Consent_A #MeToo Romance

by Jason Letts

  Martin took a seat next to me.

  “I know you’ve got a good enough handle on C-Panel and all that, but I’ve rather enjoyed being out here in the trenches with everyone, if you know what I mean. You don’t mind if I keep working here, do you?”

  “You can work at whichever available desk you like,” I said, slightly dismayed at how easily I slipped back into my detached persona.

  “Have a good Christmas then? Looks like you’ve got a little extra cheer in those rosy cheeks,” he said, stretching out and settling in.

  “I’m not sure how those two things are related. It’s cold outside. My Christmas was fine. How about yours?”

  “Well since you were kind enough to ask, I’ll be happy to tell you. My dear old grandmum is ninety-two and in a nursing facility back in Manchester. I flew back so I could be there with her and the rest of my family. I don’t think she has much time left, to be honest,” he said.

  “That was nice of you to go,” I said, my eyes darting to Keenan across the floor. He had some folders in his hands and carried them into his office. It dawned on me for the first time that he didn’t have any kind of secretary or assistant, which seemed a little odd.

  Martin continued to make small talk every once in a while, I got a Facebook friend request from another guy in the office who I knew would ask me out as soon as I accepted, and another guy followed me two blocks to a noodle shop for lunch to suggest that we eat together because we both happened to be there. I took my order to go. But at least when the workday ended I was able to get away without being pestered. I shared the elevator with Chelsea, but we stopped in the hall after we reached the bottom because Keenan and another woman were just outside near his Tesla with the bright headlights cutting through the dark.

  Chelsea leaned closer to me.

  “Wait here, this could get ugly. If I’m not mistaken, her name is Cassie. She used to wear a coat with faux fur along the hood, you know, but you can see he’s made her get rid of it. He hates that and insists upon something more practical. When the women all start dressing like ski instructors in winter and yoga teachers in summer, that’s when you know he’s just about used them up.”

  The car door was open, but it didn’t look like they were even going to get in. It was true the woman and the exchange they were having didn’t look particularly happy, but there was something about the way she turned her head that suggested annoyance with him to me. Finally they got in and drove away.

  “She avoided another blow-up there. I can only hope she doesn’t get it in the car where she can’t move away. Tall price to pay for a handsome face and a big bank account if you ask me,” Chelsea said.

  I nodded absently and we exited now that the coast was clear. It was hard not to wonder how many women there were like Cassie hanging around in Keenan’s life. A dozen sitting by their phones waiting for a chance to get hurt? I couldn’t help but feel like I was slowly putting myself in that line. I was a strong woman who always knew where the exits were in the event of fouls in the game of love, but I just couldn’t believe Keenan was as prone to severe outbursts as Chelsea made him out to be. Maybe it was his raw masculine appeal clouding my judgment.

  As it happened, I got a good opportunity to find out the very next day. That afternoon while Martin was at meetings, I looked up at the now familiar sound of Keenan’s office door opening as he marched out into the aisle and took a left in my direction. I assumed he was heading for the kitchen until his eyes settled on me, putting me in a momentary panic.

  He came to a halt beside my desk and leaned over with a hand resting on the surface. Another deep, dark-blue shirt, he seemed to have a thing for them even though they didn’t match his green eyes.

  “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Suddenly I was flush full of nerves.

  “Of course you can,” I said, trying to sound receptive but calm. He didn’t waste any time getting to the point.

  “I’ve been reading over your work for the professional-grade culinary sets and I need you to take another crack at them.”

  I was dazed for a moment thinking about how rare it was around here for anyone to come right up and talk to me about work. Usually anything related to what I was paid to do came up in email or texts. It wasn’t until I had processed that thought that I came to the realization that my work was being criticized. The outdoor line copy he liked so much seemed like a distant memory, and I wondered if I was about to be chewed out like some of the other guys I’d seen.

  “Oh, what’s the issue?” I couldn’t have looked away from him if I tried. His demeanor was focused, a little intense even, just short of hostile.

  “The approach you’re taking isn’t striking the right cord. We’re not getting the right message across in these campaigns.”

  It was only when he broke eye contact and looked at my computer screen that I was able to do likewise and try to see what he was referring to in the text I’d written.

  “My impression was that talking up the quality of the goods and the sort of mythic nature of being a chef was going to resonate the most,” I said, but Keenan gave a slight shake of the head.

  “What we need to be stressing is the deal aspect of what’s available. The highest-quality, elite kitchens around the world, bargain prices. That sort of thing,” he said.

  “But I don’t think I’m wrong about what really identifies the customers of these products,” I said. He shifted his eyes back on to me, and I’m not sure which of us was more astonished that I had talked back to him. He was completely humorless.

  “You’re not wrong, but there are competing truths here and my truth is the one that’s going to compel them to make a purchase. Can you rewrite these to reflect that?”

  “Yes, I can,” I said, nodding slightly.

  He tapped his knuckle against the desk and turned to leave. It was hard not to feel riled up after that exchange with him, even though what I had received was anything other than harsh. I could already tell though that if what I produced was once again substandard he wouldn’t be so nice about it. I buckled down, vigorously evaluating what I was attempting to communicate, but I kept coming back to a surreal feeling about the benign confrontation we’d just had.

  How on Earth did I end up being in a position where what I was doing was so vitally important to a man with that much money, power, and prestige that he needed to drop everything to come over to set me straight about it by himself? My mind jumped back and forth between seeing him with a woman, the things Chelsea had said, and the feelings I had that seemed harder and harder to hide.

  The dull ache of longing for something that could never be was the best I’d ever get out of it, but there were plenty of other more reasonable possibilities. There were a lot of things about him that I was curious about and wouldn’t mind talking over with him. Maybe we’d develop a real professional camaraderie or even a casual friendship. Perhaps I’d learn a few things from him and develop a new skill or two. Either way, I’d be able to savor his charming face without much risk of being forced to dress like a ski instructor.

  After submitting my revised text I waited anxiously for any kind of a response from Keenan, but there were no more desk-side visits or any communication at all. I was smart enough to know when I was hungry for validation and pretty sure in this situation it would go unfulfilled. Martin didn’t have any comments for me on my work, but he was glancing over at me while we worked side by side in a much more anxious way. My guard went up and a sense of dread filled the air. It was late Thursday morning and I wondered if I’d still have a job in thirty-six hours. Martin cleared his throat and I knew he’d worked up his courage to do whatever he was going to do.

  “Did I tell you I’ve got tickets to see Norah Jones this weekend?” He didn’t look at me as he asked his question. I gathered he was referring to an artist, though I couldn’t remember who she was, but I immediately caught myself, knowing that asking about her was not going to go anywhere good.

  �
�Have a good time,” I said, staying still but watching him out of the corner of my eye. His face twitched into a scowl for a fleeting moment.

  “Thanks,” he said before releasing a sigh that ended in a faint “ch” sound. I was ninety percent certain he’d called me a bitch under his breath, but there was no way the recorder caught it.

  After that Martin didn’t make any more attempts at small talk. Not one joke, good or bad, broke the silence. He even packed up and returned to his desk a short time earlier than he normally did, this time without bothering to say goodbye.

  I paused to consider how out of all of the propositions I’d received in this office, his was the most indirect and really the feeblest. Clearly his intention was to ask me to the concert, but it seemed like he’d suffered so much rejection from other women or saw the signs in how I’d kept my distance that he knew what was coming and couldn’t really muster the nerve to do it. I didn’t have a clue if his Britishness played a part in it at all.

  Just like the previous week, he spent the morning working from his own office, and as Friday afternoon began to dwindle there was another notice about a meeting with him that would take place in only a few minutes. Before I got up to go, I went ahead and logged out of my computer and packed my bag so that I could immediately exit the building once I’d been terminated.

  On the way to see him, I caught one or two knowing smirks from men who had hit on me. Martin carelessly pulled open the door to his office and pointed to the chair. His long face now permanently wore the scowl I’d seen glimpses of before.

  “I suppose it’s my fault then…” He trailed off.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, squinting at him in the hopes he’d elucidate me about what fault he was referring to.

  “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I thought I’d done everything possible to introduce you to our culture by creating a friendly and congenial atmosphere here, but I’m dead sure I didn’t do a good enough job. What I’ve learned over the past two weeks is that a team-centered environment doesn’t seem suited to you. Many in the office don’t want to talk to you now. I have to admit that my repeated attempts to have even simple conversations were unpleasant and seemed unwelcome for you. Would you say that’s true?”

  My lips were tight as I tried to process what he was saying and what it would mean later when they were being reviewed by a lawyer.

  “As I explained to you last week, these weren’t innocent conversations people were having with me, these were relentless personal advances that have only intensified in the last week. I asked you to do something to put an end to it, but instead you were…”

  “I was what?” His question alerted me that I was at risk of straying out of bounds. I had been going to say that he was one of the ones asking me out too, but I remembered that he hadn’t actually. My heart rate accelerated and I focused on being accurate with what I said.

  “You were allowing that kind of behavior to continue by neglecting to act.”

  Martin grimaced and shook his head.

  “I appreciate your independence and your sensitivity, but these were harmless exchanges with the gents around here, nothing that wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t one of the fellows. I think you’ll agree that the gap you’ve created between us has impaired your ability to do the job we need you to do.”

  I could see the exit hanging on his lips. He was about to fire me, and in all my frustration and resentment over the mistreatment I’d received I couldn’t wait for it. It crossed my mind that I’d get to see Keenan again when he was writing me a settlement check. That would be nice.

  “So?” I asked, hoping to cut short his pause.

  “So I think you need to ask yourself if this is the place where you really want to work. I have no doubt there are countless other companies where your disposition and temperament would be assets rather than hindrances.”

  I took a deep breath and blinked as the train we were on seemed to jump off the rails.

  “You’re saying you want me to leave. I’m fired,” I said, correcting him. He shook his head.

  “No, we’ve actually never fired anyone here and we’re not about to start with you. We try to empower our employees to make the best decisions about their own careers, and I hope you’ll see that what I’m saying is in your best interests. Acting accordingly would be best for all of us. Of course you’ll be paid for your time here.”

  He still had the same nasty expression on, and I wondered if he knew that by not firing me he was ruining everything I’d been planning. All of these tapes weren’t going to be nearly as good if I wasn’t fired. The thought crossed my mind that I’d have to release them and go public myself while still working here, but there was no telling if that would spread far enough to result in a bad rep for the company.

  “I’m very sorry that you feel like I’m not aligned with the culture and that you now dispute the treatment I’d received after agreeing with it last week while trying to further make my personal life a topic of discussion in the office,” I said. Martin’s face took on a slight shade of scarlet.

  “This meeting is over. I wish you’d been more transparent about the type of person you were when you were hired, and at the very least I hope you’ll make us all happy and do the right thing here.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair, like a teenager. My temper rose and something about his expression indicated that he was enjoying how upset he was making me.

  “I will!” I shouted, abruptly getting up and storming out of the office. That man disgusted me and settling with never seeing him again seemed like a very good deal to me. I swept past my desk, snatching up my bag without breaking stride, and went for the elevators. I loathed the entire place, the walls, the lights, the people.

  I passed the conference room, the kitchen, and the mailroom, but stopped suddenly and turned back. Some weird compulsion urged me to check my mailbox to make sure I had everything before I left, which was ludicrous because the only thing that had ever been placed there were copies of the papers I’d signed when I was hired. But to my surprise there was a large manila envelope in my slot. My name had been printed on a sticker and placed on the center of it. In the top left corner was another sticker bearing the name and address of Fuscilla, Wagner, and Tomkins, a law firm that I’d never heard of before.

  I was dumbstruck as I held the envelope, peering hard at it in the seclusion of the tiny mailroom. Was I in some kind of legal trouble? Why was this sent here and not to my apartment? I dreaded finding out what this was but knew I had to. Slowly I tore open the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The law firm’s name and address was again in the top corner. The body was as follows.

  To: Ms. Sarah Faverly

  Our client, Mr. Keenan Roche [Roche], CEO and founder of Mouse Roar Inc. [Company], requests permission to communicate a statement to you of a personal nature. You have the option to give or deny consent to receive such a statement. If you deny, the contents of this statement will never be disclosed to you. If you agree, you understand that you hold [Roche] and [Company] free from liability for the contents of such a statement or any impact that it has on yourself, your mental state, your working conditions, your employment, your career prospects external to [Company], or any other potential consequences it may have in perpetuity. Print your name and sign the appropriate box in accordance with your wishes.

  I, ___, deny consent to receive such a statement.

  I, ___, give consent to receive such a statement, fully understanding the aforementioned terms and conditions.

  Upon completion, return this notice to the envelope and return it to the box of [Roche].

  Regards,

  Russell Wagner, Esq.

  I read the letter over a dozen times before I even moved a muscle. Even then I was still mystified about what I was looking at. It was hard to know where to begin. What kind of level was somebody operating on where this was what they did in advance of saying something to someone? Did I need to get a la
wyer myself in order to really comprehend what I was signing away? For example, did signing this kiss my chances of filing a harassment suit against everybody else in the building goodbye? Was this something I even wanted to deal with if I was two seconds from ditching this place forever?

  And then the obvious question hit me. What exactly did Keenan want to say to me?

  If he went through all the trouble of running it by a lawyer, wouldn’t that suggest it was something meaningful enough if it could end up affecting my entire career? Or perhaps he had something negative to say and needed to shield himself. I could just see him walking up to me and asking if I used deodorant or something and having that be it. Was he paranoid about being sued? It’d be prudent since I was thinking about it anyway.

  Someone else walked by and I decided it was best to return to my desk and work it out from there. Only an hour remained in the workday and I could at least stick around long enough to decide what to do. Continuously staring at the page, I wondered if this wasn’t something I’d really been hoping for. Here was someone who was serious about following the rules. It was completely my choice whether or not this happened, and I was savoring the decision.

  One of my friend’s parents was a lawyer, and I pulled out my phone and shot off some texts. While I waited for a response, I started researching some of the federal and state rules for filing an employment discrimination claim based on gender. There was a lot of information at the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission website, which had information for an office in town I could visit or call to discuss my issue.

  Soon enough the lawyer I knew got back to me and I was able to share the situation in enough detail and get a response that suggested that this wouldn’t shut the door on acting on all of my other complaints. Over the course of pondering it over, the desire to hear what he had to say grew louder in my head. It was too easy to get swept away imagining his lips saying things about how enchanted he was with my eyes or my smile or even my hair. I didn’t know if it was a moment of vanity or neediness, but something about this situation brought out a hunger for that kind of praise.