Winter Getaway (Birch Lake Romance)
1. Rune
Chapter 1
Rune
I used to love Mondays.
To me, they always signified a fresh start. A new opportunity. A wide open door.
Turns out, that only holds true when you're young and na?vely unaware of what it's like to have a job. Specifically: a really shitty job.
Pardon my language, but there’s no better way to describe it.
Outside, the skies are a heavy gray. Sleet pelts down, freezing the streets and sidewalks of Chicago as I hurry to work. My shoes aren't meant for this kind of weather. They're already soaking wet. I can't stop shivering, wishing I could walk into one of the warm bakeries along the way. The rich, intoxicating smell of fresh baked pastries and coffee is like a taunt. I'm already late and I don't want to jeopardize whatever end of the year bonus has been set aside for me by my irritating boss Craig. Freaking Craig.
It's only three weeks until Christmas, but here in Chicago there’s no real snow to speak of. No Christmas-y holiday vibes. Just those sad piles of dirty slush here and there, the rest of the streets and sidewalks are the same depressing shades of gray and brown that they always are.
You’d think that the office would be a relief after trudging sixteen blocks through the sleet, but no—the glass doors are a facade at best. They’re clean, like always, with crisp white lettering that announces this as the business site of Timson & March, a boutique marketing agency. The lobby is clean and minimal, giving off really nice vibes—along with Tim, the friendly receptionist. But the moment I walk upstairs into the offices, the temperature drops to a balmy 62 degrees. Upper management is thrifty like that. To stave off the chill, my coworkers and I thrift our way through winter with second hand sweaters and electric blankets. None of us makes enough to do more than thrift.
Granted, my coworkers—the ones who sit nearest me—are the reason why I don’t hate hate working at Timson & March. Most of us are a bookish, creative sort. We dreamed of being writers or artists, but settled for writing ad copy and designing website pages.
“Rune, how much do you have left on the Icicle ads?” Meghan’s head pops over the gray cubicle wall behind my computer.
I click open the tab and check what I've accomplished so far. Not much. “I'll have it done today.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Yes, but today I mean it.”
Meghan looks around and drops her voice. “How much farther did you get on your illustrations?”
“I'm almost done with another one,” I reply in an equally hushed voice. Ok, so maybe I get paid to design ads, but in my dream life, I create illustrations for fantasy novels. I have been working on some for my favorite fantasy romance series and can't help it if an idea strikes me when I'm sitting in my cubicle. I have to sketch it out. Sometimes, like yesterday, the idea just keeps going. The next thing you know, two hours have gone by and I expanded my color palette and blocked out three separate scenes.
“That's spectacular. When will they be done?”
“When I finish.”
“You've been saying that for almost six months,” she points out.
This is true. As it turns out, my 40-hour-a-week job is more like 80 hours when you include the amount of time it takes to recover from the stress of it all. Stress that comes in the form of tight deadlines, an ever-changing list of responsibilities, and a salary that doesn't quite cover the monthly bills. Thank goodness the company believes in quarterly bonuses. Even if they only barely make up the gap between what I'm getting paid and what it takes to live in the big city.
“Here, I'll show you a sneak peek.” I whip out my phone and show her some of the work-in-progress screenshots that I took. “The nose on the main dude is wrong. I can’t figure out how to fix it.”
“Whoah, these are actually incredible.” She sounds a little surprised. “Are you going to sell them as prints? I would totally buy them. These are way better than the fan art I’ve seen floating around.”
“I want to! I was thinking of finding out if I could get them officially licensed and then open an online shop.”
“That would be super cool, maybe even your ticket out of here?”
I shrug one shoulder and slide my phone back into my pocket. It's a nice sentiment, but I'm not sure that hobby illustrators selling fan art typically earn enough to quit their 9 to 5s. At the very best, I'm hoping to earn enough to buy a new car in the next year or so. Or at least get new tires for my existing one, which is in a sad state.
Add that to my long list of things to buy if I save up enough money…and that’s a big if.
I moved to Chicago four years ago to be closer to my boyfriend, Sebastian, who’s from the area. We made our relationship official during graduation week of college. In a deluge of cheap beer, shots, and nostalgia, we realized we were destined to be together forever.
Sebastian also took a job in Chicago. Albeit at a travel agency, with the unfortunate result that he’s very rarely here. When he’s traveling, which is most of the time, he’s too busy to do more than send a quick text or two. The last time we had sex was nine months ago. It was pretty okay, even if it wasn't mind-blowing. He promised to hang out at Christmas, if he doesn't get booked for a last-minute trip.
Is it the most romantic of relationships? No. But we're doing good. He’s making the big bucks to save up for our future. And I should be grateful for his hard work, since obviously I’m not pulling my own weight in that particular area. But—it does get lonely. I have a pretty spectacular roommate, but she’s not Sebastian.
“Craig alert,” Naomi hisses, two cubicles down.
We all whip back into our chairs and click furiously at our computers. Paul even sets down his coffee so that he can type with both hands.
We’ve learned the hard way: if you don’t look supremely occupied when Craig walks by, bad things happen.
Things like?—
“Hey guys, check your emails. I put a quick huddle in five.”
There’s a collective cringe within the office. Nothing with Craig is ever quick.
I like my job here at Timson & March, I really do. In the four years that I’ve worked here, I’ve moved up from design intern to graphic designer. If I can get just one more promotion, I'll get the raise I need to actually start making a dent in those college loans.
I was more confident before Craig signed on. With a strong background in sales, Craig managed to schmooze his way into a director’s position. This despite the fact that he clearly lacks some key skills…like how to actually lead a team. Maybe the content department wasn’t terribly efficient before Craig came on board, but it’s definitely gotten worse with every impulsive, poorly-thought-through decision he makes.
Lately, he’s been promising to increase company profit margins through “strategic initiatives.” It's vague enough to sound ominous.
Meghan and I have our theories, all of them bad. Paul’s theories are even worse. Management promised to announce the changes a month ago, but “logistics” have held things up. It feels like working with a thundercloud over your head. Thank goodness we have our bonuses to look forward to. Not to mention the few days of vacation in the holiday week between Christmas and New Year.
We’re silent as we file into the meeting room, where Craig is already chatting with Diana, the stunning blonde junior marketer. Their backs are turned to the rest of us as we huddle into the meeting room. Diana giggles and trails a perfectly manicured finger down Craig’s shoulder. A little intimate for the setting, if you ask me.
“Are they sleeping together?” Meghan murmurs.
If they aren’t, it certainly looks like they will be soon.
Craig begins with a pep talk (or so he calls it), which is really just an unnecessary recap of insignificant memos.
“As you know, we’re restructuring our strategies a bit and establishing new metrics that can be used to gauge the effectiveness of both our internal culture and the effect it has on our overarching growth potential…”
I've already lost interest. Craig rarely has real announcements to deliver to the team. Instead, he likes to read lengthy memos and deliver corporate catchphrases. It’s annoying. It eats up the time that could be so much better spent catching up on emails or drinking coffee or sleeping in.
He’s been working here for six months now. It’s scary how quickly his madness has become “the new normal” for our office.
A small gasp from Meghan jolts me back into the present moment.
“We’ve had to rearrange the budget to ensure loyal employees receive the growth opportunities they need to thrive in their career,” Craig is saying, “So let’s take a moment to congratulate Diana for her outstanding great contributions to the company and well-earned promotion to Senior Project Manager.”
A dumfounded silence meets the announcement. Diana is many things, but she is certainly not Senior Project Manager material.
But Craig isn’t finished. “To make way for exciting opportunities like this, we have the unfortunate need to dissolve other positions. Those who will be parting ways with the company will have their employment terminated effective immediately, with three weeks of severance and a letter recognizing their contributions to the company.”
I bite back an incredulous laugh. Three weeks is nothing. Three weeks takes us to Christmas. I can’t believe they’re firing one of us so that Diana, of all people, can get a promotion.
“Who’s being let go?” Paul asks aloud for all of us.
“Well, not too many, don’t worry. Diana and I are working on finalizing the list today. I’ll connect with each of you as we decide. And actually, Rune, would you mind coming into my office for a minute?”
All eyes turn to me.
I think I’m going to be sick. I don’t dare look around, don’t dare see the expressions on my coworkers’ faces. Heat rises to my face as I follow Craig across the hall to his office. He makes a point of sitting behind his huge fake mahogany desk, the leather chair squeaking as he gets comfortable.
“Have a seat, Rune,” says Diana from behind me, as if she’s the one managing the meeting. I ignore her and remain standing, staring at Craig.
“As you know by now, we’re doing a restructuring exercise and reallocating our budget to ensure each of our employees is give the utmost tools to succeed personally and professionally. Unfortunately, this means we must also part ways with some of our valuable talent. Rune, we’re grateful for your hard work. We wish that we didn’t have to have hard conversations like this. But times are challenging and we’re committed to doing what it takes to ensure the company can continue to grow and thrive.”
A thousand questions fly through my mind. Who’s going to design the ads if I leave? What about letting go of the people who are dragging you down? What about terminating the jobs that are a fucking joke? What about parting ways with the employees who only exist to make the rest of us work harder? (Like Diana, for one.)
I wish I was brave enough to voice these thoughts. But it wouldn’t make any different because this is Craig. He hardly listens on a good day.
“If you could just sign this paperwork acknowledging your termination of contract, we can get you your check and you’ll be all set to start your next venture,” says Diana, smiling like she's doing me a fucking favor.
“That’s…it?” My voice trembles. “Why me?”
Craig shakes his head with a smile that’s probably meant to be friendly. “Don’t look at it as getting fired, Rune. We’re simply restructuring the team. New skills can be taught, but what we’re really looking at is culture fit.”
I am too dumbfounded to say anything more. To do anything besides sign the paper and stand around awkwardly as they print out my final paycheck. Then I get my purse, my coat, and the silly thriving aloe plant that I used to think was a symbol of how I would thrive no matter where I was planted. I think about logging off my computer and shutting it down to save on electricity. Then I see someone else has already done that. Also, they can probably afford to pay for the extra electricity, since they now have my entire salary to work with.
“Well, goodbye,” I say to no one. My voice sounds very far away, like my head is underwater. No one seems to know if they should make eye contact or give me space to be miserable.
“We'll keep in touch,” Paul says, clearing his throat.
I know I’ll only cry if I stay to talk, so I just nod and hurry away.
Even Tim at the front desk merely winces at me as I walk by. I don’t know how he knows that I’ve been canned. Possibly because someone told him. Or maybe because tears are now streaming down my face and I’m leaving the office with a cephalopodic plant cradled in my arms and he’s put two and two together.
“Have a nice day,” he calls after me, almost desperately. I don’t answer. I head out into the downpour of freezing sleet.