Page 46 of Not Safe for Work

“Excuse me, are you saying I lied on my test?”

“No, I’m just saying maybe you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do.”

My jaw drops. “And I suppose you do?”

He shrugs his wide shoulders, and all those changing feelings I tucked away last night are chewed up and swallowed as I fantasize about dangling him over shark-infested waters. I wonder when our next boat trip is. Maybe I could arrange for an “accident.”

“I’m just saying you’re not exactly… subtle.”

“At least I don’t have the personality of a wet paper bag,” I snap.

Whistle Mouth strikes again, and I gasp as Rafe and I bestow her with twin dark looks. She points to the far end of the room, sending us to our respective groups. We’re each handed a problem we need to solve, taking into account everyone’s unique personality type and preferred communication and analysis style.

I’m matched with three white guys: Adam, Evan, and Steve. I recognize Evan as Rafe’s troll friend from earlier. Rafe’s group sits a few tables away, and I pointedly ignore him, angry and definitely hurt by his comments. Every time I think we’re moving in another direction, something comes in to sweep it all away.

We all gather around our designated table, and Evan sits across from me, straddling his chair backward. He gives me a look, and I already sense that I’ll hate whatever comes out of his mouth. Sure enough, he scoots the notepad and pen sitting in the middle of the table towards me. “You can be the notetaker,” he says confidently.

I open my mouth to protest, knowing he’s chosen me because I’m the only woman in the group. But I bite my tongue because sometimes, causing a scene isn’t worth the effort.

A boom of thunder practically shakes the walls, and I grip the pen tightly enough to snap it in two. Instead of abating, this storm only seems to be growing stronger.

We spend the next hour debating and discussing. Evan cuts me off at least half a dozen times and takes credit for three of my suggestions. The other two don’t even flinch.

After we confirm our solution, we’re to write the highest-level points on an easel with a large notepad. We all stare at it until Evan finally looks at me.

“Well?” he asks.

I know exactly what he’s getting at, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Well, what?”

“Aren’t you going to write our ideas down?”

Now, I’m pissed. I shove the notepad towards him with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. It slides over the smooth surface with a hiss and bumps into his elbow.

“Why don’t you do it?”

Evan scratches his chin because I’m not giving him the reaction he wants. “You’re the one who wrote the notes.”

I offer up a sweet smile that burns with acid. “Right, so it’s someone else’s turn.”

“But you’re better at it.”

My blood simmers, my cheeks flushing. This idiot can’t take a hint.

I grip the sides of my chair, my knuckles turning white. “Why am I better at it, Evan?”

He’s utterly confused now, and I shove my chair back and stand.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, and Evan looks like I’ve slapped him.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” he demands.

His forehead scrunches, and his beady little eyes turn dim with incomprehension.

I shake my head and storm out of the room.

My heels echo against the hard tile as I take out my frustration on the floor. It’s not the worst thing that could happen. It’s not the worst thing that has happened, but my nerves are fraying for a thousand different reasons, and it’s getting to me today. I’m used to this, and nine times out of ten, I let it roll over me like I’m supposed to.

“Tris!” Rafe jogs up behind me. “Are you okay? What happened?”