Chapter 2: Blue Harbor Showdown

After New Year’s, the office had that odd, hopeful energy—everyone shuffling back in, the break room still faintly scented with pine candles leftover from the holiday party. The boss surprised us with $300 Amazon gift cards to start the year. It wasn’t much, but it made a dreary January morning feel like a minor holiday. Some joked about buying a new Keurig, others plotted their next tech splurge. It felt like a clean slate.

Naturally, the team decided to celebrate with a nice dinner out.

The mood was lighter than usual, people huddled by the coffee machine, tossing out restaurant ideas—sushi, steak, anything but another sad desk lunch. Our group chat buzzed with suggestions.

Natalie, always the planner, had her phone out and was halfway through booking the Italian spot across the street. She described the meatballs like she was auditioning for Food Network, tossing in a mention of happy hour deals that got everyone’s attention.

Then Derek waved his arm with a flourish, looking like a game show host unveiling the big prize. "That place is too basic. We all got $300—let’s go somewhere nice. Blue Harbor Seafood. I’ll book us a private room."

He said it like he’d never once checked his bank account. Natalie paused, finger hovering over her phone. The murmurs started—some excited, some not so much. Blue Harbor wasn’t just a dinner, it was a flex.

My jaw dropped. Blue Harbor is the most expensive spot in Maple Heights. You can’t escape for less than $120 a head. Last time I went was my cousin’s graduation, and my aunt footed the bill. A couple folks whistled or raised their brows. Blue Harbor meant white tablecloths, servers with bowties, and a bill that could ruin your week.

Sure enough, the younger guys started whispering, worried about the price tag.

They kept their voices low, shooting each other uneasy glances. Someone mentioned student loans, another wondered if it was cool to just order an appetizer and water. The pressure was real—you could feel it.

Derek leaned in, arms crossed, practically daring anyone to argue. "It’s a group dinner, we’re splitting the bill. You’re not even treating, and you can’t handle something nice? This is as far as you’ll get in life."

His words stung. The younger guys stiffened, not wanting to look cheap. Derek always knew how to push the wrong buttons—especially when the boss was out of earshot.

We were all fresh out of college, desperate not to look like the cheapskate.

Nobody wanted to be the one to bail on dinner, not after just getting hired. It was like freshman year all over again—don’t be the odd one out.

So, dinner was set for Blue Harbor. Natalie put her phone away with a sigh. Plans made, people started joking about fasting all day to make it worth the price. There was a buzz of anxiety, but the train had left the station.

At first, the meal was a hit. The wine flowed, the food was incredible, and for a while, the stress faded. People swapped stories, caught up on gossip, and laughed like old friends. It almost felt like family.

Before the holidays, work had been brutal. Some people hadn’t even made it home, stranded by the blizzard or stuck on endless family Zooms. The shared exhaustion bonded us—this meal was the reward.

I planned to pay for everyone, secretly. I wanted to surprise them when the check came, do something nice without the spotlight. It felt good to have that little secret, like holding onto a winning ticket for a few more hours.

After a few rounds, Derek was hammered.

His words slurred, gestures wild, voice booming over the clatter of forks and laughter. The flush on his cheeks was climbing his neck.

He slammed the table for emphasis, launching into his next act:

"I’ve never made a woman pay since I was a kid. Since joining this team, I’ve seen it all—every meal gets split. The guys eat and drink like linebackers, how much can the girls really eat? Is it fair to make them pay the same?"

He gestured so wildly he nearly knocked over a glass. He wanted to be both martyr and hero—complaining, but desperate for applause.

Caleb, the rookie I’d been quietly tasked to watch over, shot me a nervous glance, then piped up: "When the girls split with us, we deduct the alcohol first, then split."

His voice was careful, just trying to clarify the system. He looked around, hoping for backup.

"That’s still not right. If you’re a man, you treat. Can’t even treat a girl to dinner—no wonder you’re still single."

Derek fired back, sharper now with the booze. A couple people snickered, but you could feel the embarrassment simmering. Caleb shrunk in his chair, cheeks burning.

The tension was thick enough to slice.