“So, she said I probably wouldn’t get promoted as quickly because I’m female,” I said. “It took her eight years to get to her position and it apparently took the men that started where she did hardly five years. Can you believe it?”
He nodded and shrugged.
“Sure, I can. It’s not much different at the bank,” he said. “Women pretty much seem to stay in the bottom positions.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I said, just like I had during my conversation with Sarah. “I wish I could do something about it.”
“You don’t have any proof,” he said. “You can’t sue without proof.”
He pulled out his phone as it buzzed in his pocket, and replied to a text message without looking at me.
“I don’t want to sue anyone,” I snapped. “I just want to get the promotions I work for before I die of old age.”
He shrugged. “That sucks,” he said. “You’ve said all this before, though, you know? When that guy got a raise last month and you didn’t. Maybe you’re just not working as hard as they are.”
I gasped in outrage.
“You’ve heard me talk about how much I work since we met,” I said.
“You left work an hour early to primp for a date,” he said. “I didn’t. Maybe the men who are getting promoted ahead of you don’t, either.”
“I get to work at least two hours early every morning,” I said. “I stay an hour or two late almost every day. I haven’t taken a single sick day since I started. I got off one hour early, one time, because I fell in cow shit, and you say I don’t deserve a promotion as much as a man does?”
“Does that man get there three hours early?” he asked. His brown eyes were expressionless.
“I’m the first one to the office every morning,” I said. “I put in more hours than anyone else there. Everyone knows it. Everyone has commented on it.”
“Maybe you’re just not efficient enough,” he challenged. “Why do you have to spend that much time there to do your job?”
“I do my job and I do the work of another entire employee,” I ground out. “I’m efficient and I put in a lot of hours.
I couldn’t believe that he was doing this, talking so casually as he revealed that he didn’t have faith in my job.
“I work myself to the bone for that office and I deserve a promotion, and a raise, and I deserve it sooner than any of the men in that place!” I snapped.
He grinned at me, and I glared in confusion.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s how you need to be when you go get your raise. March in them and tell them they’d need to hire two people to take your place, and you deserve extra money.”
“What the hell?” I asked, still upset. “Don’t do that to me!”
He held up his hands, ingratiatingly. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “You want a boyfriend, not a business coach. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I glared at him.
“Of course they’re sexist, of course it’s terrible, of course you deserve a promotion,” he said. “You care more about that job than anything else in your life. You’re amazing at it, you work incredibly hard. If you worked at the bank, I’d promote you like a shot.”
I eyed him, but I was softening.
“Promise you’ll never torment me like that again?” I asked.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said. “How can I make it up to you?”
“Ice cream would be a good start,” I said, cracking a smile.
He signaled for the check. “Can we get this boxed up?” he asked the waiter. “We have to go buy some ice cream.”
The poor man hardly blinked, and carried the rest of our food back to the kitchen.