To hell with it. I pull the cocktail over and take a long sip while I stuff my childhood insecurities back inside their mental lockbox. Blueberries and vodka with a tang of lemon bursts on my tongue. “Work’s been stressful lately,” I tell her.

“Shocker.”

“I’m up for a promotion. It’s why they’re sending me on this Galápagos cruise, and I—”

“What?” she chokes, finally tearing her attention away from the bartender. “Oh my God, Henley, that’s great news!”

“But this guy I work with is up for it too.”

Narrowing her eyes, she nods. “Hmmm, I see. Competition.”

“Exactly. And he’s… he’s…” I make a strangled sound. “He’s our social media manager. He lives in Michigan. And he’s the worst. Remember Sean, that guy I used to work with at Prima Health?”

“The one you banged and then he—”

“Bzzzt! We don’t need to rehash it. But yeah, this guy—Graeme—he’s basically Sean 2.0. But without the banging.” I shake my head hard to dispel that nauseating image. “I even had a meeting with our boss today and he listened in on speakerphone, on the sly, to our entire conversation. Then I get a voice mail from him after the fact that’s practically psychological warfare.”

“You shouldn’t take that.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“You need to show him what a badass boss bitch you are.”

I smack the bar top. “Yes!”

“You should call him.”

“Yeah—w-what?”

Walsh waves me on. “Call him. Tell him you’re onto him. Let him know he can’t intimidate you.”

The thought of telling Graeme off has me all jittery like I’ve guzzled a pot of coffee.

“There are men out there who think they’re entitled to everything…” She trails off, her expression darkening. I don’t think she’s talking about Graeme anymore. She tosses her head. “What are this guy’s qualifications anyway?”

“I don’t know, he has a dick and so does our boss?”

“We can’t let the dickholes win.”

“Down with the dickholes.”

“Cheers to that.” She clinks her glass against mine and we both drink. After several gulps, I lick the sugar from my lips. My head’s starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy. Like an angora sweater. Or one of those fluffy ponies… Sheepland? Shetland?

“What are you waiting for?” Walsh blurts. “Go! Confront him. Now.”

The bartender appears and lines up four shot glasses in front of us, filling each one with light green liquid from a shaker. I slide open my phone and a notification from my to-do app pops up.

Task #1: Defeat Graeme Crawford-Collins.

A sense of righteous certainty wraps around my lungs. Pushing away from the bar, I return a second later, snatch the closest shot, and toss its contents into my mouth. Fire burns my throat. “I’ll be back,” I wheeze.