by K. L. Brady
His plan to ignore her little outburst and tolerate her temper tantrum was about to fail. She could do many things at Hart, but he would never allow her to belittle his company after everything he'd done for Madam Ungrateful.
"Agreed. At least as far as Hart goes. That's how we've become the number three supplier of greeting cards in the country. How's Keep It Real doing these days?"
"Still going for the jugular, I see." She swallowed hard and her eyebrows pinched together. "Maybe after this meeting you'll write that in a card and send it to me. It'd be just like old times."
"This conversation is not going the way I imagined it."
"Oh, really? And how did you imagine it?"
He rubbed the scruff on his chin and grimaced. "I pictured myself apologizing for any hurt I've caused you. I saw myself telling you that you're one of the most talented writers and artists I know. Your experience in building Keep It Real is exactly the kind of know-how and leadership the Hart team requires to create a long-planned new line of cards and make it successful. I would've made sure you know what an honor it would be if you, in addition to your duties in running Keep It Real, accepted the lead consulting role for my new specially abled line."
Her shroud of anger disappeared in an instant and a twinkle of light once again flickered in her eyes. "Maybe we ought to schedule all future meetings in your head." She tapped her lip with her finger. "But...specially abled. Wow. That sounds like an interesting challenge. It's certainly an underserved niche market, and I love targeting those. Do you have a vision for it?"
"You're the one with the vision, remember? I'm the previous visual art—now—business guy, and I try to stay in my lane...mostly."
She locked eyes with him and smiled. "Hmmm. The line really lends itself to multiple approaches. Who's on the team?"
"Well, that's the catch. It's not a seasoned group—at all."
"And by not seasoned you mean, junior? Two to three years of experience?"
"No, I mean former interns. New graduates, fresh out of college. The idea actually emerged from a focus group we held, you know, a while back," he said, squeezing out the lie. "One of the participants spoke of a girl paralyzed from the waist down following a car accident."
"Oh, no."
"She wanted to see herself represented on a card. As African Americans, who could better relate?"
She revealed a sliver of a smile. "I confess. I'm intrigued."
"Does that mean you're on board?" he asked.
"I'll meet with your team." She turned to gaze at him, a look he'd seen many times before; her eyes sparkled with life and energy. He was thankful for the welcomed sight, one he could never see enough. "We'll see how it goes from there."
"Great, uh...well, I think we're done for now”— he glanced at his watch—"How do you feel about lunch?"
"It's one of my favorite six meals of the day," Tessa replied.
"I mean, with me. You know, maybe we can discuss your initial thoughts on the line, hash out some preliminary concepts and a rough schedule."
"We survived this meeting with all of our appendages intact—barely," she replied. "Perhaps we shouldn't push our luck."
He chuckled. "You're probably right. Next time."
"Next time," she said as he offered his goodbyes and turned to walk away. "You know what? On second thought, lunch might be a nice idea. It's been five years. We've built some goodwill here. This may be an opportunity to capitalize on it and put an end to the dissension forever."
"Excuse me?" he said. "Did I hear you correctly?"
"You'd prefer I turn you down?"
"No, no. I'm just surprised. I've got a quick stop to make, but how about we meet in an hour, at say, the District Chophouse? Used to be your favorite."
"Still is." She smiled demurely. "You still remember."
"How could I forget?"
"You should hurry along," she said. "Grab a table so I don't have to wait. You know what I'm like when I'm hangry."
"See you in an hour."
Rarely had any man, woman, or child left him speechless, but Tessa had managed to do the impossible.
When hurt, Tessa was akin to a wounded African buffalo, the Africans nicknamed the beasts "black death." Watching them graze on dried grass, they seemed relatively harmless. But when threatened or injured, they didn't cower. No. Instead, a ton of muscle, fat, and horns barreled directly toward the perceived threat at thirty-five-miles an hour. Death on contact.
Tessa.
He'd braced himself for a full-force African buffalo attack, but she'd accepted his invitation to lunch. He hoped her acceptance signaled their relationship had survived the worst, and they could erase the pain of the past to achieve greatness—together.
The sounds of midday chatter and clanking dishes greeted Cody as he entered the District Chophouse for lunch with Tessa.
He arrived fifteen minutes early to secure a booth in the back corner. He anticipated her fashionably late arrival and a spirited conversation that would escalate from a simmer to a boil. But he truly believed a truce would ensue once they aired out their frustrations and emptied the emotional baggage they'd lugged for five years.
With their differences resolved, they'd ease into a new normal. At least that's how he saw the afternoon playing out.
It wouldn't be long before he found out Tessa had envisioned something quite different.
"Here's your seat," the waitress said, as she laid out a couple of menus. "Would you like something to drink while you wait?"
"A whiskey sour, please," he replied. "No, actually, make that two. One for my guest."
The last time he felt such anticipation waiting for Tessa, she’d tried on fifty-eleven dresses before dinner with Pops. She wore a blue dress with a low-cut back and emerged from the bathroom and offered him a little hip wiggle as she asked him how she looked.
“Like warm bread and honey butter,” he replied. His smile had oozed through his frustration and her reflection brightened his mood.
“You, okay? Why so tense?” she had asked. “It’s the dress, isn’t it? I promise I’m wearing this one. You owe me Jiffy Pop and movie night if we survive this.”
The problem wasn’t the dress; it was the dinner. His commitment to Tessa wouldn’t change no matter what his father attempted to dictate later that night. He’d kept her in the dark for her benefit more than for his own.
“When he sees how perfect we are together, he’ll not only accept us, he’ll finance Sweet-Hart Cards. Our dream will become reality. Mark my words. He’s changing.”
“Yeah, like the pre-acid vat joker he’s changing. With all due respect, we can do this on our own. We don’t need our fathers, and I only want you.”
She meant every word. So did Pops. At dinner, while Tessa was in the ladies’ room cleaning up after they traipsed through a monsoon to arrive on time for dinner, Cody’s father whispered five words that changed his life forever.
Perhaps now the time had come to confess the truth to Tessa.
"Fantastic. I'll be right back with your order," he heard the waiter say. Tessa still had not appeared.
He tugged at his collar and adjusted his cufflinks just so. Then he watched the door.
An hour and a half later, Cody pinched his lips into thin slits as he glanced at his wrist for the umpteenth time. Heat rose up into his neck and burned his ears.
When the waitress passed him in the distance, he waved and signed an air-check on his hand.
Minutes later, she bubbled back to his table with an unexpected delivery, an envelope. "Sir, a young lady left this with the maître d' moments ago."
After she left, he found a handmade card inside.
She'd covered the front with a picture of a broken clock. The copy read, "Did I keep you waiting?" The inside read, "Sorry. Not sorry." She'd signed it, "Petty, Bitter Witch."
So, that's how it's gonna be?
He slapped a twenty on the table when the waiter returned. "Another whiskey sour, please. Make it a do
uble."
As the server nodded and walked away, Cody glanced at Tessa's delivery once more. Black Death. He began to believe his brother's warning was more premonition than vision. Acquiring Keep It Real may yet prove to be the biggest mistake of his life.
Chapter Thirteen
Tessa
* * *
The frost on her windows paled in comparison to the chill on her heart. She'd sent Cody a card instead of showing up to their lunch date, mild in contrast to the heartbreak he delivered, but still effective. She embraced the well of pettiness bubbling within her, as her eyes locked on the leaves tumbling across the ground under the force of the frosty early-winter winds. The twists blew the final remains of autumn, rust and bronze leaves, into tornado-like cones until they dissipated and scattered into the streets.
Tessa welcomed her sense of smugness as she stared out of her office window. She tried to picture Cody's reaction when he received the card. She would've sworn under oath that she'd fully recovered from Cody's betrayal. Now, she wondered if the deep wounds inflicted were less impactful than the years of scarring they left behind.
Was her card to Cody beneath her? Wrong? Probably.
Thankfully, she didn't have time to linger in her thoughts. Mia stuck her head into Tessa's office to remind her that creative was waiting for her in the writing studio. She'd braced herself for the first round of Real Talk ideas.
"So, how'd your meeting with the boss man go?"
"You mean the jerk who bought my company?" She'd hedged. Her voice sounded fake and she responded in a sing-songy way. "It was civil. Mostly."
"Mostly? What does that mean?"
"It means, we talked, he offered a backhanded apology, and he invited me to lunch."
"Lunch. Hmm." Mia glanced at her watch. "You mean, today?"
She nodded. "Right now, this minute as a matter of fact."
Fury, revenge, spitting anger —for years, she refused to lean in to the Molotov cocktail of emotions after the break-up, but she invited them with open arms right now. She let her bitter witch fly free and forgave herself for the petty moment, with nary a pang of guilt.
Mia snorted. "And you were supposed to be there..."
"An hour ago," she sang.
Tessa sneered at the thought of Cody arriving at the restaurant and waiting for a lunch date that would never arrive. He went low during his cowardly break-up, leaving her devastated. Now, too many years later in direct response, she'd swan-dived off the high road and seized the opportunity to deal a crippling blow.
Not only did she wallow in the muck, she basked in it like a hot pig in cold mud.
"Now, let's beat it. I'm prepared and ready for the next meeting."
Mia hung her hand on her hips and wagged her finger. "Wait a minute. You stood him up? Tessa, call me crazy, but this is a bass-ackward way of endearing yourself to our new CEO. And, no matter how long you wade in the pool of your denial, he is your boss."
"First of all, owning Keep It Real does not make him the boss of me."
"Uh, no. I beg to differ. Buying your company means he is, by definition and in fact, the boss of you."
Tessa sucked her tongue and rolled her eyes like a grade school girl. Without realizing it, she was slowly turning into The Wiz witch, Evilene, who didn't want any bad news. "Second of all, you're supposed to treat others the way they treat you."
"Mmm...no. That's not how that works," Mia said with a jagged-edged glare. "You treat others the way you want to be treated. You hear the difference? Want to be treated."
"Potato, potahto. I've got the gist, and I promise you this: this minor inconvenience and embarrassment that I subjected him to pales in comparison to what he did to me."
And, yet, the minuscule trace of pleasure she'd derived from the swipe at Cody's ego slowly melted away and her shame mushroomed. In the end, what had she proven except that she'd become the thing that everyone believed her to be—petty and bitter.
There was no honor in that.
"I hear you, but it would behoove you to remember one thing," Mia said, "while we can debate whether or not he is the boss of you, you are, in fact, the boss of us. That means we, all of us in Keep It Real, have a stake in your ability to build a positive relationship with Mr. Hart."
She deflated, and her shoulders slumped. She'd been so consumed with effecting her own brand of revenge against her ex that she had scarcely considered the impact her behavior would have on her staff.
She used to prioritize their needs above her own, understanding that they, more than any grand idea she concocted, were core to her success. The corporate drama had begun to change her for the worse in more ways than one—the card, the lunch, the new fake collection. These were not her finest moments.
"You know what? You're absolutely right. What am I doing?" She raised her hands in the air and released a heavy sigh. She couldn't crawl in the bed and drown herself beneath a weighted blanket with a bottle of Grey Goose like she so longed to do. No, there was only one way out.
"The sooner I restore this company's independence, the sooner I regain my sanity. Then I can focus my energies on doing the right things."
"You know what you’ve got to do now, don't you?"
Tessa clenched her eyes shut. "Absolutely not. Not in a million years."
"This is non-negotiable," Mia declared. "From what you've told me about him, and what I know about you, any tit-for-tat war between you can only end up bloody for the rest of us."
Tessa vigorously shook her head no, but under the glare of Mia's stare, she wavered. "Don't give me that look. You're not going to make me. It won't work." She diverted her gaze to another part of her office. "You're still looking at me, aren't you?"
"Can't you feel your weave burning?"
Tessa laughed and fluffed her hair at the shoulder. "It's mine. I paid for every inch." She spun around. "Fine. I won't like it, but I'll take one for the team."
"If you can't do it because it's the right thing to do, then, fine, take one for the team. Now, let's go to the meeting."
* * *
Two hours and five presentations later, the team had used her sample "break-up" card to build the entire concept for the new Real Talk line. They'd progressed much faster than she anticipated.
Fear overcame the pride.
She banked on tortoise-pace workers and she got hares. Too many hares. She didn't tell them to slow roll the design effort, but she didn't think she needed to. They dragged their butts on everything else. She figured that by the time they finalized the initial designs, she'd have regained control of her company.
She meant the project as a temporary distraction from the acquisition nightmare, not a permanent collection. How could she stall them now that they'd finished so much? She’d think of something—and fast.
"Guys! I can't tell you enough how completely fantastic this is. You really nailed it. Not hard core but real talk. It's politically incorrect. It's real. It's funny. It's straight no chaser."
"You don't think we've gone over the line?"
Tessa guffawed on the outside while cringing on the inside. "There is no such place. Like it or not, these cards represent the world we're living in right now. You can't be faint of heart today. Better to listen to the truth than live with blinders on, and I think this card line represents authenticity."
Mia stepped in to bring some welcomed interference, even if for reasons opposed to hers. "These ideas are quite diverse. To give a line any chance at survival, we probably need to narrow down the offering, don't you think?"
Tessa embraced the subsequent silence and paced the room. If she was honest with herself, she hadn't given the market as much thought as she should've. The collection was never meant for the shelves. She only wanted to keep the team from leaving. But since Mia brought up the issue, Tessa decided to use the oversight to stall the line.
"Good question. I'll give it back to the team and let you all narrow down the selection. Dion, I've got to tell you. That 'Fronting on Facebook'
idea is so cold it hurt my feelings—and I don't even check my account."
"Thank you. Thank you. It was a stroke of brilliance if I do say so myself," he said without an ounce of humility. "How many times have we been inundated with posts from people who brag about their lives and significant others one day and then post a GoFundMe for the divorce the next. Whatever happened to..."
"Real talk?" Zeke asked with a shoulder shrug.
"Exactly. Telling it like it is," Dion said. "There's no shame in pain."
"Ooh...that's a tag line if I've ever heard one. We need to use it," Zeke said.
Destiny waited for a break in the chatter to confess her thoughts. "I can't even lie. Every day I scroll through my timeline feeling like an utter and complete failure. My longest relationship over the past three years was a Marvel marathon during Netflix and chill."
The team laughed and someone said, "T-M-I."
"You know I'm not lying. Shoot, every time I scan my feed somebody's celebrating an anniversary, saying yes to the dress, or taking 'ussies' and parading around as if they've met the last good man on earth."
"Tell it!" Bethany called out from her spot on the couch.
"No sooner than they get boo'ed up we learn the awful truth—it's all fake! Come to find out Bae spent the anniversary with the side piece. Now, home girl has sliced the ussie in half with a machete on Facebook Live. Then, while burning up his side of the picture, she accidentally set the house on fire."
Laughter erupted with a few knee slaps and head nods. Destiny could stretch the heck out of a story, which is what made her so good at her job.
"Next came the go-fund-me account to pay for the damage. Turns out, she used the insurance money to buy Bae the new Jordans. Now, she's calling me on the phone in the middle of the night singing a song of woe, dragging him like a bag of steaming dog crap. All I can think is why didn't you tell that half of the story on Facebook? So, do I plan to buy these cards to air my grievances? Trust and believe, I'll be first in line."