He looks like he’s about to grab some balloons too when Brynn calls him over. “Howard!” she shouts across the room. “Get your ass over here and come have one of these lame-ass vodka drinks you made me make.”

I guess Brynn likes to get extra creative when she does a gig outside of HERS and wanted to explore her creativity during this event. So, when she invited Quinton over to her and Maxwell’s house for dinner and a cocktail tasting (something I was HIGHLY upset not to be included in) and he told her he thought they’d just have wine and maybe a vodka tonic (his drink of choice apparently), she did not handle it well. I feel like she’s already super creative at HERS. But when she was telling me the story, she seemed super annoyed and I didn’t want to get yelled at, so I kept my opinion to myself.

This resulted in her forcing me to sample cocktails too, because much to Maxwell’s dismay, she decided to ignore Quinton and do what she wanted. Which is why she told me she’d be handing him a cocktail when he came in and breaking the news to him that way. Wasted effort because I’m ninety-nine percent sure he doesn’t care one way or another.

“Do you boss Maxwell around like this? Or am I just special?” he yells back before dropping his backpack by my feet and heading her way.

“Oh, trust me, Maxwell loves it when I boss him around,” she says loud and proud and for everyone around us to hear.

“Oh my god,” Hannah—poor, sweet, innocent Hannah—gasps from beside me, her cheeks no longer rosy and instead fire-engine red as Quinton’s deep laughter fades away as he crosses the room.

I’m holding the string like she instructed, but I’m still afraid it’s going to pop in my hand. “Sorry about that, not the most professional setting,” I apologize in hopes of getting her moving.

“Right!” She claps, no doubt still trying to erase the last five minutes from her memory. “Let’s get working.”

Carefully, Hannah and I weave through the different vendors walking around and setting up. By the time we make it to the front, my nerves are tattered and driblets of sweat I’ve been too afraid to swipe are trickling down the back of my neck, but no balloons have popped. Also, it has diverted me fully from any future career switch to anything revolving around balloons. So, wins all around!

“Thanks for your help.” Hannah—who I’m pretty sure is not thankful for my help, and is just relieved that my anxiety will no longer be rubbing off on her—waves me off as her assistant takes my place beneath the balloons.