“I’m Gold Star Gay,” Josh whispers.
“They give out gold stars for it?” Greg asks, incredulous. “Like, a secret society?”
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s like the AARP. One day the card just comes in the mail and you wonder how they know you qualify.”
Greg frowns. “We don’t get gold stars for being straight. I don’t understand.”
Josh rolls his eyes and rallies, the shade of green in his face replaced by a healthy glow. “Gold star gay men are men who’ve never slept with a woman.”
“Never?” Greg asks. I can tell he’s trying to keep his incredulity out of his voice. He accomplishes this by grabbing a donut from the box Carol brought in yesterday and shoving the entire thing in his mouth.
Josh shakes his head.
“Mmmmf evermmmmf?” Greg says. Or tries to say. I’m not sure what he actually says, because I’m dodging the spray of rainbow sprinkles coming out of him.
“Nope. Never.” Apparently, Josh can understand the universal language of Donut.
Greg swallows in one giant gulp, like a snake eating a mouse. He sniffs, then looks at me. “Does that make me Gold Star Straight?”
“Huh?” Josh and I ask in unison.
“If I’ve never slept with a man,” Greg says slowly, contemplating the issue while picking crumbs off his tie and licking them from his fingers, “then I’m Gold Star Straight.”
“He’s got a point,” I admit, giving Josh a look that says, They don’t pay us enough for conversations like this. If any topic can cure me of my obsessive thoughts about sleeping with Andrew McCormick, it’s this one.
“That’s not how it works,” Josh says in a grumpy voice.
“Why not?” Now Greg is indignant. “You get gay marriage now. We should get our own gold stars. I want a gold star.”
Josh is speechless. I am struggling to decide whether I would rather go on another date with Mr. Anal Gland Hands or spend one more minute hearing Greg talk about his sex life.
Anal glands for the win.
“You want a gold star for what?” Carol asks, walking in with what looks like a bag full of chocolate foil tractors, scarecrow lollipops, and hard candies shaped like ears of corn. She’s wearing denim overalls, a red and white checkered shirt, and her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail. If Hee Haw were still on, I’d think she was an extra on the show.
I cock one eyebrow and look at her goodies.
“Farming trade show,” she sighs. “You get the wedding trade shows, I get the cranky old farmers who want to talk about bursitis and soybean futures.”
“Well,” I say magnanimously, stepping behind her and putting one hand on her shoulder, “you can take my place in this work conversation.”
“Talking about gold stars?” she asks, a bit befuddled. “Is there a special reward system I don’t know about?”
“Something like that,” Josh mumbles. “Let’s stop talking about my sex life.”
“Sex life?” Carol snorts, really confused now. She grabs a foil-covered tractor and begins peeling it, taking a bite. The tire snaps off in her mouth. “What do gold stars have to do with sex lives? Now we have sticker charts for sex?”
“That’s what I’m wondering!” Greg bellows, reaching for one of the chocolates. “How come Josh gets a gold star for not sleeping with women but I can’t get a gold star for not sleeping with men?”
“I’m not sleeping with men or women,” Carol says sadly, eating the tractor’s engine now. “What do I get for that?”
I reach across my desk and grab a sheaf of papers, sliding them to her. “You get the sex toy shops I took.”
She looks at the chocolate in her hand. Glances at the papers. Then the pile of chocolate.
“Why are you giving me those?”
“Because Amanda’s pregnant,” Greg explains helpfully, his mouth full of a tractor.
“Work pregnant or pregnant pregnant?” Carol asks casually. These conversations have become alarmingly normal to me.
“Work pregnant, I assume,” I reply. “Because if I’m pregnant pregnant, then my vibrator has some explaining to do.”
“Or maybe Andrew McCormick?” she adds with a leer.
Josh and Greg give me chocolate-smeared looks. “You’re pregnant by Andrew McCormick?” Josh squeals.
“No! We just kissed.”
“You’re kissing Andrew McCormick?” Greg looks deeply uncomfortable, and it’s not his usual acid reflux look.
“We’re...something.”
“You’re somethinging?” We’ve turned that word into a verb. It’s funny when applied to Shannon. To me? Not so much.
“We’re dating. I guess?” This is the first time I’ve had to define whatever Andrew and I are doing.
“Openly?”
“We’re not in the closet about it.”
“Why would two heterosexuals be in the closet?” Josh asks.
“Ask Andrew.”
Greg frowns. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this, Amanda. Professionally, I mean.”
A chill of shame crawls over my skin, completely unexpected. “What?”
“He’s a client.”
“Yes, but—”
“He’s our biggest client.”
“You had no problem when Shannon was dating Declan.”
“That’s different.” Greg’s discomfort takes on alarming proportions. “We were in a different phase of the corporate relationship with Anterdec then.”