I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Margot smiles, but the mood shifts. I feel it in the way her body stills and the way her smile dims just a little before she looks down at the bedspread.
When her eyes find mine again, I can see the question in them before she speaks it out loud.
“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “Am I sharing you?”
I knew this conversation was coming eventually. Honestly, I wish it would have come sooner. Before the doubt crept into her voice or the apprehension took root in her eyes. Before I gave her a reason to wonder.
“No, Margot. You’re the only person that I want. I haven’t been with anyone else in months.”
“Really?” she asks, a twinge of disbelief in her voice.
“Not since before your breakup.”
Margot blinks. Her head tilts slightly, brows lifting in quiet surprise. She doesn’t say anything, but her gaze lingers on mine—searching, maybe, or just trying to recalibrate what she thought she knew.
Then, slowly, she nods.
Margot knows me well enough to know that I’m telling the truth. And I know her well enough to know that even though sherelaxes in my arms, there’s another question running through her mind.
If we both only want each other, then why can’t I give her more?
But that answer isn’t as simple.
***
Once a month, I hold Pitch Fest, an all-morning meeting in one of the conference rooms where any employee is welcome to stop by and pitch a new idea. It can be a product, a service, a marketing campaign, whatever they want.
It was an idea to reinvigorate the team when I took over as CEO. When my brother ran the company, productivity was at an all-time high, but the same can’t be said for morale.
It all boiled down to Garrett loving this company but hating his job. My brother lives for the great outdoors. Being stuck in an office all day was chipping away at his soul, so he left to start a new company that combined the two things he loves the most: hiking and Emma. He’s happier now, and so am I. As much as I also appreciate the great outdoors, I’m happy enough to get my fill of it on the weekends.
When I mentioned Pitch Fest to Garrett, he scoffed. And I can’t say that he was wrong. Over the past few months, I’ve had to sit through pitches for floating tents, Bluetooth bug zappers, glow-in-the-dark camouflage, and something called a multi-terrain vertical nap tube. And now…
“See? It’s a hammock, but also a poncho!” Sid from the mail room declares.
A prototype of his invention hangs in the conference room, strung up between two chairs. It’s a regular nylon hammock with a hole cut in the center.
Honestly, it looks more likeIt’s a hammock, but also a toilet!but I can’t tell Sid that.
Rubbing a hand over my jaw like I’m pondering something (and I am—I’m pondering cancelling Pitch Fest), I say, “So the hole is…”
“For your head. Here, let me show you.”
Sid scurries across the room to untie the hammock then without warning or shame, throws it over his head. He looks like a sad ghost that’s trapped inside a discarded tent. The neon green nylon hangs around him, loose and billowy, but somehow also not quite enough to shield him from even the mildest rainstorm. Every time he moves, the fabric makes crinkly fart sounds. Then there are the cords that tie around the tree, which lay on the ground all around him, begging to be tripped over.
I study the contraption, searching for something complimentary to say. “It’s very… bright.”
“Thank you!” Sid says, mistaking my comment on the vivid color for a compliment about his intelligence. “I call it the Hamcho.”
No, absolutely not. Pitch Fest is hereby cancelled.
“What about your head?” I ask.
Sid’s hands fly up to his own head as if he’s making sure it’s still attached. He seems relieved to find that it is.
I hide my laugh behind a fake cough into my fist and clarify, “I just mean that most ponchos have hoods. Otherwise, the water tends to sort of drip down into the other crevices.”
And oh what crevices there are in this contraption, Sid.