Eight
Danica
I got home Saturday night to an email from Brandon, my boss at Red Rabbit, so I dedicated my Sunday to work. That shifted my energy in a different direction, so I’m still plotting exactly what’s best for my neighbor.
Early Monday morning, I flick on the lights of my office, joining the chorus of clacking keyboards and muffled conversations outside. My laptop springs to life with an insistent beep, reminding me that today is not just another Monday. Brandon has designated it D-Day for the Red Rabbit staff.
I shuffle the papers before me, each one a cold summary of someone’s livelihood—department, name, salary—all neatly typed and collated, ready for my meeting with our founder. My spreadsheet has become a map of numbers and names as I broke them down, trying to see the people behind the percentages.
“Morning, Danica.”
Brandon’s voice cuts through my concentration like a blunt instrument. He never knocks, just assumes his presence is welcome. I suppose it’s his right as the owner, but I still find it intrusive. I swivel in my chair to face him, a polite smile plastered on my face.
“Brandon,” I greet him, my tone neutral. “Just going over the final details.”
“Let me see.” He leans over my shoulder, close enough for me to catch a whiff of his cologne—a scent that tries too hard to assert dominance. His finger taps on the screen, where his salary dwarfs the others.
“Still the highest paid,” he says with a smirk. “As it should be. Can’t have the minions thinking they can overtake the king.”
I cringe inwardly. Brandon relishes his role at the top of the food chain, ever since he muscled out the original founder. He often likes to tell me how he did it.
“Of course,” I reply, keeping my tone even. “It’s important to maintain structure.”
“Exactly!” Brandon straightens, puffing out his chest like a peacock. “Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to tell you about this one time I put Darren, the other owner, in his place. I showed him who was boss. You would’ve loved it.”
“Would I?” I question.
“Absolutely,” he insists, oblivious to my skepticism. “The look on his face when I told him the company was mine… Priceless.”
I nod, feigning interest while mentally cataloging this latest anecdote as evidence of Brandon’s lack of respect, not just for me, but for the legacy of this company. I refocus on my screen, the numbers blurring into an impersonal sea of layoffs waiting to happen. Each digit represents a person with fears and desires, none of which matter to the man beside me.
“Right,” I say, redirecting the conversation. “We should discuss the structure of the layoffs, make sure we’re making the right choices for the company’s future.”
“Let’s see,” he says, peering over my spreadsheet. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
“Very,” I respond curtly.
“Good, good.” He taps a finger against the table, a rhythmic beat that matches the pounding in my head. With a few clicks, he sorts my list by salary and highlights a group beneath him.
I count them. “This is the list of people we’re keeping?” My stomach turns, because that means I’m laying off almost sixty employees, including myself.
“No, silly. That’s the group we’re laying off.”
“But those are our most experienced employees,” I argue carefully. “They’re costly because they bring a lot to the table.”
“Exactly.” Brandon’s grin widens, stretching the skin tight across his cheekbones. “Cutting them means a bigger immediate reduction in our expenses. We need to think about the bottom line, Danica.”
“Experience has value,” I press on, feeling the weight of each employee. I need to save them from the reckless decisions of someone who doesn’t understand their worth.
“Value doesn’t pay the bills,” he retorts, dismissive as ever. “We need to be lean, mean, efficient. Make the hard choices.”
My jaw is slack. His list includes the chief financial officer, the chief technology officer, the head of operations, and the entire sales team. “But they are…” I don’t know how to tell him they’re what’s keeping our doors open.
“Unnecessary for our growth?” His eyebrows arch. He seems almost amused. “It’ll have the best impact on our bottom line, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely.” The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I manage a polite smile. His pride in the savings is inherently wrong. I know it, but I return to the mantra that’s become my shield. His business. His way.
He points again to the highlighted names. “Do these first thing tomorrow morning. You should call the sheriff’s office and have them come, just in case someone thinks they can be difficult.”
I draw in a breath. It’s not your fault , I remind myself. This isn’t about perfection or control. It’s about survival, and sometimes, that means making decisions that hurt. “Understood,” I say, though every fiber of my being screams in protest. “I’ll prepare the necessary documents.”
“Great!” Brandon claps his hands together. “Knew I could count on you.”
As he saunters out, I sit for a moment longer, silence settling around me like a shroud. Then, with a resigned sigh, I turn back to my computer and begin the somber task of drafting layoff notices for the very people who built this company from the ground up.
I pull out a stack of envelopes, slipping their final paychecks inside. The included letters are reminders of non-competes and stock options that no longer exist—a corporate retraction of promises once made.
There’s a rap at my doorway, curt and insistent. I glance up, steeling myself for another confrontation with Brandon or perhaps a desperate plea from one of the soon-to-be-laid-off staff. But it’s Ben Wong, our head of customer service, who enters, his normally impeccable composure frayed around the edges.
“Danica, do you have a minute?” he asks.
“Of course, Ben. Please, sit down.” I motion to the chair across from my desk, a false calm settling over me. This isn’t about layoffs. His expression tells a different story.
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he thrusts a stack of papers at me—printed emails, threaded with the kind of intimate details and demeaning banter that make my skin crawl. “Brandon and I…we were involved,” he explains, looking at the floor. “Now, he’s using it against me in meetings, undercutting everything I do.”
“Involved?” I ask.
“Yes,” he looks up at me briefly. “And since I ended it, he’s been different. Hostile.” Ben’s hands tremble, and he finally takes the seat.
My fingers brush over the emails as I scan them, each line a violation, every mocking word an echo of Brandon’s disrespect. Anger simmers, mixing with a protective instinct that has me reaching for a notepad. “I’m going to document this, Ben, in case you decide to see a lawyer.” I wish I could tell him to walk out the door right now and go to an attorney, but maybe he’ll get the hint.
“Thank you,” he whispers, relief in his voice.
“None of this is your fault,” I say when I’ve finished, but as I watch him leave, I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.
Hours later, the office is a ghost of its daytime bustle, shadows stretching long across the floor. I lock up, my mind replaying the day’s events like a broken record, each turn bringing a fresh wave of fatigue.
When I reach my car, a surge of indignation washes over me. I need to go back to my apartment, to put this day to an end, but I have to worry my neighbor is going to have my car towed again.
“Enough,” I mutter to myself, tearing a piece of cardboard from a nearby recycling bin. Armed with a thick marker, I scrawl out my frustration, my warning, my promise. To the monster who had my car towed, I know where you live. Expect a lawsuit for every penny of this harassment.
When I get home, I slap the makeshift sign against the window, securing it with a strip of tape. It’s bold, maybe reckless, but I’m done being pushed around.
The elevator slowly lifts me to my temporary refuge, and as I come down the hall, I spot a box lying against the door. Yardley sent me a care package! I fiddle with the keys, pick up the box, and push the door open, greeted by the familiar sight of Mischa perched on the arm of the couch.
“Hey, girl,” I murmur, dropping my bag and the keys in a single, weary heap by the door.
I take the box to the couch, and Mischa crawls onto my lap.
I tap the call button on my phone, anticipation rising in my chest. The screen flickers to life, and there she is, but not where I expect her. “Hey, you’re not at home,” I remark. The background is all clinking glasses and low chatter, definitely not her cozy living room or her office.
“Surprise!” Yardley grins, her voice a touch too loud over the din. “Jack and I decided to sneak out for a dinner break. We needed it, you know?” She tilts the screen, and for a brief moment, Jack’s face pops into view, his hair tousled like he’s run his fingers through it one too many times tonight.
“Hello, Danica!” he yells, a boyish enthusiasm on his face that makes me smile.
“Hi, Jack!” My response mirrors his energy, but inside, disappointment stirs like a quiet storm. I wanted us to open the care package together. “Actually, Yardley, I was thinking—” I start.
“Open it now, Danica!” she interrupts, and I’m taken aback.
“No, really, it can wait. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll save it.” Don’t be ridiculous , I chide myself. It’s only a box. But it’s our thing, and today, of all days, I need something to feel right.
“Danica,” Yardley’s tone softens. “We want to see you open it, okay?”
“Okay,” I concede, the word barely a whisper. I reach for the package with a feigned smile, hoping it looks genuine enough. Growing up, I learned the hard way that sometimes being a convincing actor is necessary to keep the peace. “Let’s see what’s inside then,” I say, steadying my voice as I steady my heart.
I slide the blade of the scissors under the taped edge. The cardboard flaps open to reveal layers of delicate tissue paper, each sheet whispering secrets as I peel them back. There’s ritual to this unboxing.
“Keep going,” Yardley coaxes from the screen. “You’re not even at the good part yet.”
Beneath the tissue, a card lies nestled against the padding, its elegant script announcing a date next April. It’s far enough away to rule out any immediate life changes. Yardley isn’t pregnant. I’m sure of it. A rush of curiosity propels me forward, my fingers working faster now.
“Just a little more!” Yardley urges.
I reach into the box, and my hand closes around a ceramic handle. I lift a mug into view, turning it so I can read the writing that curves along its side: Best Maid of Honor Ever . My eyes dart up to meet Yardley’s digital gaze, and an uncontrollable squeal escapes me, piercing the quiet of my borrowed apartment. “Yardley, are you—?”
She dangles her left hand in front of the camera. It’s newly adorned with a beautiful solitaire ring. “We’re getting married!” she fills in, as Jack’s face returns to the frame, grinning broadly.
“Wow,” is all I manage, my heart climbing into my throat as I set the mug aside, diving back into the box.
It’s like a treasure chest. Bridal magazines stack one on top of another, glossy pages filled with dreams and plans. Nestled among them is a notepad branded with the words Bridezilla To-Do List . I chuckle. That would be Yardley, all right—organization personified.
“Read it,” she commands, and I do, already plotting how I’ll tackle every bulletpoint.
“Plan a weekend—or three,” I recite aloud, tracing the lines with my fingertip, “to come home to Seattle for wedding planning.”
“Yes,” Yardley says, nodding emphatically. “And there’s one more thing.”
One more thing . My gaze returns to the bottom of the box where a final piece of paper waits. It’s a voucher—a ticket from Oakland to Seattle. She’s thought of everything.
“Yardley, this is... I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll be there,” she replies, her voice softening. “And that you’ll be my maid of honor.”
“Of course, a thousand horses couldn’t keep me from your wedding,” I answer. I’m filled with joy, fear, love—all of it tangled together like the threads of our shared history. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I clutch the voucher in one hand, the best maid of honor mug in the other, and let out a squeal that could shatter glass. “Yardley! Oh my gosh, yes!”
“You’ll kill it as maid of honor,” Jack says.
“Congratulations to both of you!” The words tumble out like a cascade of confetti. “Seriously, I’m going to be the best maid of honor ever. We’re going to nail this wedding planning!” I promise, already mentally rearranging my schedule, fitting in those weekends back home.
“Love you,” Yardley says, her eyes glossy with unshed tears.
“Love you so much.” I press a hand to my chest, feeling the rapid beat of my heart. “Okay, go celebrate! You two deserve an amazing night.” I wish I could be there to hug them in person.
“We will,” Yardley assures me before they sign off, leaving me alone with my thoughts, the laughter in the air, and the promise of future joy.
When our call ends, I kick off my shoes and head straight for the kitchen to grab a can of tuna—our shared indulgence after days that stretch and twist into unrecognizable shapes. The electric hum of the can opener fills the silence, and Mischa hops down, padding softly to my side.
“Long day, Mish,” I say as I scoop half the contents onto a small plate for her and fork the rest straight from the tin on to a boring lettuce-only salad for myself. We settle into our spots, me on the floor, back against the couch, and her next to me, delicate whiskers twitching with anticipation.
“Brandon still thinks he’s king of the world. Fifteen layoffs. Can you believe it?” I sigh, watching as Mischa delicately licks at the tuna. “And then there’s Ben…caught in Brandon’s web. At least he won’t have to pack up his desk tomorrow.”
She pauses, mid-lick, and meows, a soft, questioning sound.
“Right? It’s madness,” I agree. “But I pulled him from the list. He deserves that much.” I take another bite, the salty taste grounding me.
Another meow, this one more insistent, punctuates my rambling thoughts.
“Tomorrow will be better, huh?” I ask, looking down at her. She blinks slowly, affirming my hopes with feline certainty. I smile, maybe for the first time since the sun rose this morning. “I think you’re right. It has to be.”