Sixteen #2
It’s close enough to the truth to feel stable. I don’t elaborate or over explain.
Heather watches me a moment longer, weighing the answer. “You must have made an impression.”
“I do solid work.”
“We’ll see what you do with the pieces I give you.” The corner of her mouth quirks but not quite a smile.
Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies me again. “You look familiar.”
A small current runs through me, quick and sharp, but I don’t let it reach my face. “I get that sometimes.” She wasn’t an everyday regular at the coffee cart, but she came often.
She leans back in her chair, still looking. “It’ll come to me.”
“I’m sure it will,” I say evenly.
The silence stretches just long enough to shift the atmosphere from interrogation to appraisal. Then she straightens, business returning.
“Let me offer you some unsolicited advice,” she says. “Ciro Marino is hot as sin. He’s also not known for restraint. He dips his wick in anything and everything that catches his eye.”
The words are delivered casually, almost conversationally, but her eyes remain fixed on me, searching for a reaction.
“I’m here to work,” I say. “That’s my focus.”
“Good.” She nods once. “Keep it that way.”
She reaches for a folder on the table and slides it across to me. “You’ll start with departmental profit and loss statements. Last quarter and the current month. I want reconciliations, variances flagged, and any anomalies noted. You’ll coordinate with Janet Ellis on forecasts if needed.”
I open the folder and scan the first page. Clean formatting. Real numbers. Real responsibility. “When do you need it?”
“As soon as possible,” she replies. “We’re not here to babysit. If you have questions, ask. If you can’t keep up, you won’t stay.”
There’s no malice in it. Just expectation.
“I won’t need babysitting.”
Her gaze holds mine for a final second before she stands. “Good. Because I don’t have time for it.”
When we step back onto the floor, the hum of the office resumes around us. Heather peels off toward her glass-walled office without another word.
She wanted to know who I knew.
The truth is, for the first time, I’m not here because of who I know.
I’m here because I can do the work.
As I walk to my cubicle pod, there are three faces pretending not to watch me.
After I sit and get settled, the woman directly across from me swivels first. “So,” she says with a friendly smile, “you survived Heather.”
“I think so,” I reply.
“I’m Janet,” she says, extending her hand across the low partition. “Financial analyst. I live in spreadsheets and mild panic.”
Her handshake is brisk and confident. There’s a steadiness to her that suggests she prefers numbers to people but has learned to navigate both.
“Bethany,” the woman to my right adds, leaning back in her chair. “Risk management. Which means I assume the worst so everyone else can sleep at night.”
She grins when she says it, making it clear she’s half joking.
“And George,” the man to my left says, lifting his coffee in greeting. “Internal audit. I make sure nobody’s been creative with the books.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I say.
He smiles at that, the expression mild and curious rather than probing.
Janet tilts her head. “Where were you before this?”
“A mix of temp work,” I answer smoothly. “Mostly reconciliation and some financial reporting support.”
“Ah.” Bethany nods, as if that explains something. “Heather loves reconciliations. If you enjoy digging through variance reports, you’ll fit in.”
“I do,” I say, and I don’t have to pretend.
There’s a brief exchange of glances between them, the kind that happens when a new hire claims enthusiasm for something most people tolerate.
“Well,” George says, turning back to his screen, “we’ll see how long that lasts.”
I sit and open the folder Heather handed me, and I boot up my computer for the first time. An internal instant message pings.
Ciro: Hey. How did the onboarding go?
Me: With HR, it was smooth. Heather was a little territorial and went out of her way to tell me you sleep around and to watch out.
Ciro: I’ll fire her.
Me: Don’t. She’s just trying to figure me out. I’m ignoring her, but I have work to do.
Ciro: Are you free for lunch?
Me: I don’t know, but I can’t hang with you. That would give it all away.
Ciro: Come up anyway. Everyone here knows about you. Your key card gives you access to our floor. You won’t run into anyone here.
Me: I’ll see. I was going to work during lunch. I’ll see you at home later.
Ciro: I like that you call it home.
My heart skips. Why did I call it home? I’m not going to stay. This is just a chance to hide for a bit.
Ciro: Come up for lunch. I’ll order you Gianna’s favorite Chinese chicken salad from Chens.
Me: I’ve got to work now. I’ll do my best.
The profit and loss summary fills the monitor once I log in, clean columns of revenue and expense by department, each line item holding its own quiet story. I scroll slowly at first, taking in the structure, the way the accounts are grouped, the rhythm of the reporting.
Janet leans over the partition. “We usually go out for lunch around noon. There’s a place down the street that does decent salads and terrible coffee. You’re welcome to join.”
The offer is casual, not performative. An inclusion without pressure.
“Thank you,” I say. “I already have plans today, but I’d love to another time.”
“Plans on your first day?” Bethany raises an eyebrow playfully.
“Ambitious,” George mutters.
“Or efficient,” I reply, smiling.
Janet laughs softly. “Fair enough. We’ll grab you something if we see a pastry worth bringing back.”
The conversation dissolves into the quiet hum of keyboards and muted phone calls. I turn back to the numbers and let myself sink into them.
The first variance appears in marketing spend, subtle but persistent across two departments.
I pull the prior quarter for comparison and then the supporting detail, tracing the line back to a reclassification that doesn’t quite align with the memo attached.
It’s small enough that most people would let it pass, but it bothers me.
I roll up the sleeves of my blouse and lean closer to the screen.
There’s something deeply satisfying about this work. Numbers don’t posture. They don’t pretend. They either reconcile or they don’t. When they don’t, there’s always a reason.
I build a separate worksheet and begin mapping the adjustments, aligning debits and credits until the discrepancy sharpens into focus. A simple coding error. Easy to fix once you see it, invisible until you care enough to look.
Time thins without my noticing. The office noise fades to a background murmur, and the only thing that exists is the logic unfolding beneath my hands. I flag two more inconsistencies and draft concise notes beside each, outlining the corrective entry required.
When Janet stands and announces, “Lunch,” I glance at the clock in surprise. Nearly one.
Bethany pushes back her chair and stretches. “Last call.”
“I’m good,” I say without looking up. “Go ahead.”
George pauses beside my desk. “You really like this, don’t you?”
I meet his gaze. “I do.”
He studies me for a second, as if recalibrating whatever assumption he made earlier, and then nods. “All right. Don’t fix everything while we’re gone.”
“No promises.”
They head toward the elevators together, voices low and easy. When the floor quiets again, I turn back to the screen and finish documenting the corrections.
Competence isn’t flashy. It doesn’t announce itself. It simply works.
I adjust the entry, save the file, and move to the next department.