One
ONE
I take a deep breath and stride into the conference room, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The air is thick with the scent of expensive coffee and barely concealed skepticism. A dozen fast food executives sit around the sleek glass table, their arms crossed, their gazes expectant. They don’t think I can sell them on this. That’s adorable.
I flash my best boardroom smile and place my portfolio on the table with a crisp thud.
“Gentlemen. Imagine a plant-based burger that not only tastes amazing, but also aligns perfectly with your brand’s commitment to sustainability,” I say, my voice clear and strong. “Our campaign will position your new offering as the go-to choice for health-conscious and environmentally aware consumers.”
A pause. executive raises an eyebrow, as if I’ve just suggested they start serving kale milkshakes.
I hold their gaze and continue. “It’s not just another burger—it’s the burger that changes the conversation.”
As I delve into the details of the proposed marketing strategy for their new healthy choice menu item, I can see the executives nodding along, any objections they had planned to raise melting away. I highlight the key selling points—the burger’s delicious flavor, its nutritional benefits, and its potential to attract a new demographic of customers. You get a sixth sense about whether your pitch is landing right with an audience and, not to toot my own horn too hard… seven minutes in, I have everyone in the room eating out of my hand.
“By partnering with influencers in the wellness space and leveraging social media, we’ll generate buzz and drive demand for your plant-based option,” I explain, gesturing to the colorful slides projected behind me. “This is an opportunity to establish your brand as a leader in the fast food industry’s shift toward healthier, more sustainable offerings. In a nutshell, my team and I will position your product as a burger that’s good for you, good for the planet, and good for business.”
The lead executive, a silver-haired man with a perpetual frown, clears his throat. “That’s… impressive.”
Damn right, it is.
The polite applause tells me I’ve nailed it. I field questions with ease, keeping my responses tight and strategic.
This is my playground, and I own it.
Just as we’re wrapping up, a man I hadn’t paid much attention to—a tall, dark-haired exec with the confident ease of someone used to getting what he wants—steps forward, smiling.
“Great presentation.” He offers his hand. “Lyle.”
I shake it, firm but brief. “Rachel Holmes.”
“You clearly know your stuff. I’d love to discuss it further. Maybe over dinner?” His smile is smooth, like he already knows the answer.
I return it, but mine is professional, unwavering. “I make it a policy not to mix business with pleasure.”
His expression falters for a split second before he recovers. “Well, that’s a pity.” He hands me his card. “But either way, I look forward to working with you.”
I tuck the card into my portfolio, already moving on. As I stride down the hallway, the familiar rush of success hums in my veins. step closer to landing this account. step closer to making partner. My personal life might be a barren wasteland, but my career? On fire.
The truth is, I've always been better at managing brands than people. Crafting narratives and selling ideas come as naturally to me as breathing, but building relationships? That’s where things get messy. At work, everything follows a strategy—objectives, deliverables, measurable outcomes. If a pitch doesn’t land, I can pinpoint why, learn from it, and try again. But in my personal life? There’s no tidy PowerPoint presentation to guide me through the chaos of human connection.
I've spent years perfecting my professional image—the competent, confident, always-prepared woman who can sell anything to anyone. I know how to make an impression, how to leave a room buzzing with ideas and possibilities. But after hours, when the office lights dim and I’m alone in my immaculate, lonely apartment, I feel the weight of that polished veneer crushing me.
I think of my old friends, the ones who slowly drifted away while I was climbing the corporate ladder. Birthday texts that went unanswered, dinner invites declined because of deadlines and meetings. Now, even if I wanted to rekindle those friendships, I wouldn’t know where to start. I’ve wrapped myself in my ambition like a safety blanket, convinced that I don’t need anyone.
But sometimes—just sometimes—I catch myself scrolling through social media, pausing on photos of people I used to know. Laughing in crowded bars, holding hands on beach vacations, watching their kids take their first steps—living their best life. And it hits me, sharp and unexpected: I’ve built a life so perfectly curated that I don’t really fit into it anymore.
I shove the thought away, focusing instead on the rush of victory from the pitch. There’s no room for self-pity today. I won them over, and that’s what matters. I’ll celebrate later—maybe with a glass of something expensive and a quiet toast to myself. After all, who else will?
As I stride down the hallway, still riding the high of the successful presentation, I catch sight of Helen through the glass walls of her office. My boss is the picture of effortless authority, well put together in a tailored navy suit, her manicured fingers laced together. But her expression is unreadable, and that— that —is unsettling.
“Rachel, sit down.”
I lower myself into the chair opposite her desk, still riding the post-pitch high. “What’s up? The meeting went well.”
“It did,” she agrees. “In fact, it went so well that I’m forcing you to take a vacation.”
I blink. “I’m sorry. You’re what ?”
Helen leans back, studying me like a puzzle she’s just figured out. “You haven’t taken a single day off in eighteen months. You need a break before you break. Two weeks. No arguments.”
“But—”
She holds up a hand. “Non-negotiable. Go read a book, reconnect with your family. Hell, get a hobby.”
I open my mouth, then close it. Helen is one of the few people on earth who can out-stubborn me. I could fight this, but I’d lose. And the truth is, there’s no one in my life demanding my time. No partner. No kids. Even my friendships have faded under the weight of work.
A convenient excuse not to face that reality.
“Fine.” I exhale. “But I’m not happy about it.”
Helen smirks. “I don’t expect you to be. Now get out of my office before I start to suspect you like being here. And who knows? Maybe you’ll surprise yourself and actually enjoy yourself.”
* * *
I let myself in with the key my sister Claire keeps hidden under a plastic rock that is, frankly, an insult to camouflage. Technically, it’s Claire and Richard’s house—a big, modern place they bought after Lily was born. They invited Mom to move in with them soon after. She’d been on her own for decades, still living in the little house we all grew up in, and they didn’t like the idea of her rattling around in it alone. This place had the space, and the logic was simple: more help with childcare for them, more company for her.
Still, the moment I step inside, it smells like Mom’s house—lavender and freshly baked cookies. A scent so deeply nostalgic it nearly knocks me sideways.
A familiar warmth wraps around me, tugging at memories I’d thought long buried. The layout’s different, sure, but the feeling is the same. And Mom’s touch is everywhere—the floral cushions, the knitted throw on the back of the couch, the armchair where she still reads the newspaper with her tea, just like she did back when we were kids.
Back then, I’d convinced myself that being the best—at school, at track, even at the annual science fair—was the only way to matter. Mom never pushed me to be perfect, but I craved the reassurance of straight As and trophies as proof that I was doing something right. Once, after winning the regional debate championship, Mom had hugged me so tight I thought I’d break, whispering how proud she was. But all I could think about was the kid who came second, the way his face fell when they called my name.
In my mind, there was no room for mistakes or second place. I thought that if I just worked hard enough, controlled every variable, I’d never have to feel that gnawing sense of inadequacy again. Even now, standing in this familiar hallway, it’s hard to shake the compulsion to be the best—to outwork, outperform, and prove to everyone, including myself, that I’m worth the effort.
Maybe that’s why I never stopped pushing—why I buried myself in work instead of forming lasting relationships, why success became synonymous with self-worth. If I let up, even for a second, it might all unravel. And that’s a risk I’ve never been willing to take.
“Mom? Claire?” I call out.
Mom’s voice cuts through my thoughts, bringing me back to the present. “Rachel? You okay?”
I force a smile, shaking off the remnants of old insecurities. “Yeah, Mom. Just… had some time to spare.”
I find her in the living room, curled up in her armchair, eyes glued to the TV.
“Hey.” I move some toys out of the way and plop onto the couch beside her.
“Oh! Perfect timing. You have got to see this show I’m watching.”
I glance at the screen. A ruggedly handsome man with piercing blue eyes is engaged in a heated argument with an equally beautiful woman. Malibu Lagoon , the title graphic reads—I’ve never heard of it, but that doesn’t mean much. I barely have time to switch on the television, so major zeitgeist shows pass me by all the time. A quick search on IMDb reveals that this telenovela-type soap opera ran for four seasons before being abruptly canceled eight years ago. It has a surprisingly high rating and judging from the comments, a legion of fans just like my mom.
I arch an eyebrow. “Really? A soap opera?”
Mom waves me off. “It’s very well done. And the lead actor? Ugh , so talented.”
I study the screen. The guy is striking, all brooding intensity and movie-star good looks. If I were casting a campaign, he’d be a marketing dream.
“Isn’t he handsome?” Mom gushes, as if reading my thoughts. “So good.”
I nod absentmindedly, my mind already drifting back to work. Instinctively, I reach for my phone to check my emails, but a breaking news alert catches my eye.
“Mount Spurr erupts again in Alaska,” the headline reads, accompanied by a dramatic image of a massive ash cloud billowing from the volcano.
I feel a knot form in my stomach. I can’t imagine living next to such a frightening force of nature that could erupt at any time. I’m not sure how those who do can possibly sleep at night.
“Rachel, are you even listening to me?” Mom’s voice snaps me back to reality.
“Sorry, Mom. Just catching up on world events. I’m all ears, promise.”
Mom sighs, shaking her head. “You’re always glued to that thing. Even when you’re supposed to be relaxing.”
I feel a pang of guilt, knowing she’s right. I’ve been so consumed by work lately that I’ve barely had time for anything else, including visiting my mother.
I sink back, allowing myself to relax for the first time in what feels like months. I haven’t been to visit in ages, and it feels… strange. Almost like I don’t belong here anymore.
I moved out of Mom’s house as soon as I could, desperate to make something of myself. Even back in high school, I was the girl with the color-coded planner and the stack of textbooks bigger than my head. The girl who stayed up until midnight finishing extra credit assignments just to make sure no one could beat me to valedictorian.
God, I remember the feeling of opening that acceptance letter to Northwestern, my hands shaking so badly I almost ripped it in half. It wasn’t even about leaving—no, I was ready for that. It was about proving I could do it. That I could be the best. That all the late nights and stress-induced migraines meant something.
Mom used to worry about me back then, always saying I was pushing myself too hard. Claire, on the other hand, just thought I was nuts. “You’re like a hamster on an espresso drip,” she once joked when I was cramming for finals. “Chill out, Rach. You’re already a shoo-in.”
But chilling out never felt like an option. Not for me. I couldn’t let myself be just good enough. I had to be the best. I had to make something of myself—something big, something important.
Maybe Mom was right all those years ago. Maybe I have been pushing myself too hard. But the thought of slowing down, of stopping to take stock of my life, terrifies me. Because what if, when I stop, I realize that none of it is worth anything at all?
“I know, I know,” I concede, putting my phone away. “I’ll try to unplug more, I promise.”
“You’d better. You’re not too old for the flying slipper, you know.”
To be fair, my mom’s ability to nail someone with a slipper from across the room is legendary. When Claire and I were growing up, she could hit your arm or your leg, or whatever appendage was offending her, from thirty feet. It was never thrown with particular malice, but the accuracy was astounding.
“Still think you’ve got it, Mom? You’re not in your thirties anymore, and I’m not eight.”
“That’s true, but you are in your thirties now, and luckily for me, you’re a much bigger target. I like my chances.”
Mom hovers a hand near an ankle, fingers twitching over her slipper like a gunslinger ready to draw.
“Okay. Okay.” I concede and place my phone face down on the coffee table, out of sight, out of mind.
As soon as I do, Mom smiles and turns off the television. “So, what’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Have you been fired?”
“No!” I squeak, horrified at the thought. “I’m… I’m on vacation.”
“Since when?”
“About an hour ago.”
I fill Mom in on my forced sabbatical and foolishly admit that I don’t really know what to do with myself. But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s a mistake.
With the lithe grace of a mountain cat, she’s up and out of her armchair, dialing my sister’s cell phone before I know what’s happening.
Thirty minutes later, my life is ruined.
“Claire will pick you up at ten on Sunday,” Mom announces, far too pleased with herself. “Pack warm.”
I stare at her. “Mom. No.”
“Oh, come on. A cabin on Lake Michigan! Fresh air! Family time! You love your nieces.”
“I love them in small doses,” I mutter. “Preferably when they’re asleep.”
Mom grins. “Then think of this as character-building.”
“I don’t need character. I need Wi-Fi and a coffee machine that doesn’t require manual labor.”
Mom pats my cheek. “You need to live a little, sweetheart.”
“Thanks for the support.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
“I know. Well, I think it’s lovely you’re all going away together,” she says and turns back to her program.
I stare in disbelief at my mom’s beaming grin of self-satisfaction. I don’t like vacations. I certainly don’t like camping. And I’m more of a “here’s your birthday gift, now run along and play” kind of auntie, at least until they’re potty trained and can string a sentence together.
Somehow, I’m now signed up to spend ten days cooped up with my sister, her husband, and their two rambunctious toddlers at their log cabin on Lake Michigan. It’s not that I don’t love my sister and her family, but the idea of being away from work, from the city, fills me with an unsettling sense of dread. Somehow, I’m signed up for a trip to the wilderness, hunting elk, and drinking from streams—or whatever it is people do when they’re in the great outdoors.
I groan.
This is going to be a disaster.
Or, at the very least, deeply, deeply inconvenient.
Two weeks away from work? Away from my team, my clients, my progress ? I’ve been working toward a partnership for years, and I can’t impress the powers that be if I’m off roasting marshmallows and pretending to enjoy nature.
They say out of sight, out of mind. What if someone else steps in and wows them in my absence? What if I come back to find that all my hard work has been quietly shuffled onto someone else’s plate?
I’ll make it work. I have to. Because the last thing I can afford is to be forgotten.