Off Script

The numbers on my screen blurred together, shifting in and out of focus until they meant nothing. Outside, clouds cast restless shadows across the Financial District's glass towers. I adjusted the formulas. Rechecked the data. It didn't matter. None of it did.

"Todd, I can take a look at the model and--"

Todd barely looked up from his phone, idly spinning a stress ball. "Yeah, don't worry about it, Harris. It's covered."

I hesitated. "I worked on similar models back in Columbus--"

"You're still getting up to speed," he sighed, cutting me off with the ease of someone who'd mastered doing nothing. "Let the team handle it."

The team. As if I wasn't part of it. As if I hadn't been watching deals happen from the sidelines for weeks, waiting for a chance to prove myself.

Todd's phone buzzed, and his attention snapped away from me completely. "Shit, gotta take this," he muttered, already lifting it to his ear. "Yeah? No, tell them we're pushing the deck to tomorrow." A pause. Then a dry chuckle. "Yeah, well, if they wanted it today, they should've staffed better." He leaned back in his chair, grinning at whatever response he got. "That's their problem, not mine."

I caught a glimpse of his computer screen as he spun lazily in his chair--fantasy football stats, not the financial models he claimed needed his immediate attention. I lingered for a half-second longer than I should have, waiting for him to remember I was standing there. He didn't. A month ago, I would have slunk back to my desk, convinced I'd somehow deserved the dismissal.

The jackhammers from the construction site across the street matched the frustration pounding in my skull as I walked back to my desk. The merger proposal I'd hoped to help analyze sat untouched on Jeff's desk down the hall while Todd hadn't looped me into a single meaningful project in weeks. Something had to change. And for the first time, I felt ready to do something about it.

I pressed my fingers against my temples, frustration buzzing beneath my skin. Emma's voice echoed in my head: "You're spinning your wheels, Matt. You're better than this."

The words hit differently now, carrying the weight of truth I'd been avoiding. She'd seen it from the beginning--how I kept waiting for someone to notice my potential instead of demanding the chance to prove it. Each night at the bar, between pours and conversations, she'd been quietly challenging me to want more, to be more.

Maybe, for the first time, I was ready to listen.

The same determination I'd seen in her eyes when she talked about her writing--that unwavering belief in what she could accomplish--stirred something in my chest. She was right. I was better than this. And it was time to stop waiting for someone else to recognize it.

I needed perspective from someone who actually gave a damn about doing good work, not just coasting. And I knew exactly who could help me change things.

Chris was the closest thing I had to a friend in the office, and one of the few people there I genuinely respected. Unlike me, he worked under Jeff, a Senior Manager known for developing his team. While Jeff had put Chris on a high-profile Debt Structuring Model--work with real stakes, real clients, and real learning opportunities--Todd had me tweaking font sizes on investor memos. Hardly the kind of work that mattered.

Through the glass walls, I saw Chris returning to his office, sleeves pushed up, brow furrowed--clearly fresh from another deep-dive session with Jeff. I waited a few minutes before pushing back from my desk and knocking on his doorframe.

Chris looked up from his laptop, his usual collected presence somehow making even exhaustion look intentional. Dark hair slightly disheveled from what I assumed were hours of running calculations, he had the kind of natural confidence that made his wrinkled navy dress shirt and pushed-up sleeves look more considered than casual. Behind thin black-framed glasses, his expression shifted from deep concentration to mild amusement.

He glanced at his screen, then back at me. "Got a minute?" I asked.

He sighed and leaned back, stretching. "For you, Harris? I suppose I can spare a few seconds of my valuable time."

I stepped inside, glancing at his screen. Complex formulas and debt waterfalls filled his monitor--real analysis, the kind that actually moved deals forward. The kind of work I should be doing, the kind I'd been doing before taking what was starting to feel like a step backward.

"Busy?"

He snorted. "If you mean, 'trying to solve a debt structuring nightmare that'll probably make or break a deal,' then yeah, a little. But if you mean, 'copy-pasting numbers into PowerPoint slides that no one will ever read,' then no, that's your department."

I winced, but appreciated the honesty. It reminded me of Emma's directness, how refreshing it was to talk to someone who didn't dance around the truth. I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Yeah, thanks for the reminder."

Chris shut his laptop halfway, giving me his full attention. "Alright, what's up?"

I hesitated for a second, then just went for it. "I could use your insight on something. And I'm willing to buy you a drink in exchange."

Chris tapped his fingers against his desk, considering. "Alright, I'll bite. Where we going?"

"The Dead Rabbit."

He shrugged. "I know it's supposed to be great, just never made it over."

"Well, consider this your introduction," I said, pushing off the doorframe.

Chris's lips curled. "Fine, but you're buying."

"Yeah, yeah. See you after work."

Walking back to my desk, I felt lighter somehow. Maybe it was having a plan, or maybe it was just knowing I wasn't going to sit quietly anymore. Either way, it felt like a step in the right direction.

I was shutting down my computer when Chris appeared at my desk, jacket slung over his shoulder. "Ready?"

I grabbed mine off the back of my chair. "Yeah, let's get out of here."

The October air had an edge that hinted at winter as we stepped onto Water Street. The contrast between modern glass towers and colonial buildings reminded me of what Emma had said about New York--how it was a city of contradictions, where history and progress existed in the same breath.

Inside The Dead Rabbit, the bar hummed with its usual energy--dim lights, dark wood, the warm buzz of conversation filling the space. Chris took it in, nodding with approval. "Alright, I like this. It's got character."

Emma was already there, Buffalo Trace in hand, her blue eyes meeting mine with quiet warmth before flicking to Chris, reading him in that careful way she always did.

Chris stilled mid-motion as Emma came into view.

Chris leaned against the bar, surveying the place. "Yeah, okay. I see why you come here."

Emma smirked, pouring my usual without asking. Chris watched the exchange, then nodded approvingly. "Good taste."

"Chris works under Jeff," I explained. "One of the few people at the office who actually knows what he's doing."

Emma glanced between us, then let her gaze linger on Chris just a second longer. I recognized that look--she was already filing away details for her notebook.

"So," she said, tucking the bottle away, "what brings you two here? Work bonding?"

"More like me realizing I'm wasting my time at this job," I admitted.

Emma's lips quirked. "I'd feel bad for you, but after watching you spend an hour debating whether an Old Fashioned should have a sugar cube or simple syrup..."

Chris chuckled. "That's how you spend your time? Debating cocktail details?"

"That and watching Matt order a second whiskey like it's a life-altering decision," Emma said, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Chris shook his head, sipping his drink. "Yeah, okay. I get it now."

Emma turning her full attention to Chris. "And what about you? What will you have? Let me guess--Old Fashioned, no sugar cube, just a splash of simple syrup. And... military?"

Chris, who had been relaxed, straightened just slightly. It wasn't much--just the barest flicker of something in his posture--but Emma caught it. She always did. He smirked, "What gave it away?"

Emma shrugged, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges of her expression. "You carry yourself like someone who's had discipline drilled into them. Straight posture, controlled movements. Plus, you scanned the room when you walked in--twice. First for exits, then for threats. Habit like that doesn't come from banking."

Chris exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "Four years in the Marines. Not bad. I'll admit it. I'm impressed. Most people just assume I work in finance and leave it at that."

Emma wiped down the bar, her expression thoughtful. "People are more than their jobs. You can always tell when someone's lived a little before they ended up behind a desk."

There was a pause--a beat where Chris seemed to consider her words, "Yeah," he said simply. "Guess you can."

The respect in his tone was subtle, but it was there. I could see it--the shift in how he looked at her now, the way he recognized that Emma wasn't just some bartender handing out drinks. She saw people. Understood them in ways they didn't even understand themselves.

And if she could do that with Chris--what the hell had she already figured out about me?

Chris gave a slow nod. "Yeah, okay, I get it now. The vibe, the drinks, the--" He gestured subtly toward Emma. "All makes sense."

I let him hang there for a moment, enjoying the setup.

"Chris, meet Emma properly. My girlfriend."

The word landed like a bomb.

Chris had been holding his composure like a seasoned pro, but that statement broke him completely. His head snapped toward me so fast I was surprised he didn't get whiplash.

"Your--wait, what?" He turned to Emma, then back to me, then back to Emma again, like his brain was buffering. "You're dating him?"

Emma raised an eyebrow, glancing at me with amusement. The warm light caught the blue of her eyes, making them almost stormy. "You didn't tell him?"

I shrugged, taking another sip of my whiskey. "Never came up."

Emma leaned closer, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Your friend looks like he's trying to solve a complex equation."

"Well, the math is pretty simple--two months in New York plus one terrible job shouldn't equal a gorgeous girlfriend. Even I'm still trying to figure that one out." The confidence in my voice surprised me.

The facade of playful indifference cracked for just a moment--long enough for me to catch the genuine warmth beneath it--before she recovered, reaching beneath the bar for something. Instead of another bottle, though, she pulled out a worn leather notebook, adding a quick note before turning back to mixing drinks.

Chris caught the movement. "What's that about?"

Emma's smile turned enigmatic as she tucked the notebook away. "Writer's habit. Never know when you'll find a good story."

Chris leaned forward, clearly intrigued. "What kind of stories?"

"People reveal themselves at bars," she said, gesturing subtly around the room. "All these little moments, these intersections of lives--they become something else on paper." Her eyes sparkled with that passion I'd come to know so well. "Like that group by the window--notice how they're arranged? The body language alone tells you everything about their office dynamics."

Chris followed her gaze, then shook his head, impressed. "You get all your inspiration here?"

"Some." Emma's smile turned knowing. "Though sometimes the best stories walk right up to the bar, trying to play it cool while practically vibrating with unspoken words." She shot me a meaningful look. "Like someone coming in with a colleague, clearly building up to something important."

Chris let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Damn. She's good."

"You have no idea," I said, watching Emma add another note to her book.

She shot me one last glance--the kind that held entire conversations--before moving down the bar to take another order. The quiet confidence in her movements reminded me of how far we'd both come, how naturally we'd fallen into this rhythm together.

"Alright, Matt. Let's get to it. What's the play here? You looking for an exit, or do you actually want to make this job work?"

The whiskey had started to warm my chest, loosening the knot of frustration I'd been carrying. "I came here ready to prove myself. Instead, I'm watching deals happen from the sidelines, formatting documents nobody reads. In Columbus, I was building models that mattered--real work, real deals, real experience. But Todd doesn't even seem to know I exist half the time unless he needs something pointless done. I feel like I'm just... there. Like I could disappear tomorrow, and it wouldn't make a damn difference."

Chris inclined his head, like he wasn't even a little surprised. "Yeah, that tracks."

I frowned, setting my glass down. "What do you mean?"

Down the bar, I caught Emma glancing our way between customers, her expression thoughtful. She'd been the one to first point out that my frustration wasn't just about the work--it was about knowing I was capable of more and choosing not to demand it.

Chris exhaled. "Todd hoards headcount. Complains about being understaffed so he can't be blamed for inefficiencies. You're just cover."

I frowned. "So, I'm filler?"

Chris nodded. "Rotations like yours? Perfect excuse to keep an extra body without real work. And then after you leave you become the scapegoat"

The words settled in my chest like a weight, then spread outward, making my fingers tighten around the glass, my jaw clench with recognition. I wasn't overlooked--I was convenient. A placeholder. And worse? I'd let it happen.

Late nights, rechecking formulas, hoping someone would notice. Meetings where I tried to speak up, only to be brushed aside. I clenched my jaw, gripping my glass a little too tightly. This wasn't just about Todd. This was about me.

I was the guy who had walked into New York thinking I'd prove myself. Who had told himself he was going to make something of this. But when things got stagnant, when I got pushed aside, I hadn't fought. I had let Todd dictate my worth when he passed me over for a project, I was more than ready for.

Todd didn't make me invisible. I let him.

But I wasn't that guy anymore. Not after Emma. Not after realizing I wanted more. And if Emma could see that, why the hell couldn't I?

Chris tilted his head. "You good, man?"

I exhaled, forcing my grip to loosen around my drink. I met his gaze, and for the first time since sitting down, I felt like I was actually seeing things clearly.

"Yeah." My voice was steadier than I expected. "I am."

Chris nodded. "Good. Jeff's team took on a few extra accounts. He needs a deputy--smart, detail-oriented, not afraid to work. I can put in a word."

"Do it."

Chris smirked. "That's what I like to hear."

I came to New York to prove something. Time to start acting like it.

I exhaled, jaw tightening. "How do I get out from under Todd? He'll never go for this."

Chris's lips curled. "Todd doesn't get to decide. You do."

I met his gaze, and for the first time all night, he wasn't joking. He was serious. Emma's words from last night echoed in my head: "You're good--better than good--but if they can't see that, it's time you make them."

Chris shrugged. "Look, I can talk to Jeff. That part's easy. But you're gonna have to talk to Todd. Tell him you're moving. If he fights it, make it clear that you're not asking."

I stared at my drink, thinking. "Listen," Chris said, leaning in, all traces of humor gone, "I've seen Todd bury too many careers. You've got real potential--" his eyes flickered toward Emma for a split second, "--in more ways than one. Don't let him hold you back."

Before I could respond, another voice cut in. "He's right, you know."

Emma materialized at the bar in front of us, her eyes fixed on mine with that steady intensity I was starting to know too well. "Professional hazard," she said before I could comment. "Bartenders hear everything." Then her expression softened slightly. "But Chris is right. You need to stop waiting for someone to see your worth and start acting like you know it yourself."

I opened my mouth, but she wasn't done.

"You came to New York for a reason, yes?" she continued, her Danish accent lilting stronger with conviction. "To prove something to yourself. To do something that mattered. So... do it." The way she said it--direct, unflinching--reminded me of our first real conversation, when she'd cut through all my careful deflections with the same quiet certainty.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. It was easy for them to say. They weren't the ones who had to sit across from Todd and tell him to his face that I was done with his bullshit.

Emma leaned in slightly, close enough that I caught the faint citrus-and-vanilla scent of her skin. My brain should have been focused on what she was saying, but some traitorous part of me registered the warmth of her body, the way the dim bar light flickered over her cheekbones, the way her lips parted as she spoke. The same quiet confidence that had drawn me to her was there now, but there was something else too--a spark of challenge in her blue eyes that made my pulse quicken.

"Matt." Her voice brought me back to the present, though the knowing look in her eyes suggested she hadn't missed my momentary distraction.

I blinked. She was watching me, and for a split second, something unreadable flickered in her expression. Something softer, more vulnerable than her usual composed demeanor.

"You are worth more than this," she said, her voice quiet but firm, her Danish accent more pronounced with emotion. "But it's time you started acting like it."

Her words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. It wasn't like I hadn't thought about it before--the way this job, this whole experience, was slowly draining the life out of me. But hearing it from her? That was different.

Maybe it was the certainty in her voice. Like she wasn't just telling me I was worth more--she already believed it. Like she was waiting for me to catch up. It reminded me of how she approached everything--her writing, her dreams, her choices--with that same quiet conviction.

She said it like a fact--as simple and undeniable as gravity. My fingers tightened around my glass; throat suddenly tight. Having someone believe in you with that kind of certainty... it changed things. Just like she'd changed things, showing me a version of New York--and myself--I hadn't known existed.

I studied her, taking in the determined set of her jaw, the unwavering confidence in her blue eyes, then glanced at Chris, before looking back at my drink. A slow breath left my chest.

"Alright," I said. "I'll talk to Todd."

Chris grinned. "Now that's what I like to hear."

Emma turned away with a satisfied smile, her movements carrying that natural grace that always made my heart skip, and that's when Chris's filter completely failed him.

"Sexy and smart," he blurted, loud enough to carry over the bar's ambient noise.

The words seemed to echo around us, like the bar itself had paused to let them linger.

Chris blinked, clearly realizing he'd actually said the words out loud. His face turned an alarming shade of red.

Emma went still for just a beat, then shifted her weight, looking between him and me, her lips curling with mischief. Her blue eyes flicked to mine, watching me--just for a second--as if waiting to see if I'd react. I simply lifted my glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey.

She smirked. Oh, she was going to have fun with this. Emma pivoted back slowly, her expression pure mischief. "Sexy?" Leaning into her Danish accent for effect. "That's quite the professional assessment."

Chris visibly winced. "I meant--I meant smart first--"