“Sure,” I say, tapping my pen on my desk and looking over the notes I’ve jotted down during the call. “We’ll have it done by Friday, no problem. Have a great rest of your afternoon, Mr. Solomon.”

As I hang up my office phone, I let out the breath I’ve been holding for most of the time I was on the phone. Of course, Remsen would wait until Brian is in Toronto to suddenly have a new drug approved that they want ads for in all of the trade publications by next month, which means we only have a few days to come up with a full campaign from start to finish. I know we can do it, but it’ll take long hours and a lot of prioritizing and pushing aside some tasks that can wait.

And of course this phone call would be from the asshole who doubted Brian in the first place. It took Ted and I a little bit of online research to figure out his name, but we wanted to know who he was, if for no other reason than to have the ability to roll our eyes and make faces -- like the mature adults we are -- when we receive phone calls and emails from him. Just knowing that the call came from him almost makes me wonder if perhaps he’s testing Brian, to see if he can really deliver at a moment’s notice.

It’s no problem, though, because I absolutely plan to deliver.

I type up the notes I took on the call and add them to a file along with the email I asked Mr. Solomon to send me with all of the details on the drug, and I send Christina a quick message on our internal chat system to ask her to come see me ASAP. Not even five minutes later, she’s standing at my office door, looking a bit uneasy.

“Is everything okay with the New York Tourism ad?” she asks apprehensively. “I know it was kind of a big change, but I thought the new color scheme blended better with the photos--”

“Oh, shit, sorry, yes, everything’s fine with that ad; it’s beautiful.” Honestly, I hadn’t given too much thought to how my chat message might come across, and I feel bad for making Christina anxious. “I needed to talk to you about something else. What are you working on right now?”

“Mock-ups for Unique Boutique.”

“And that’s due…” I let my voice trail off as I examine my calendar before continuing, “...in two weeks, it looks like?”

Christina nods.

“Okay, I’m pulling you off of that for now. Tell Julia I said to pass it to an intern. Surely they could manage to not fuck it up, and if they do, we’ve got time to fix it. I’m putting you on the new Remsen ad that’s due Monday. New product.”

“Do we have anything for it already?”

“Nope. That’s how new it is. Come on in; have a seat. They just sent me all the info.”

“Okay,” she says, her confidence suddenly back as she comes in and sits down. “Show me what you’ve got.”

When we finish brainstorming together, Christina goes back to her desk to get started on the artwork, while I work on setting the ball in motion to be sure the copy gets done as well. For a while, it looks like everything is smooth sailing and we’ll get this ad done in mere days with absolutely no problem. Just as I’m thinking that’s too good to be true, we hit a huge snag on Friday morning when Mr. Asshole himself refuses to approve the ad because it didn’t “match their vision.” Personally, I think it’s exactly what he asked for when I talked to him on Wednesday morning. But since the customer is always right and this is a fucking huge account that we can’t afford to lose, I have to keep a smile in my voice as I tell him that we’ll change everything and send him a new copy by Monday. I know that’s pushing it, given that we have to submit the ad no later than Monday at 5 p.m. to make next month’s publications, but I also know I have a great team behind me, and we can make it happen.

Christina is no happier to be starting all over than I am, but it’s what we have to do. Honestly, I think this guy is purposely trying to set a trap for us, and I’m not falling into it, so that makes me even more determined to knock his socks off with this ad. Of course, that means working late and over the weekend so we can get this done by Monday, and that means cancelling another date with Rich.

As 6 o’clock creeps closer and Christina and I are nowhere near where we need to be on this ad, I start to dread making the phone call that I know I have to make -- not because I feel guilty, but because I don’t want to listen to Rich whine. Given the way he acted the last time I had to cancel, I’m absolutely certain he’s going to throw a shit fit this time, which I’m not feeling particularly inclined to entertain or listen to. Nonetheless, I have to make the call, and I’m not the least bit surprised when he doesn’t even allow me to finish my sentence before interrupting me.

“You know, if you’d step away from work every once in a while, maybe you’d have more time for me -- for us. For our relationship.”

“Excuse me?” I say, more than a little surprised at his use of that word. “You and I are dating. We’re not in a relationship.”

“We’re fucking, aren’t we? Sounds pretty damn serious to me. Though, here lately, I think it’s your job that you’re in a relationship with. You’ve already cancelled five lunches with me, and three dates, all at the last minute, and this makes four.”

“I wasn’t aware we were keeping score.” I’m trying my best to keep my voice even, but Rich is seriously pissing me off right now. Not to mention the fact that I’m wondering where in the hell all of this is coming from -- I thought we were just having fun together, but clearly he’s been thinking things are a lot more involved.

“I mean, what’s going to happen if we decide to have a family someday? Are our kids even going to know who their mother is, or are you going to be spending all of your time at work?”

“Wait, whoa--” I start, but I don’t get my flabbergasted ‘what the fuck’ out before he interrupts me again.

“I can support us both, you know. You don’t even have to work. You can spend your whole day at home eating bon-bons if you want. Be a kept woman.”

“Excuse you. Just what the hell makes you think I want to be a kept woman?”

"Isn't that every woman's dream?"

"Not this woman. This woman prefers to support herself."

"Don't worry, I can keep you in all your pretty things."

"My 'pretty things?' I can buy my own things, thank you very much. Besides, I’m pretty sure I make more money than you--

“Doing what, being some kind of glorified secretary? Tell that boss of yours--”

“Brian is not my boss; we are partners in this company. We’re on equal footing. You know, I’m starting to wonder if you even know me at all. If this is what you’re after, maybe we’re better off calling it quits.”

“Cynthia, that’s not what I meant…” He starts to backpedal, though I’m really not interested in any of his excuses right now. Not when he’s just insulted the core of who I am as a person -- an independent woman who doesn’t need anyone else and answers to no one.

“Then what exactly did you mean? Because I’m sure as hell not interested in settling down and having kids or starting a family right now. Or ever.”

“Cyn,” he sighs, and I can hear the remorse in his voice, but I’m still trying to figure out where the hell all of this came from and at what point we went from casual dating and fucking to some sort of catalyst for the stuff heteronormative dreams are made of. “Can I come over to your office? Let’s talk about this, in person. I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“There’s nothing to figure out. Clearly you don’t understand who I am, so honestly, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

“Cyn, please. I didn’t mean to--”

“I have to go. You know, work stuff. Have a nice life, Rich.” As I hang up on him, I’m thinking that I hope he finds the kind of partner he’s looking for, because it sure as hell isn’t me, and it’s never going to be.

Turns out, not only was Brian dead wrong about Rich’s motivations and desires, but I apparently was as well.

Christina and I spend a couple more hours at the office before we decide to wrap things up for the night and reconvene tomorrow morning to hopefully finish the ad with fresh eyes and more motivation, when we’re not dead tired.

Tired as I am, I’m also starving, and I really need a drink. Suddenly, that little dive bar a few blocks from the office -- the one with the killer buffalo wings that Brian can demolish an entire basket of all by himself, while simultaneously denying that he ate them all -- is looking very attractive. So I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, fluff up my hair and undo the top couple of buttons of my blouse, just enough to make me feel sexy instead of like I’m about to go into a business meeting, then yank open the door, ready to lose myself in a whiskey sour or two and a basket of deep-fried goodness, though I’ll pass on the wings this time. I don’t normally eat greasy things, but tonight, I feel like I deserve it.

I’m sitting at the bar, sipping my cocktail and sampling the appetizer platter I ordered just for myself, when someone slides onto the barstool next to mine.

“This seat taken?”

I look over, and find that the voice belongs to a dark-haired man whose eyes could easily rival Brian’s in their color as well as their intensity. I can tell he’s a little on the short side, even though he’s sitting down, and he’s a little bit chubby, with a few gray hairs peppering his beard as well as the hair at his temples.

“It’s all yours,” I say, shrugging.

He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, though I can see him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. “Have I seen you here before?” he asks.

I take another sip of my drink and turn to face him. “Probably. I come here during the day sometimes with a coworker.”

Suddenly, recognition dawns in his eyes, and I know exactly why before he even says it, because Brian is pretty memorable, for better or for worse, even in a huge city like New York. “Oh! Yeah, I remember now, the guy in the wheelchair, right?” I nod, and he keeps right on talking. “I guess I thought he was your husband.”

I laugh and shake my head. “No, but I’ll take great pleasure in telling him you thought so. He’s gay. And married.”

“I guess I figured a lovely lady such as yourself would be taken.”

“Nah. I prefer to keep things casual.”

“I can respect that.”

Good, I think to myself, otherwise this conversation would be over, especially tonight. I’m not in the mood to put up with anyone else’s idea of what a woman should be or what she should want.

Thankfully, he turns out to be pretty open-minded, as well as a good conversationalist. He lives close by, and doesn’t work too far away either. He’s divorced, and his ex-wife and their kids live in Philly. I hadn’t intended to talk so much, but alcohol sometimes has that effect on me.

I'm not even sure what leads me to start flirting with him, but, a few drinks later, I am. Maybe I just need to feel desired. Or maybe I just need to work out all of my stress and frustration, and sex seems like the perfect way to do that.

He's not really my type, but he's attractive enough, and he's single, so pretty soon, one thing leads to another, and we end up at his apartment. I know that's kind of a dumb move, given that I barely know this guy. That's why I usually like to go back to my own place when I'm with someone new -- it just feels safer. But he seems like a nice guy -- innocent and a little naive, kind of like Michael -- so I decide to take my chances, but keep my phone close by.

We're both more than a little bit tipsy -- actually, I'd probably say I'm drunk, and he is too -- so it doesn't take long for things between us to heat up, and for a hot and heavy makeout session to turn into much, much more.

"I don't usually do this kind of thing," he breathes, as our hands begin to wander over each others' bodies.

"What, have sex?" I can't help but laugh.

"No." He pauses to kiss me again. "Well, yes. But what I meant was, I don't usually bring home women I meet at bars."

"Well, there's a first time for everything." Now that I have his shirt fully unbuttoned, I slip it over his shoulders and down his arms, then start working on his pants as he slips his t-shirt over his head and begins unbuttoning my shirt.

Once we're undressed, I push him down onto the bed and press my lips against his, hard.

"Wait, wait," he mumbles, into my mouth at first before pulling away. "I don't have any condoms. Shit. That's how long it's been." He grins sheepishly, his cheeks just slightly flushed, though I'm not sure if it's from arousal or embarrassment.

"No problem." I slide off of the bed and walk over to the chair where I'd deposited my handbag earlier, then dig through it until I find my stash of condoms. "I always carry some."

"I like a woman who's prepared." He looks me up and down as I walk back to the bed, and I can tell he likes what he sees.

He presses his lips to mine as I open the condom and put it on him, turning the task into a bit of foreplay by adding a little playful stroking that elicits a soft moan. He repays me by fingering me until I'm practically begging him to fuck me.

He's definitely not the best lay I've ever had, but he's also certainly not the worst. It's enjoyable, and my orgasm leaves me feeling totally blissed out for awhile, like I don't have a care in the world. So I'd say, mission accomplished.

We lie there together for awhile, and he invites me to spend the night, but I need to go home, since I don't plan to wear the same outfit to the office tomorrow, and I know I need to get some sleep. So I make the trek back to my apartment and go to bed that night still feeling sated and a lot less stressed. Let it never be said that Brian was on the wrong track when he referred to casual sex as "pain management."

After a good night’s sleep in my own bed, I text Christina to tell her we’re going casual today, and I put on my skinny jeans and a knit top. No reason to dress up if we’re going to be the only ones at the office and there are no clients to impress. I stop by the coffee shop on my way in to pick up a couple of lattes and some pastries, and the two of us take up residence in the “huddle space” that the millennial who designed our office setup suggested. Apparently it’s a thing, and although Brian made fun of it -- mostly because he’s averse to all things millennial, despite his son being one of them -- it’s actually been pretty useful. It’s comfortable, with couches and fluffy armchairs and desks and tables that can be easily moved, and it makes it easy to collaborate.

“Bet this isn’t how you thought you’d be spending your Saturday,” I say, as Christina uses her tablet to draw a couple of elements of our ad freehand. After all of this effort, I sure hope Mr. Asshole is pleased and feels like this matches his “vision,” otherwise I don’t know what we’re going to do.

“It’s fine,” she smiles, laughing a little. “I don’t mind. I don’t really have much of a social life here yet. I’ve gone on a few dates, but so far all of them have turned out to be jerks.”

“I feel that,” I say, trying to hold myself back from going on a rant about Rich and his ‘theories’ on what a woman wants, but I’m pretty sure Christina is on the same page I am, so I let it out anyway, and in the end, I’m glad I did. It feels good to rant about it with someone else who thinks he was being just as ridiculous as I do, and since Brian is in Toronto, I can’t do it with him, so it also feels good to find someone else I can speak frankly with, who gets it.

Several hours and a lot of delivered Thai food later, we finally have a completed ad, and I’ve made up my mind that I’m going to use my powers of persuasion to make Mr. Asshole like it, no matter what he says. We open one of the bottles of wine I keep in the mini fridge in my office to celebrate as we talk about our lives -- men and work and the pursuit of happiness -- and I keep thinking about how grateful I am to work with people who are not only talented, but also top-notch humans.

When Brian comes back to work on Wednesday, he isn’t in his office for more than ten minutes before he’s calling my name, and I’m sure I already know what this is about -- control-freak Brian pissed off that something happened with one of his most important accounts without him even knowing about it, despite the fact that it was done to perfection, and Mr. Asshole not only approved it but even thanked us for our hard work and wrote us a not-so-little bonus check for getting it all done on such short notice. But I knew Brian was probably going to throw a fit, and I’m not wrong, because the first words out of his mouth when I get into his office are, “What the fuck is this?” He gestures to his screen, which is displaying the ad Christina and I spent most of the weekend working on.

“Something that’s already done, that you don’t need to freak out about,” I respond casually as I take a seat in one of the chairs in front of Brian’s desk.

“Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“Because there was no need to. You were having family time. We had it covered.”

“This is my account,” he says, and I can hear the forced evenness to his tone. “Someone should have called me.”

“It’s our account. As in, all of us. Do I really need to remind you again that you’re not a one-man band? We got it done. It’s fine. They approved it, wrote us a bonus check, and we got it turned in on time to be in the trade magazines next month. And if that asshole thought he could stump us, we proved him wrong.”

“Solomon?”

“None other.”

“Bastard.”

“So, despite us cutting off your ability to micromanage, what do you think of the ad?”

He pauses, looking thoughtfully at his screen for a moment before he replies. I can tell he wants to find fault if for no other reason than to justify being upset, but I also know he isn’t going to find any, so I’m not surprised when he finally says, “It’s really nice. Worthy of the bonus check, I’d say."

"Thank you," I say, smiling, with the full knowledge that Brian doesn't hand down compliments like that very easily.

He's still studying the ad carefully, but I can see in his eyes and in his facial expression that he really does like it.

"Was this done by Christina?” he asks, still obviously deep in thought.

“Yep.”

“You know, we should really just fire the rest of the art department and let her do it all.” I know he’s joking, but he’s using that half-serious deadpan tone of voice that often scares the shit out of people who don’t know him as well as some of us do. I’m just about to fire back a joke of my own when he suddenly changes the subject. “By the way, I saw your boy toy last night at the bar, hitting on about a half-dozen different guys. Seems like he’s getting around.” He looks at me, quirking his eyebrow upward, and I can easily fill in the gaps with all of the things he’s not saying -- that he thinks Rich is some kind of manwhore who’s going to wind up giving me something. No worries about that anymore, I think to myself, even though it was never really a concern because I always protect myself; it’s why I carry condoms in my purse.

“Good for him,” I say, keeping my tone nonchalant. “Maybe he’ll have better luck finding a wife there.”

I tell Brian the whole sordid tale of what happened with Rich, and I try to ignore the ‘I-told-you-so’ smirk on his face that I can tell he’s trying to tamp down because he knows I’m pissed off.

“I was wondering why he kept shooting me dirty looks all night,” Brian says, followed by his trademark sardonic laugh. “I think he was paying more attention to me than he was to all of the guys he was cruising.”

“He probably blames you. Even though it’s no one’s fault but his own.”

“Well, it kind of is my fault.” Brian looks down at his desk and sighs. “You’ve been having to cover for me a lot lately. Not that I liked the guy, but if he made you happy, I don’t want to be the reason--”

“Brian, it’s fine.” I cut him off before he can get too far into this self-blame game he likes to play for things that aren’t really his fault. “He’s the one who opened his big, fat mouth and stuck his foot in it. You and I both know that if he wants kids and a family, I’m not the woman for him. And as for work, you cover for me, and I cover for you. We’re in this together. The clients are happy, and everything is fine. Now, let’s refocus your reign of terror on the absolute disaster that is the new Brown Athletics ad.”

I spend a few minutes redirecting Brian’s attention to what is quite possibly the worst piece of work I’ve ever seen our art department produce -- and for an established account, too -- until he’s all fired up and ready to threaten people with pink slips he’d never dream of actually handing out. But that’s just Brian -- on the surface, an intimidating bear of a boss, but underneath, someone who actually cares about his employees and would do anything for them.

And that’s exactly why I’ll never hesitate to do what needs to be done to help him out, even if it means long hours at the office and ridding myself of what would have no doubt turned out to be a toxic relationship. Because blood is thicker than water, and Brian’s not just my coworker, and he’s not just my friend. He’s family. Family takes care of each other.