By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy

Buddy inhaled his lunch and raced back to the mail room, eager to prove his worth on the first day.

“That was like the most inspiring thing I’ve heard in my life,” Ruth sighed. “I think I love him.”

“Get in line,” I said in unison with Gola.

“Okay, girl,” Gola said. “Let’s get your story. What was Dalessandra Russo doing with you at a bus stop?”

“She was apologizing for her son—who I thought was her date at the time—getting me fired,” I said.

Gola knocked the remains of her green juice over.

“Mr. Ice Statue of Perfection did what now?” Ruth demanded, handing over a stack of napkins.

“Charming—I mean, Dominic—met Dalessandra for dinner at the pizza place I was working at. He was being rude, so I returned his rudeness, and I spelled out an immature message in toppings on his pizza. As one does.”

Gola was gaping at me like I’d just turned into Tina Turner in front of her.

“Yeah, I’m going to need the immature message in its entirety,” Ruth decided.

“FU.”

“You said ‘fuck you’ to Dominic Russo?” Gola said slowly.

“Well, I spelled it with pepperonis. But yeah.”

“What did he do?”

“Blew a gasket. Yelled.”

Ruth and Gola exchanged an incredulous look. “He yelled?”

“Oh, yeah. He yelled. We called each other names. He demanded to see the manager.”

“I knew there was a volcano under that iceberg,” Gola said, slapping the mound of sopping wet napkins. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Ruth nodded. “You did. You called it.”

Gola leaned in. “Dominic Russo has been Frosty the Fine Snowman to everyone since he got here over a year ago,” she explained quietly. The palms probably had ears.

Interesting. My limited experience with Charming had been the exact opposite. I hadn’t seen frigid. I’d seen hellfire.

“Who knew it would be a pepperoni pizza that pushed him over the line?” Ruth mused.

“Okay, so back to the story. FU, demands to see the manager,” Gola recited, waving her hand dangerously close to Ruth’s hot tea.

“So George waddles out of the kitchen, takes a look at Dalessandra’s red leather skirt and Dom’s fancy coat, and fires me on the spot.”

“No!” they gasped.

I liked these two as an audience.

“Yes. I grabbed my coat and bag and went back out into the dining room, made a speech about how we’re human and people like him shouldn’t treat us like we’re not. And then I left.”

Gola and Ruth were hinged forward, hanging on my every word.

“So I’m at the bus stop trying to figure out what to do before my bartending shift—”

“Ally is poor,” Gola explained to Ruth.

“Got it.” Ruth nodded.

“And Dalessandra comes up and apologizes for Dominic and offers me a job on the spot. I didn’t know who she was or what the job was. And here I am.” I decided to leave out the whole vague “Hey, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong with morale” part.

“And here you are,” Ruth repeated in wonder. “This is the most exciting Monday I’ve had in a long time.”

“She has the desk behind Malina,” Gola told Ruth.

“Oh, that sounds fun.” Ruth winced.

“What’s her story anyway?” I asked.

There was another one of those long, pointed looks.

“She was Dominic’s dad’s girlfriend,” Gola whispered the word “girlfriend” and looked over her shoulder.

“You mean side piece,” Ruth hissed.

“Ruth!”

“What? It’s true.” Ruth scooted her chair closer. “So, Paul Russo, Dalessandra’s husband and Dominic’s father, used to be the creative director here. But rumor has it he tended to use his position to go fishing in the company pond if you catch my drift.”

I was an excellent drift catcher.

“Not all of the fish were willing to be caught,” Gola added.

This was news.

“Basically he was a big ol’ perv,” Ruth whispered. “It was common knowledge with the staff, and according to the rumor mill, he’d fired a few of his less-willing victims. So if you wanted to keep your job, you let him grab your ass.”

“That’s bullshit,” I gasped.

They nodded.

“Of course it was,” Gola said.

“And Dalessandra didn’t do anything about it?”

“We don’t know if she knew. I don’t think she would have let him get away with it,” Ruth said. “But no one wanted to test the theory that she’d believe an intern or a junior editor over her own husband.”

“And then there were the Malinas,” Gola added. “She was happy to lock herself in his office for a quickie. He even took her out of the country for a few shoots and shows.”

“She thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Russo,” Ruth added.

“Poor little gold-digging dumbass,” Gola scoffed.

“Anyway, we don’t know for sure. But rumor has it that Paul finally grabbed the wrong girl. And all hell broke loose,” Ruth continued.

“What happened?” I pressed.

“We came in one day, and there was no more Paul. No official announcement. Just Dominic with an assistant clearing out his father’s office. Side note: Another rumor has it he found three boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube in the desk.”

“He got all new furniture because ew,” Gola chimed in.

“A week later, HR rolled out a shiny new harassment and fraternization policy, which pretty much confirmed the rumors.”

“Paul immediately got a job with Indulgence,” Ruth said, naming another fashion magazine. “All of the executives here have non-competes, so who knows how he pulled that off.”

“What about the women?” I asked.

They both shrugged. “We’re not really sure what went down. There was an exodus of almost a dozen people. Again, it was super hush-hush. A handful are still here, including Malina,” Gola said. “None of them ever answered any direct questions.”

“I heard from an acquaintance of a friend of a friend that there was some kind of settlement involving iron-clad NDAs,” Ruth explained.

“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. No wonder the vibe was so off here. It didn’t sound like a solution, it sounded like a cover-up.

“But things are better now,” Ruth insisted. “The sexual harassment policy wasn’t drafted in the 1950s. And a fraternization policy kind of sort of adds more protection.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Basically relationships can’t exist between executives and underlings,” Gola said.

“That’s not exactly what it says,” Ruth disagreed.

“It’s the spirit of the rules. They’re trying to prevent relationships with lopsided power dynamics. But it kind of comes across as ‘we fucked up, and now we’re holding the rest of you responsible,’” Gola sighed.

“She’s touchy because she’s in love with a junior VP in fashion,” Ruth teased.

“Used to be. And I’d say it was more lust,” Gola corrected her.

“He is really, really cute,” Ruth mused. “But not cute enough for either of us to lose our jobs over.”

I picked up my fork and cut my last bite of chicken in half, hoping to make it last. I was beginning to get a few ideas about where Dalessandra had gone wrong.

“So, how come you’re poor?” Ruth asked cheerfully.

“It’s a long, long story,” I sighed.

I felt an arctic breeze skim down my spine and looked up.

Two tables down, Charming was glaring at me while pulling up a chair next to the Linus guy I’d met in Dalessandra’s office this morning. I returned his withering stare with a phony smile and a finger-wiggling wave.

“Girl, you are the bravest person I have ever met,” Gola whispered without moving her lips.

“Your vagina must be made out of steel,” Ruth guessed.

“Aren’t they all?” My phone timer buzzed, and I sighed. “Okay, ladies. Back to work.”

I was a planner by nature. Things got lost or went undone if there wasn’t a plan in place. Commitment to me meant doing what I said I was going to do.

I just happened to have to commit to a lot of things. So I planned. Ruthlessly. There were dozens of daily alerts scheduled in my phone.

Plan out week.

Choreograph dance class.

Leave for dance class.

Teach dance class.

Buy more ramen.

Leave for bar shift.

Start bar shift.

End bar shift.

Catch train home.

Send design invoices.

Make payment on astronomical debt.

Go the fuck to bed.

Wake the fuck up.

Do it all over again…

If I didn’t schedule every single task, it might fall off my plate and get kicked under some piece of metaphorical furniture only to be remembered months later in the middle of the night. And if someone was counting on me, I needed to deliver.

“Let’s get drinks after work tonight,” Ruth suggested. “I feel like we have so much more gossip to impart.”

I grinned, standing. “I can’t. There’s that whole I’m poor thing, and I’m working tonight.”

“You have a second job?” Gola asked.

“I have four second jobs.”

“Girl, you need a vacation.”

And a mango margarita.