Dallas

I smiled. Sweat beading up on both of our foreheads from the thick, humid Texas evening. We drove into Dallas proper to a bar I can’t recall. Marty was already there, glass in hand.

Jimmy left before I did. He put in his two weeks notice in, but they didn’t make him work it. They never do when you go to a competitor. The office felt a little less lively once he left, but we still continued to meet for lunch on a regular basis. We would always text one another to meet at one of our favorite spots, usually the Deli on 3rd & Thomas. He usually beat me there, and would grab a table.

“Hello, my dear.” He would wrap his arms around me and hug me a beat longer than necessary. I would pretend not to notice.

We would sit and catch each other up on life, and the mutual friends we each had at either company. One day, as we were wrapping up our usual time together he paused. “Bill needs a new Director of Ops. If you’re interested, I’ll set up a lunch.”

I considered it for a moment, and said, “Can he pay me?”

“Have lunch and we’ll see.” He said frankly.

A week later we met at a well-known Mexican place in downtown Phoenix called Macayo’s. Jimmy was already there, and seated with Bill. I approached the table. Bill stood to greet me and immediately I noticed he was very tall, and broad-shouldered. Younger than I expected. Brown hair and brown eyes. He was wearing his signature company polo shirt with his logo on it. He had a kind smile. We made introductions.

“You have an accent!” He exclaimed.

“You have an accent!” I answered.

I told him I was originally from Western North Carolina, and he told me that he was from Dallas, Texas.

“So not really the south then?” I teased.

“How can you say that?!” He leaned in closely.

“Texas was not a part of the original 13 colonies. Its addition as a Southern State was an afterthought. Charity, really.”

He laughed and grabbed my arm, “You do want the job, right?”

We slipped into sync more quickly than either of us would acknowledge, talking over Jimmy as if he wasn’t the one who brought me there. Joking. Discussing the merits of Wild Turkey and Bombay Sapphire, and arguing which occasions were best suited for each.

A week later I had an appointment with the cardiologist that I had forgotten, but I was still able to make it work. Although, showing up to a cardiologist dressed for a job interview was more than impractical. Nonetheless, they got what they wanted, and I headed to downtown to meet the team. I had decided on a pencil skirt, a green cardigan and a silk scarf that had complementary colors. Every time I’ve ever had an interview, or important event I always wore the same “lucky earrings”, a pair of Marc Jacobs studs in white gold. Sensible. No nonsense.

Maryann, the receptionist, met me in the lobby. She was probably in her late 70s, and impossibly thin, with large glasses. Her voice was sweeter than buttermilk pie. I liked her immediately. She didn’t have to walk me back because Bill approached with a beaming smile and leveraged his size to fill up the room.
”Welcome!” He told me.

I nodded.

“This way.”

I followed.

I walked into Bill’s office, which was large enough to house his desk and a large meeting area at once. Two men were seated at the table. An older man, thin, with a bubbly personality. His name was Jay. The other was a blonde, and reminded me of a fair-haired version of Aaron Rodgers (which would later be ironic because I would learn he was from Wisconsin). His name was Matt. We had a long meeting. I answered a lot of questions. We went over my resume in detail. They quizzed me on specific goals they had, and how I would achieve them. Matt did not seem convinced, or he was just very self contained. Jay was the opposite. He looked at Bill and said, “Can we have her start next week!?”

I would learn that that’s how this team worked: Bill, the optimist with swagger, Matt the skeptic, and Jay the excitable idealist. I rounded out their team as the strong-headed bulldozer. The one who said the things that they all avoided, and took the hit for it.

“It pisses me off that I hold accountability for you, and you don’t give clarity. You like the ambiguity.” My knee is bouncing up and down as I sit across from Bill.

He leans across the table and locks eyes with me, “You know that it doesn’t matter how mad anyone gets. I support you. I don’t care who you piss off.”

“I just don’t have the relational equity you have. Some of these people I’ve never even met.” I sit back in my chair and rub my neck.

Still leaned in, he doesn’t miss a beat, “We’ll go next week. To Dallas. You can meet everyone there. Hell, you can meet Gene and Doris.” He smiled.

Gene and Doris were Bill’s parents. Rich, Dallas folks who infused the company with cash whenever we found an investment that seemed worthy. In my case, my pet project, software development. They needed to like me.

“I’ll book the tickets.” He promised.

The next week Doris picked us both up from Dallas Fort Worth airport. I got into the SUV with my luggage amongst file boxes, and various containers with all kinds of things organized. “I live in my car.” She smiled. She looked like a first lady, all pearls and perfect hair. She was kind, but very poised. She reminded me of my Granny, the one who kept all the balls in the air for my grandfather, Bill. My palms got slightly sweaty as she drove us to Bill’s dad’s tire shop for us to get a car. They all have some kind of strange idiosyncrasy. In fact, all of our company cars were courtesy of Gene. So we had the Explorer whose gas gauge didn’t work, and Maroon 5 (our nickname for a maroon dodge truck) that tended to overheat.

Gene hugged me with no preamble. He was shorter than Bill. Much shorter, but incredibly handsome. Not for his age. He was handsome. He winked at me and said, “We’ll have dinner tonight and share a cookie over on Stacey Road.” He had that Texan drawl that Bill only used when he was trying to get what he wanted. And he wasn’t kidding. He took us to eat at a Mexican restaurant called Uncle Julio’s. It was upscale. We had quail and tequila. Afterward, Bill leaned over and whispered, “My best friend Marty is meeting us after we finish here.”

I nodded, a little buzzed from tequila. Gene Walked us to the door, and handed Bill his keys. “You guys can take the Jag, just drop it home tomorrow after you wake up. I’ll take the loaner.”

Bill led me to a dark green Jag, light grey interior. He opened my door. I slid into the passenger seat, breathing in Gene’s cologne and the scent of leather. A little intoxicating. Also hot. Bill had to move the seat back before getting in, to accommodate the height difference with Gene. He buckled his seatbelt and grinned at me, “Marty is a trip, you’re gonna love him.”

I smiled. Sweat beading up on both of our foreheads from the thick, humid Texas evening. We drove into Dallas proper to a bar I can’t recall. Marty was already there, glass in hand. The bar was stark and modern. Very white. I attempted to order a glass of red wine, but was informed by Marty that we would be drinking Wild Turkey tonight. Bill shrugged. Marty informed us that he was divorcing his second wife because she was “fucking crazy”, and that he was going to join Gene at the tire shop for employment in the next week. After several more drinks, we stumbled to the car.

“I wrecked my parent’s last Jag”, he told me opening my door again.

“Please don’t wreck this one until after you drop me off.” I smiled.

He leaned into the roof of the car laughing over me, which sent me into my own fit of giggles. We stopped laughing at the same time, eyes meeting briefly. Dallas traffic hummed around us, the heat sticking to the leather, crickets faintly threading through the evening. I leaned back in the seat, letting the pause exist without labeling it. He straightened, closed my door, and the world outside continued on as if nothing had happened. I didn’t try to define it, and there was no need to. It was simply a moment. That night in Dallas didn’t resolve anything, and it didn’t need to. The heat clung to the leather seats, the crickets stitched through the humid dark, and for a suspended beat we just looked at each other no labels, no definitions, no rush to name what was shifting.

I had stepped into that company as the strong-headed bulldozer, the one willing to say the uncomfortable truths and take the hit. But somewhere between the Jag’s humid interior and the weeks that followed the late-night builds, the heated meetings where Bill still said “I support you” even when I pissed everyone off, I realized the work and the people were never going to be cleanly separable. The accountability we demanded of each other, the swagger and skepticism and idealism we balanced, and these lingering, unlabeled moments…they were all part of the same exhilarating, slightly dangerous package.

Some connections announce themselves with fireworks. Ours started with a pause in a borrowed Jaguar, the kind of small spark that rewires how you show up, how you trust, and how you move through the world afterward. I still don’t try to define it. Some things are better left to unfold, one charged lunch, one team meeting, one humid Texas night at a time.