Page 68 of Devotion
“I ran into Esmeralda in the elevator.”
Trisha’s eyes went wide. “And?”
“And I may have told her she doesn’t get to question Christopher’s character in front of me.”
Trisha stared at me for two full seconds. Then her face split into a grin so wide it changed the shape of her entire head.
“You said that to her? I love you,” she said. “I actually love you. You’re my favorite person in this building and know that I also have myself included in that ranking.”
She was wearing her blazer-over-graphic-tee uniform. Today’s tee read “I SURVIVED ANOTHER MEETING THAT COULD’VE BEEN AN EMAIL.”I wonder where she gets them.
She walked me through the executive floor with the running commentary of a tour guide who’d been waiting years for an audience. She pointed out Paul Hargrove’s office, where he had a photo of himself shaking hands with three different presidents and none of his children.
She pointed out the break room, where the coffee machine had been broken for two weeks because everyone was afraid to submit a maintenance request.
“In a billion-dollar company,” she said. “Adults. Afraid of a form.”
Christopher’s office sat at the end of the floor, a large, minimal space with glass walls and city views, designed rather than lived in. He was on the phone when we arrived, jacket off,sleeves rolled to his forearms, standing behind his desk with one hand in his pocket.
He saw me through the glass. His eyes found mine and he ended the call. Trisha set the lunch bag on his desk, said “Your wife brought food, you’re welcome, I’m leaving,” and walked out without looking back.
We were alone.
I stood in his office, suddenly awkward, like I’d stepped into a version of him I hadn’t been invited to see. The CEO version. The one who ran meetings, signed contracts, and made decisions that affected thousands of people. He looked different here, sharper and more in control, more like the man the world saw and less like the one who slept on a closet floor.
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. I sat. He opened the lunch bag and paused as he saw the sticky note with the smiley faces. The corner of his mouth pulled in that almost-smile he always gave me.
We ate together in his office, with the city spread out below the windows and the muted ring of phones a few doors down. It was strange and quiet and oddly intimate, sharing a meal in the middle of his workday like this was something we did, like we were people who ate lunch together on purpose.
“This is good,” he said, like he was making a professional assessment. “The glaze. What’s in it?”
“Honey, soy, ginger, and a little bit of heat.”
“What kind of heat?”
“Gochujang. Korean chili paste.”
“I know what gochujang is.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I lived in Seoul for three months shooting a film. I know my way around a Korean kitchen.”
“You know your way around a Korean kitchen.”
“I know my way around several kitchens. I just can’t cook in any of them.”
I laughed, because he looked pleased with himself.
He asked about Sazón’s reconstruction and pressed me to tell him what I was planning for the reopening menu, after I hadn’t answered him the last time we were in the restaurant.
Maybe it was the food, or the city laid out forty floors below us like something that couldn't reach us up here, or just that he'd asked like the answer mattered. Whatever it was, I started talking, and the trouble with asking me to describe a menu I'm building from nothing is that there's no off switch once I begin.
“The dining room’s framed. We gutted the old layout completely.” I set down my fork. I always set down my fork for the good part. “Before, we had thirty covers crammed into a room built for twenty. This time, it’s fewer tables and an open pass, so people can watch the line work. I want them to see the food before they ever taste it.”
“That’s a risk.” He said it mildly, eyes on his plate. “Fewer tables is less revenue a night.”
I blinked. “How do you know that?”
