "Oh, shit, have you not been out to your car yet today? Did I ruin the surprise?"
"Really? Frogs? That's amateur hour. An experienced crone like yourself should at least be able to turn my drinking water into blood." He smirks, snatching a sheaf of papers and letting his slate-blue eyes dart over the text.
"Wouldn't that be redundant, Count?" I stand up, pushing my chair away from my desk. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's lunch time. Want me to swing by the Red Cross for you?"
He shakes his head. "Sorry, Meghan, you only get partial credit for that one. Try to be more original." He clears his throat, rolling his shoulders as he steps back. I absolutely do not notice how much his perfectly-cultivated stubble resembles that of Dirk, the billionaire boss of my fantasies. "Oh - and get those files copied before you run off to feast on the flesh of the living, will you?"
"Oh, and you're allowed to do a zombie joke off of my vampire joke? Really?" I call after him, but he's already practically out of earshot. Damn it, he walks fast.
And before I know it, I'm checking my email. Not my work email - the one I contacted Natalie from. The secret anonymous one that, even in my sleep-deprived stupor, I'd been smart enough to use.
She's answered.
My heart leaps into my throat and I click on it, before I can stop myself. I have to know.
Meg,
Thank you so much for writing! It really means a lot, knowing that my books can change people's lives for the better. You don't sound silly at all. A lot of people think books like this aren't important, but we all need escapist fantasies sometimes.
Your boss sounds like a piece of work. Not that this makes it any better, but I'm sure he doesn't mean to hurt you. He was probably just raised in a billion-dollar bubble, and he doesn't know how to interact with other humans. It's actually a pretty common affliction. Dirk was based on a real guy, who, believe it or not, sounds a lot like your boss. I just softened him around the edges, made him a little more tolerable. Artistic license, you know?
Oddly, it's kind of heartbreaking that there's no real Dirk. Or if there is, he's basically Mr. Risinger, but with a bit more of a conscience. The last thing I need in my life is more assholes.
I take a deep breath. She's being nice, although I'm sure I came across as a total nutcase. I'm afraid to look back at what I wrote, and I only remember snatches of it. It's better this way.
After some other polite shop talk, she ends with:
I hope you'll write back. A lot of people never answer my emails, like they think I'm too busy or they're bothering me, or something - but I want to hear how things go with your boss. I think you should try going a whole day without rising to his taunts. Just to see what happens, you know? Remember what Dirk said to Amanda - one of the reasons he teased her was because she would always deal it back, and he loved having someone in his life who'd actually talk to him that way. When you dish it back to your boss, you're just doing exactly what he wants by popping his billion-dollar bubble.
And if it doesn't work, well, you'll have a whole day to think of new insults.
xoxo,
Natalie
I have to chuckle. I can't really remember the last time I made an effort to bite my tongue around Mr. Risinger, but I find it hard to believe that her theory is right. That might have been the case for Dirk, but Mr. Risinger's been riding my ass since the day I started working here.
But it's not quite the same, is it? He didn't really start taunting me until I started pushing back. Shit, maybe Natalie's right.
It's a little too late for the "whole day" plan, but I resolve to start now and make it through at least half of tomorrow without taking his bait. Just to see how it goes.
I finish copying the files like he wanted, then run down to the cafeteria for a sandwich. I'd rather go to a proper restaurant, or at least Panera or something, but he's packed my schedule so full today I barely have time to leave the building.
"Back from the hunt so soon?" Mr. Risinger asks, suddenly appearing beside me while I have a mouth full of tuna salad. His timing is impeccable as always. "Did you accidentally stumble into direct sunlight?"
I struggle to chew and swallow, the lump sticking in my throat for entirely too long.
Dear Lord, please don't let this happen. Please don't let me die in a tuna salad mishap while Satan himself looks on.
Finally, it all goes down.
I clear my throat. "The files are on your desk, sir."
"Oh, I like it when you call me that." He's grinning, but I just look at him mildly, playing the innocent, ordinary, businesslike secretary.
"I'll keep that in mind, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you at the moment?"
He's just staring, trying to figure me out. Trying to read me, and gloriously, failing. It feels good. I'm so glad I took Natalie's advice.
Finally, he just brushes past me and retreats into his office, slamming the door behind him.
I promise I'm getting to the thing with the ashtray.
So that's how it goes. For the rest of the day, I don't even see him. It's like he's decided I'm not worth talking to, if I don't come up with a bunch of creative ways to call him a subhuman bloodsucking waste of space. And as satisfying as the insults can sometimes be, I find I prefer this.