10. SIERRA

CHAPTER 10

SIERRA

C onor doesn't get nervous before presentations, probably because they're nothing compared to playing in front of thousands of fans and haters. But for me, they're a big stinking deal. He answers some emails while we wait, and I'm doing breathing exercises that actually make me progressively freak out even more.

I let out a particularly shaky breath that makes him lift his eyes. His glasses sit a bit low on the bridge of his nose, which means I get the full blast of his pretty eyes. Not my own words.

"Are you really Sierra Fernandez or five shaky rabbits in a trench coat?"

My mouth twitches but I refuse to smile. "It's been five shaky rabbits all along. How are you so calm? If we don't get Richard's green light today, we can probably kiss the bonuses goodbye, forget the promotion."

"Oh, I'm not calm at all," he says in an even tone of voice, his hands deftly working the keyboard as he speaks. "I went to the barber and put on a legit dress shirt for this shit, what do you think?"

I blink slowly. To be honest, he usually dresses like such a jock for work—which is fine, this is a company of sports people. But somehow it hadn't clicked with me that he'd made extra effort today until this moment. His hair's a tad shorter and combed to perfection, with a nice little wave at the top and all. His beard's trimmed and edged; I can actually make out the shape of his square jaw now. I'm pretty sure his pristine white shirt is tailor made because they don't possibly make them for such wide shoulders and tiny waists.

I go as far as pulling away from the table and check out his legs. He's in maroon trousers that match his socks and dress boots. Turns out Conor Mahoney knows how to match his clothes.

"Wow."

"Right?" He smirks, attention still on his screen. "I figured if I look like a businessman, I can fool everyone into seeing me as one."

"Dress for the job you have and not the college you went to, and all that," I tease.

"Hey." He lifts his face to give me grumpy expression.

It makes me chuckle but the tension returns to my shoulders once the amusement ebbs away.

"Hey," Conor repeats in a different tone now. "Seriously, why are you like this? You're always so self-assured."

"The five bunnies are very good at manipulating the robot." I lean back against the chair and fold my arms, not caring if it wrinkles my red blouse. My logic wasn't too far from Conor's, except I figured if I looked festive I'd be able to more cheerfully deliver this pitch. "I think… I think I'm going to let you in on something about me."

His eyebrows rise. In a second, he's closing the lid of his laptop and pushing it aside.

"Never mind, I changed my mind."

Conor groans. "Oh, c'mon. I was excited to be part of the exclusive circle of trust. "

I bite my lip, completely thrown by that groan. Does he know how he sounds when he does it?

More importantly, that old woman at the fair was right. Conor's eyes may not seem special at a glance. Light brown and deep set, framed by unfairly long eyelashes. But they have a light in them that I haven't been able to face in the past. They're searching, which I took to mean he wanted to dig deep into my soul and carve out all my secrets. Now that I'm not running away from them, I wonder if he's just a naturally observant and curious person instead.

"I have this like, core hurt that I carry like a chip on my shoulder everywhere I go," I start saying, wringing the hem of my blouse under the table. "I mentioned I used to get bullied as a kid, remember?"

"Apology, hot chocolate." He smacks his forehead and squirms. "Wow, I'm absolute garbage. How did I gloss over that fact?"

"You didn't, I did—on purpose. I didn't want to dwell." I glance out the window at the gloomy landscape. The sky is grey with charged clouds that refuse to break apart, even though the bare tree branches below are rising up to embrace the onslaught. "But kids were pretty brutal about the fact that my dad was the school janitor, my mom a nail tech, and that I had an accent. So I made proving I was smarter than them my whole personality. It's why the concept of failing at the smallest thing turns me into an insufferable jerk."

His brow crashes like thunder and he starts cracking his knuckles. "Who hurt you? Just say the names and I'll drop by."

I yelp a quick laugh that devolves into blowing a raspberry. "Well… thanks. But I bet I'm the only one who has to work through this stuff."

"They should work through my fists." Conor sighs and drops his hands on the table. "But, Sierra, failure isn't so terrible. Trust me, I would know. "

For the first time, I note the self-deprecation in his expression and something in my chest twists painfully enough to make me gasp.

"Conor, you're not a?—"

Of course, that's when the door to the conference room opens. Richard strides in, whistling Deck the Halls in an extra jolly way.

"Alright, folks. Let's get the ball rolling, I only have fifteen minutes today." He takes a seat at the head of the table.

Conor tears his attention away from me and grabs his laptop again. This time he's the one hooked up to the system and he pulls up the new and updated presentation. SPORTY Christmas Olympics is no more, and is instead replaced by SPORTY Christmas Fair.

This time we give the presentation together. It was a natural byproduct of having spent all Wednesday together at the fair downtown, and then yesterday working on the package. Am I nervous that I'm not getting the full marks on my own? Yes. But I truly didn't do this by myself.

Besides, a single presentation won't make or break my case for the promotion. I suspect that the day of the event will be the decisive factor.

Whenever it's Conor's turn to talk, I observe Richard for any negative signs, but the man is a vault. It works great when he's faced with customers or suppliers, but it's driving me up the wall right now. My voice wavers a bit when I mention words like nostalgia and competitive spirit as I deliver the closer for the pitch.

"And that's it. What do you think?" I stretch my lips into what I hope is a happy smile, and not an I'm-barely-containing-my-barf cringe.

"Hmm." Richard swivels in his chair to face away from the screen and back to Conor and I, sitting side by side across from him. "I'm a bit disappointed?— "

I'm dying. This is what dying feels like.

"—That the Olympics theme isn't there, but this does sound fun." Slowly, Richard's mask cracks to let excitement through. "Oh, man. It's almost a shame it's only going to be for adults. My kids would love this idea."

I'm alive again. I can breathe.

Conor leans forward. "So we're a go?"

"Well, almost. There's just one thing I wasn't clear about." I grip the edge of the table as Richard makes a pause. "What about the venue?"

"Right." My coworker taps his fingertips against the table surface. "There's a bit of a problem about that."

"Money's not an issue." Richard shrugs.

I bite back what I really want to say, which is that maybe he shouldn't have tasked us with this so late in the year. I keep quiet because the actual problem isn't even that.

"Ice skating is a big activity in the event," Conor says with his business voice. "And there's only one ice rink in Mapleton."

Richard asks, "Is it booked already?"

"No, I know for a fact that it's not booked because it's my grandfather's."

When the issue doesn't seem to be computing for Richard, I explain, "It could be seen as a conflict of interest."

Richard hums while in thought. "But it's also a single-source option. Let me talk with Martin and see what he thinks. If he doesn't go for it, you'll have to eliminate the ice skating activity from the event."

"Roger that."

"In the meantime, you have the green light. Full press court. The whole nine yards. If you need to work remotely to organize everything and keep the secrets, do it. And use your corporate credit cards if vendors aren't setup already." He smacks the table once and stands up, leaving without further ado .

The stress leaves my body and I deflate.

Conor elbows me. "See? We nailed it."

"Well, not quite. We haven't solved the issue of the venue yet."

"But at least we can start spending." He closes his laptop and grabs his coffee mug with the logo of his former pro hockey team.

I push off the table. "But where are we going to put all the stuff if we have to keep it hush hush from literally the entire building?"

"I have a big shed," Conor says as he pushes the door open with his shoulder. "I'll text you the address and you can start dropping stuff over whenever you want."

With that plan, we split off to start collecting all the junk we'll need.

*

Something about filling the back of my truck with assorted Christmas stuff has finally let it sink in. This is happening. The ten thousand dollar bonus is sure-fire now. Even if I don't get the promotion, it means I don't have to cancel the reservation for Grammie's flight over for Christmas. All I have to do is break the news now.

I honk from the parking lot of the wretched high school I attended, which is still Dad's workplace. This is as far as I get every time I have to drop him off and pick him up after work, and Dad knows the routine. Not even a minute later, he's walking out at a hurried pace and gets in the passenger's seat.

"How was work today, mija?" Dad asks as he puts on his seatbelt.

I dance a little in my seat. "I have great news."

"?Sí? ?Qué pasó? "

"Nope, you have to wait until we're home and call Grammie too."

Dad huffs. "Unfair. You shouldn't have hinted at it if you weren't going to share."

"It's because I'm so excited! But first, let's get out of this horrible place so I can be properly happy."

Fortunately, the drive home from here is pretty short. Unfortunately, Dad spends the entire time trying to get what the big news is out of me.

"Did you get a big project?"

I crank up the volume of the music even higher.

He dials it back down. "Is it a boy?"

I look away because hell no.

"Are they finally making you CEO of the whole place?"

I snort because I wish.

The lights inside the house are on, which makes sense because Mom's shift at the salon ended like half an hour ago and she takes the bus back and forth. I'm the one who usually drives the truck because SPORTY 's building is clear across the other side of town.

"Susana," Dad calls out when we walk in. "Break out the champagne because Sierra has a big announcement to make."

"Dad, please." I laugh as we wrestle with removing our winter wear at the entrance together.

"There's no champagne," Mom says back from the kitchen while banging some pot or pan. "We might still have some Cacique, though." That's the favorite brand of Venezuelan rum for the Fernandez family and I'm not opposed to a sip.

"Okay but first, we need to call Grammie. And let's hope the connection works this time."

I rush into the kitchen with my work bag and take out my laptop. It smells like Mom is working on some stew and I fire up my laptop as my stomach croaks .

I wrinkle my nose at the kissy sounds behind me. "Ew, your daughter is here, you guys."

"Don't be jealous." Mom drops a quick kiss on my head. "I promise I won't say ew when you bring a guy home and kiss him."

"No, I bet you'd say worse things," I mumble too low for her to hear. In the meantime, I click on the messaging system and start to call Grammie.

After a first attempt that fails, Dad asks, "Did you give her a heads up that you were calling? It could be she's not available."

"I did. I texted her on Whatsapp earlier and she said she'd be around." I press the call button again with a bit too much strength. It makes my finger hurt.

I lean forward, glaring at the calling logo until it changes. It goes green for a second and then there she is. My grandma.

"Sierrita," she says in a choppy voice. Her face is wrinkled but smiley, and her eyes have that arch they get when they're happy. "Que Dios te bendiga." Every conversation with an elder starts that way, with a blessing. I can't wait until she gives it to me in person.

"Grammie, tengo noticias." I can see my parents leaning over me through the tiny thumbnail that shows us. Our image is crystal clear compared to how grainy Grammie's is, but it doesn't matter. In three weeks she'll be crystal clear and 3D.

"?Qué?" she asks, leaning closer to the phone until we can see her ear.

Dad chuckles and I elbow him to stop. "Que tengo noticias," I repeat, take a deep breath, and finally spill the beans. "Me están dando un bono en el trabajo y te voy a poder traer para acá para navidad!"

I open my hands in a surprise gesture and look up at my parents. They're both looking at each other .

"?Qué pasa?" I ask, confused when no one is bursting into cheers and hollers.

"Ay mija," Grammie says with a sigh. "Me encantaría pero es que estos días no me siento muy bien."

"What do you mean you don't feel well?" I shake my head to shake my cables back in place.

"Grammie's hypertension has been getting worse," Mom explains to me, caressing my hair.

"But she can get treatment here."

"Honey, that would be too expensive for us." Dad presses his lips tight. "We can't afford it."

"Well, I can. The bonus is ten thousand dollars." When they grow silent, Grammie asks for a translation and I comply.

Only for her to throw an unexpected curveball at me. "Sierrita, no quiero que uses to dinero en mí."

My eyes bulge. From the beginning, this money has been labelled as to be used for Grammie, and not for me.

"Didn't you say you want to rent your own place?" Mom asks with a little smile. "That way you don't have to keep putting up with your yucky kissing parents."

"No." I blink at her, at Dad, then at Grammie. "No. All along I've been working so hard to see Grammie. This is happening. I'll fly her over and pay for her treatment. Case closed."

"But—"

"Grammie, ya hice la reserva de tu ticket. Te lo envío por email en la noche," I say to her. To my parents, I mumble. "I'm going to go change."

My heart hammers in my throat as I walk out of the kitchen, and not in the way I expected this night to go. Both of my parents knew about Grammie's worsening condition and hadn't told me. I knew she wasn't doing well in general and that's why I hatched this whole plan. But for the first time I start really contemplating the possibility not just of not being able to see her this Christmas, but of not being able to ever again.