Emma picked up the teapot right away and came over to pour me a cup.
“Mari, you've worked so hard.”
“Rod told me that when you were closing this project, you were incredible. Said your alcohol tolerance was amazing, that you even drank Mr. Lambert under the table.”
“If it had been me, I definitely would've blown the whole deal.”
Then she turned to Mr. Lambert：
“Mr. Lambert, I'm still young, and I'm sure I have a lot to learn about client relations. I hope you'll be patient with me going forward.”
She gave him a shy little glance.
It worked. Mr. Lambert beamed：
“Oh, no no no—a girl your age shouldn't be out drinking with clients.”
“Leave that sort of thing to Marilyn.”
“She's experienced, she can hold her liquor. She's perfect for it.”
My fingers tightened around the teacup, nails digging into my palm.
I knew exactly what she meant.
I was used up, past it—good for nothing except pouring drinks and laughing on cue to land a contract. And she was young and pretty, so all she had to do was pout and everything fell into her lap.
The old me would have thrown that teacup in her face.
But I was an adult now. I swallowed it, all the humiliation, teeth and all.
I took a deep breath, picked up my chopsticks, and reached for the dishes.
That was when Emma walked over carrying a glass of juice.
“Mari, I can't drink because of my health, so I poured you some juice too. Try it, it's really sweet.”
As she said it, her hand tilted. The entire glass of juice splashed down the front of my white blouse.
“Oh no! I'm so sorry!”
She let out a little shriek, grabbing napkins and dabbing at me in a frantic mess.
“I swear I didn't mean to—Mari, don't be mad at me, okay?”
“I'm just so clumsy.”
She pressed hard enough to leave my blouse wrinkled and ruined, a wide yellow stain soaking across my chest.
The light makeup I'd carefully put on was smeared too.
Rod finally looked up.
For a second, I thought maybe he wasn't so far gone that he couldn't say one fair thing.
But Emma coughed twice, pressed a hand to her chest：
“I feel awful……I can't really breathe.”
Rod was on his feet immediately, at her side, holding her arm, his voice full of concern：
“What's wrong? Is your asthma acting up again?”
“Let me take you outside for some air.”
He slipped off his suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
Then he guided her out without looking back.
Not once. Not a single glance at me.
The private dining room went dead quiet, nothing left but the low hum of the air conditioning, and I looked down at the ugly yellow stain on my blouse and laughed.
Three years ago. Same kind of client drinking session. Same Mr. Lambert.
I'd downed close to a full bottle of hard liquor, my stomach turning itself inside out, cold sweat running down my back from the pain.
I grabbed Rod's sleeve, my voice shaking, and begged him to take me to the hospital first.
All he did was pull a wad of tissues and a disposable mask from his pocket and push them into my hand.
“Hang in there a little longer, Marilyn.”
“Mr. Lambert's flying out of the country tomorrow. If we miss this negotiation, we'll never get another shot.”
“Just go to the restroom, get it out of your system, put the mask on, and come back. Nobody's going to notice.”
And I listened to him. I actually listened.
I hid in a bathroom stall and threw up until there was nothing left but bile.
Then I splashed water on my face, put on the mask, and went back to the table.
I held it together until the contract was signed. Then everything went black.
When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed.
The doctor said if I'd come in any later, I would have burned a hole straight through my stomach.
Back then I'd told myself it was fine. He was doing it for our future.
But now I finally understood.
It was never that the work mattered too much.
It was that I mattered too little.
