The Job (16 page)

“That’s
the problem,” she says, turning her back toward me. “I was never really that
good at making friends.”

“That’s
because you don’t know how to do a trust fall,” I tell her. “Now, cross your
arms and on the count of three—”

“Who’s
counting?” she asks. “Am I counting or are you counting?”

“I’m
counting,” I tell her. “If I let you count, we’d be here all day.”

“You’re
going to catch me, though, right?”

“If
you ask me that again, I might just change my mind and not catch you,” I tell
her. “Now, one… two… three.”

She
just stands there.

“Three,”
I repeat.

She
sways back a little, but quickly rights herself.

“Should
we do it here?” she asks. “It might be better over—”

“We’ve
got space to do it and carpeted floor,” I tell her. “Just go. One, two, three.”

Nothing.

“You’re
not really filling me with confidence here,” I tell her.

“Why
are you helping me?” she asks.

“What
do you mean?” I return. “You asked me to.”

“Yeah,
but what are you getting out of this? I can give you some money for your time,
but it’s probably not going to be anywhere near what you were making with the
remodel and everything.”

“It
came out great, though, didn’t it?” I ask. “Actually, I’ll tell you what.”

“What?”
she asks.

“These
can work a lot better if you’re falling from a higher place than where I’m
standing, so why don’t we do it over in the plus department. You can stand on
the bottom stair and I’ll stand on the low floor. It’ll give you a little more
time to fall, but I’ll still be there to catch you,” I propose.

“Yeah,
I don’t know about that,” she says. “I think we should just start with
something smaller before
we
—”

“Oh,
come on,” I start. “If anything, that extra little bit of backward momentum
will just help you learn to trust even faster.”

I
don’t know it yet, but I’m about to come to regret those words.

“All
right,” she says. “We’ll do it there, but you’ve got to swear that you’re going
to catch me.”

 
“You know, this really shouldn’t be the most
difficult part of the exercise,” I tell her and start walking over to the
sunken floor space.

We
get there and she positions herself, rather obsessively, on the bottom step.

“You’re
going to—”

“Yes!”
I interrupt. “I’m going to catch you. Just go: one, two,
three
.”

The
first problem is that I hadn’t expected her to actually do it this time.

The
second problem is that, as soon as she feels herself losing her balance, her
arms start flailing wildly about her.

Those
two problems add up to the back of her hand smacking me hard across the face as
I’m trying to catch her. My eyes close on their own with the impact, but I
still manage to put my arms out well enough to catch her, although things don’t
go quite as planned after that.

She
hits against my body while I’m still trying to process my brand new injury and
before I can get my eyes open again, we’re both falling backward onto the floor
below.

On
the positive side of things, I do eventually break her fall. On the negative
side of things, due to our respective positioning, I get a pretty solid shot to
the fellas when we land and it’s a beautiful fucking sight.

“You
said you were going to catch me!” she shouts as she springs to her feet.

I
would love to offer a response, but as I’m currently in the fetal position,
rocking back and forth with one hand over my eye and the other covering my
junk, there’s not much I can physically manage to add to the conversation.

“Shit,”
she says. “Are you okay?”

Yep,
still can’t answer.

I
take a breath and try to be a man about it, but the fact that I took a shot to
the jewels kind of makes this the only manly thing I can do in this situation.

“Oh,
I didn’t do that, did I?” she asks.

“No,”
I said. “I figured it would be a great idea to squash an incredibly sensitive
part of my anatomy after strategically placing my face where the back of your
hand could reach it.”

“Well
you don’t have to be a jerk about it,” she says, and I try to laugh, but it
just comes out as a gasp for air.

After
a minute or so, I stop writhing and collect myself. It takes me another minute
or two before I can get off the floor, and even then, it’s with plenty of her
help.

“I
think we’ve got a little bit of work to do,” I tell her.

“Maybe
we should just give up. Maybe I’m just not the kind of person that can trust
someone else is going to be there for me.”

Fixing
her trust issues was supposed to be like constructing something but this was
harder.

“I
don’t believe that,” I tell her.

“It’s
true,” she says. “This is stupid. I should just give up.”

“I’ll
tell you what,” I say, still hunched forward, my hands on my upper thighs, “why
don’t we change spots.”

“You’re
bigger than me,” she says. “I don’t think I could catch you.”

“We’ll
do it on the flat ground,” I tell her. “Stand just a foot or two behind me and
just catch me when I start to tip. If nothing else, that’ll teach you that you
can be a part of a trusting relationship.”

The
look on her face tells me that I wasn’t particularly clear with that
explanation.

“What
I mean by that,” I explain, “is that I’ll trust you to catch me. You, I have no
doubt, are going to prove yourself worthy of that trust. That’s what I meant by
trusting relationship. This might be an easier place to start, as I know you
trust your own ability.”

She
looks at the ground, then at me, then briefly at my crotch, although I have no
illusions that there’s any sexual context to the glance.

“Okay,”
she says. “Are you ready or do you need another minute?”

After
a glass of water and some pacing, I manage to get myself in a somewhat more
upright position and we get in our places.

“You
do the count,” I tell her.

“All
right,” she says. “One, two, three.”

Against
my better judgment in this scenario, I fall backward and she easily stops me
from falling to the ground.

“Oh,
well if I knew it was that easy,” she says as I get my feet back underneath the
rest of my body, “I wouldn’t have freaked out when you tried to catch me.”

“In
my defense,” I tell her, “even after the smack in the face, I
did
still catch you. Do you think you’re
ready for this?”

“Yeah,”
she says. “I can do this.”

“All
right,” I tell her. “We’re going to start you on the flat floor this time just
so you can get used to it and this time—”

“Keep
my arms folded,” she says. “I got it. Sorry about that.”

“It’s
okay,” I tell her, swallowing all of the many parts of myself that want to stay
angry at her for inflicting such a massive dose of pain.

She
gets into position and I start the count, “One, two,
three
.”

Jessica
falls backward and, managing to keep her hands at least next to her body this
time, I catch her easily.

“Whoa,
that was cool,” she says. “Can we do that again?”

I
snicker, “Sure. Do you want to try it from the step or do you want to do
another one from the floor?”

“The
floor,” she says. “I’m still kind of nervous.”

We
do it again and this time she even manages to keep her hands crossed over her
chest. One more time and Jessica’s actually starting to get comfortable doing
it. And I’m getting comfortable feeling her body.

Finally,
she says she’s ready to try it from the bottom stair.

“All
right,” I tell her. “Now, what’s the point of this exercise?”

“To
trust you,” she says.

Technically,
it’s to show her the benefits of being able to trust, period, but it’s kind of
nice to hear the words “trust” and “you” coming from her after having the
opposite be the rule for most of the time we’ve known each other.

I
think I had a game plan at some point before we started this, but that went out
the window when my boys got the pinch of doom. Since then, my brain’s gotten a
little hazy.

I
do know that I was going to try to work the fact that I’m the one that she’s
been sending messages to into the conversation at some point today, but given
the fact that she’s only now learning to trust me at all, I’d say it’s worth
saving for another lesson.

“Are
you ready back there?” she asks.

“Yep,”
I tell her. “Just keep your arms to your sides, and I’m pretty sure the four of
us are going to be just fine.”

“The
four of—” and she gets the joke. Laughing, she says, “Okay,” and crosses her
arms over her chest.

I
stand with my pelvis a bit farther back than usual, but I’m ready, so I start
counting, “One, two,
three
.”

She
falls backward and, thankfully, her arms stay where they are.

I
catch her and just hold her there for a minute. “See? You can do this.”

“Uh,
Eric?” she says, her voice devoid of the celebratory mirth I’d been expecting.

“Yeah?”
I ask.

“You’re
grabbing my boobs,” she says.

Not
even thinking, I let go of her entirely and she falls to the floor.

Shit.

Chapter
Eleven

Steel
Wool

Jessica

After
I picked myself up off the floor, I couldn’t get my mind off Eric’s hands on my
boobs. It was the first time in a long while a guy has touched me like that and
it was…nice.

I
made sure to clear my head as Eric and I went over some specifics regarding how
I should approach and train the person or people I’m ready to promote. He
seemed to think that I should get at least two managers right away, but I think
I’ll be more comfortable if I only do one at a time.

That
said, I’m not sure why I’m so nervous.

I’ve
decided to promote Cheryl, mostly based off of Eric’s recommendation that she
seemed to have the best overall knowledge and savvy of anyone, other than
myself, of course, in the store.

She
just walked in the door so I stroll out to meet her.

Cheryl
has been with me for a long time, but I think I know her less than pretty much anyone
else in the store. It’s not that I’ve specifically avoided her or anything; she
just seems to be less chatty than everyone else.

“Cheryl,
could I talk to you for a minute?” I ask as she’s making her way to the break
room to drop off her purse.

“Sure,”
she answers and changes course to come into my office.

“Would
you mind closing the door?” I ask.

“Sure,”
she says nervously.

“There’s
something that I wanted to talk to you about, and I’m not quite sure how to
start. This is kind of new to me,” I begin.

“Okay,”
she says.

“You’ve
been here at this store for a while, and I think it’s time we make a change,” I
tell her.

“What
do you mean?” she asks.

“Well,
it’s become apparent to me that things around here need to change,” I tell her.
“I don’t think the way I’ve been going about running this business has been—”

“I
can work weekends,” she says.

“I’m
sorry, what?”

“Holidays,”
she says. “I don’t mind working overtime. You don’t even have to pay me an
overtime wage. I just really need this job.”

“That’s
not where I’m going with this,” I tell her. “I’m talking about fundamentally
changing the way that I do business—the way
we
do business. You see, for such a long time, I’ve felt the need to lord over
every decision, be here at every moment, and that’s not a sustainable business
model.”

“I
really need this job,” she says.

“What
are you talking about?” I ask.

“I’ve
been here since you opened up, and I think it’s pretty screwed up that you’re talking
about firing me when I have given so much of my life to help this place off the
ground,” she says.

Now
it makes sense.

“I’m
not talking about firing you, Cheryl,” I smile.

“Oh,”
she says. “Well, if you’re going to cut my hours, I really wish you would have
told me before now so I could look for another job to supplement my income, I—”

“I
asked you in here so I could offer you a promotion,” I tell her.