Two
TWO
LEORA
PRESENT
" Y ou’re fired."
Amazing. Great. Perfect.
"Did you hear me, Miss Davis?"
Agnes, the bitch-boss, was promoted to her manager position a month ago and she’s been an ass ever since. She’s been at the company for four years; she's talented, but she’s always been a little bit of an outsider. I tried to get her to join our Wednesday lunches, but she declined every time, leaving me to assume that she wasn’t interested in making friends. I even used to bring her a coffee every morning, but all I got was a stiff smile and a nod. Apparently, coffee is not the way to her heart.
And here I am, sitting in front of her, getting fired.
She shows absolutely no signs of regret or guilt, while my face is probably as white as her sad office walls. Who doesn’t decorate their office? There’s not even a plant in sight.
"You can’t just fire me without reason." I take a deep breath, willing myself to not pass out.
"I actually can, Leora. Your employment is considered ‘at-will’ which means the company can choose to part ways with you at any time, for any reason. However, in this case, we do have a reason. But on the bright side, now you can take that little vacation with no work hanging over your head." She says the last part with scathing viciousness.
There it is. My vacation.
The trip that was approved six months ago .
"Am I getting fired because I’m going on a trip? Senior management already approved my vacation, and so did you," I point out. I always knew she had something against me. This woman has been the bane of my existence since I started this job. And while it might not be my dream job, a job’s a job, and a girl’s gotta eat.
Right?
As much as I dislike the job and the environment, I’m actually good at what I do. I’m a marketing assistant for a marketing firm, and my workload recently increased when I was given more accounts to work on. I’ve had the best results, generating the most revenue from each and every account I’ve been assigned, and I was on my way to a promotion—or at least I thought I was.
"No. I’m firing you because you left internal papers out for the customer to find. Do you know how much I had to scramble to contain the damage you caused? Your actions were a serious breach of company policy, and you jeopardized the confidentiality and security of sensitive information. Unfortunately, your actions have resulted in severe consequences. After speaking with the higher-ups, I have no choice but to terminate your employment at Momentum Marketing."
An icy feeling runs through me as my blood freezes.
What the hell.
I’ve never left any papers out, especially not internal ones. I’ve always made sure to maintain confidentiality at all times. This must be a mistake. I know I was a bit stressed and tired at the latest event we held with one of my accounts, and I had a few glasses of bubbly to soothe my nerves, but I don’t remember leaving any papers out.
At the moment, my muddled mind can’t recall anything.
Did I do it? Did I accidentally leave the papers out?
I feel my hands go clammy, and my heart races at the speed of light.
I try to speak up but she isn’t having it. "I’m sorry, but this is what needs to be done. Just sign these papers so you can get your severance package—three months in your case—which is more than fair." She taps her fingers on the desk before adding, "Now, if you don’t mind, I have a meeting to attend to."
"But I don?—"
"If you want to leave the company with dignity and a recommendation letter, I suggest you sign the papers."
I sigh with resignation. I need that recommendation letter if I want to find another job in this industry, so I sign the papers, slowly stand up, and walk through the glass doors only to be greeted by my colleagues—all staring at me wide-eyed. They know exactly what just took place.
"Leora . . ." Mike, my work husband, comes up to me and gives me a sideways hug as he walks me to my desk.
The desk I now have to clean up, once adorned with personal touches including motivational quotes tacked to the bulletin board, and a resilient succulent catching the light. Each item is a small testament to the effort I poured into this space.
"Agnes has lost her mind! You’re the best on the team," he says as I lean into him for a second or two before updating him on everything that just happened.
"You would never do that. I was with you almost the whole night," he continues. I come to an abrupt halt as a memory resurfaces. I remember excusing myself to go to the bathroom, but the rest of my recollection is a blur. Did I accidentally leave those papers out?
"I don’t know, Mike. I remember asking Agnes for her signature on the agreement, and later, I went straight to the event from the office, feeling completely drained. Everything after that is a blur. What if I accidentally brought the papers with me?"
He frowns. "It doesn’t make sense. You’re too much of a control freak to do that. She's going to realize her mistake and call you back before you return from Nice, don’t worry." He leans in closer and whispers, "I’m going to find out the truth."
I adore this man. Without him, I'm not sure how I would have navigated through everything. We all need a Mike in our lives—preferably a Mike with a husband who bakes the most heavenly chocolate chip cookies, a delightful treat he never forgets to share with me.
"Well, at least I’ll get a pre-vacation before my vacation.” I attempt to say it positively, but it comes out with a wobbly uncertainty.
"Exactly! You can visit all of those cafés with John now. The ones you’ve been harassing us about for weeks." He has a point; a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a list of the top ten breakfast places in town that I’ve been dying to try out but never found the time for. Not that John’s schedule would have allowed it, even if I could manage it.
Now, however, I seem to have all the time in the world.
I take the stairs two at a time, in a hurry to reach my door—to reach home . The stairs creak under my feet, reminding me of every horror movie I’ve ever watched. I live in an old building with an elevator that’s a death trap, and I hate elevators.
Three years ago, I got trapped and haven’t set foot in it since. Hours went by before I got help; all the while it felt as though the walls were caving in. Every passing minute was filled with an overwhelming sense of dread.
When they finally found me, I was lying in a fetal position, crying.
Looking back, I realize I had my first panic attack that day.
I remember how John, my boyfriend, had carried me home, laid me down on the bed and held me the whole night, comforting me until the panic subsided. He’s always been an incredible support system, and I can’t wait to get home—because at this moment, I need a lot of support.
That’s why I’m climbing six flights of stairs in a pair of high heels, to get home to John.
My heart is racing and I’m having a hard time breathing. My beautiful Aurelie Nude Jimmy Choo’s don’t deserve this. I got these shoes to celebrate doing a good job at work.
Scratch that. I thought I was doing a good job.
My feet ache, but I don’t care—I just want to be home.
How am I going to help pay rent? Buy food?
I sigh, hoping that John will be the voice of reason, reassuring me that we will figure it out. That he will help cover bills until I’m back on my feet.
John and I have been through some rough patches this past year. His music career is growing, which is incredible because it means he's reaching his goals, but it also means he doesn't have a lot of time for me anymore.
We met at a bar one night when he was performing, and I was immediately drawn to him. I remember seeing him on stage, so shy and sweet. He walked up to his seat on the stage, barely looking at the audience. I could feel his nervousness, and my heart went out to him.
But then the lights centered on him, and his fingers started plucking on the strings of his guitar. He looked straight at me, with those sparkling blue eyes and a smile so sweet it could rival the warmth of a summer sun. It was as if he drew the courage from me because when he looked back over the audience, he was filled with confidence. I remember being irresistibly attracted to him and wanting him, one way or another.
Since that night, he’s grown quite a following, most of whom are beautiful women.
And honestly, some days, I’m not sure I like it.
I'm happy that he gets to do what he loves—he deserves it. But a part of me feels like I always come second and that I’m replaceable. When I dwell on it too much, a sense of uselessness and insignificance consumes me.
My heart beats faster at all these intrusive thoughts, and the failure of today isn’t helping. As I approach my floor, a small part of me is nervous to tell him what happened. I know he’ll say I deserve better, but it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I failed.
I know I deserve better. I deserve to work at a place where I’m valued—where I can learn and evolve. Momentum Marketing wasn’t the right fit. I’m better than them.
When I finally reach my door, my heart is beating way too hard, I’m sweating, and I’m seeing black spots. I really need to start working out.
"John, I'm home!" I call out while setting the box with all my desk belongings on the floor and taking off my heels. The relief is instant, and I release a long, audible sigh.
Mental note, stop being scared of the elevator, or start carrying a pair of sneakers.
No one answers. Weird. John is usually home by now.
"John, are you home?" I call out again.
As I head to the kitchen, searching for the note he always leaves when he goes out, my brows furrow in confusion. There's nothing on the fridge or the kitchen island.
That's strange.
"Oh my god!" a husky female voice screams out, startling me.
Was that . . . ? Is our neighbor getting laid in the middle of the day? She’s like sixty years old. I mean, good for her, but I did not sign up for this.
I dash to the failure-box I brought from work to grab my earbuds, but the moaning continues, "Yes. Yes. Yes, right there. Don’t stop. DON’T STOP!" The voice grows louder and somehow, it sounds closer.
With a sinking feeling of dread, I question if it's coming from inside the apartment.
Loud groans accompany the moans resonating on the walls—sounding way too clear to be coming from outside the apartment.
There’s another moan, this one louder, and it seems to come from my own bedroom.
Did someone break in to get laid? I know we have a great mattress, but robbers wouldn’t know about that.
I clutch my phone in my hand, ready to call the police as I walk towards my room.
When I reach the door, I open it slowly.
It isn’t the neighbor.
It isn’t a burglar.
It’s John.
"Oh fuck, baby." His voice is muffled, but not because he’s trying to keep himself quiet. No, it’s muffled because his head is tucked between a redhead’s legs and his dick seems to be lodged in her throat.
I stand there frozen, watching the betrayal unfold in front of me.
It seems I’m not good enough for anything, or anyone, after all.