Chapter 15
“PRETTY SURE THIS CLASSIFIES as unsafe working conditions,” Jill yells, aiming the words at Camilla’s closed door. The air-conditioning broke last night, and the office is teetering on one billion degrees.
I’m slouched over in my desk chair, sweat dripping from my eyebrows while I type out summaries of all the businesses that have called in this week looking to be featured. Once that’s finished and all websites have been linked, I’ll email the list to Camilla. We typically get a couple of calls like that per week, some local business for free press coverage. As Camilla puts it, “We lend a voice to people who are overlooked.”
While I jot down the contact info for a new candy store in the neighborhood, I’m surprised by my own good mood. Normally, I’d be trying to find an excuse to leave early and head home to the air-conditioning. But I’m actually enjoying this. I like doing this, in the same way I like running pleasebreakmyheart, the same way I used to like being a waitress.
I just can’t put my finger on the thread that connects them all. Why don’t these jobs make me itch out of my skin, like all my previous attempts at finding something to love?
It dawns on me then. I think the commonality between all of them is taking care of people. I spent my entire life around two older sisters who took care of me in more ways than I can count. I remember how safe it made me feel, how protected, how supported. Now I get to turn the tables. I get to be the one helping others. And maybe that’s why it feels so rewarding, to be paying that sentiment forward.
Which is why I don’t complain when I spend the next hour calling every HVACR company in town to find someone to come fix the air-conditioning. When I have someone booked in, I email it over to Camilla.
Seconds later, the door to her office opens. Her thick brown hair is clipped up, and a slight sheen of sweat glistens on her forehead. “Jackie found someone to come tomorrow to repair—”
“ Tomorrow? ” they all groan. I slide down in my chair, hiding from view.
Camilla leans against the doorframe, dabbing a yellow polka-dot cloth on her face. “It’s the soonest they can make it. Jackie, can you open the front door? Try to get some sort of breeze in here?”
“Sure,” I say, grateful for an excuse to step away from my laptop. I grab a heavy vase off the coffee table and use it as a doorstop. Even with the door entirely open, it barely helps. It’s stagnant and humid outside, without so much as a trace of a breeze.
My phone buzzes with a text from Wilson, who has clearly violated some sort of employee-confidentiality agreement to get my number. He sent a photo of a brown wicker basket with two handles on the side and a white fabric basket that looks like the one Julie has in her bedroom. With the photo, he wrote Which one?
Of course he texts with uppercase letters.
I’m assuming he’s choosing a basket for Kenzie’s gift. shouldn’t you be at work? I write back in all lowercase like a normal person.
Air-conditioning broke so we closed early. It will be fixed by tomorrow in time for your shift. Don’t worry.
oh thank god. i was SO terrified i’d have the night off.
It’s beginning to feel like the universe is playing some kind of joke on me, throwing in yet another similarity between me and Wilson. It’s not enough that I spend the day sweating through my clothes. Now I need to know that he’s doing the same thing a few miles away? Ridiculous.
The bubble to indicate he’s typing pops up, then goes away like he’s changed his mind. Then pops up again. Which basket is better?
are you asking because you value my opinion?
No.
I perch myself on the couch, fingers flying across the keyboard. then ask someone else, I write back.
He responds with: Jackie . I can so clearly hear his voice saying my name, stressing the k sound too harshly, that familiar mix of impatience and intolerance.
He sends another text. Fine. I value it a very small bit. Which basket??
the one on the left.
You couldn’t have said that from the beginning and spared me this conversation?
“Who are you texting with that big smile on your face?”
I jump, looking up to find Maude standing in front of me with a knowing smirk on her face.
“What? I’m not—” But I realize that she’s right. I am smiling. At my phone. While texting Wilson.
The heat has officially driven me insane.
“Fine, fine, keep it a secret. But I hope it works out.” Maude winks, grabbing a candy from the bowl before returning to her desk.
I shrug off her comment, suck in one final breath of fresh air, and head back to my desk. Camilla is standing next to it, chatting with Jill. The sight of them together reminds me that I’ve completely dropped the ball on figuring out what the hell is going on with them. This looks like the perfect time to jump back in.
Camilla steps to the side when I sit in my chair. I expect them to immediately stop talking as per usual, but they continue the conversation like I’m not even there.
“Have you figured out how to contact her?” Camilla asks, leaning against the back of Jillian’s chair and staring at her computer screen.
“I can’t find an email anywhere. Her account is like a freaking crypt. No name, contact info, nothing. She’s completely anonymous,” Jill says, ending with a sigh.
Despite the heat, I feel a cool tingle down my spine.
“Maybe we need to bite the bullet and contact her like everyone else does,” Camilla says.
Jill spins around in her chair until they’re face-to-face. “Send her a message? Isn’t that too... informal?”
I try to sneak a peek at Jill’s computer screen, but it’s angled too far away. There’s no way they can be talking about what I think they’re talking about.
“I’d normally say yes, but it seems like the only way to get a hold of her. If we want to nail this story, I’m thinking we have to get creative. Send her a message, let her know the story we’re trying to run, and include your email address. The second she responds, let me know.”
“Yeah. Will do,” Jill says. By her tone alone, I can pick up on the stress she’s feeling.
I watch as Camilla gently lays her hand on Jill’s shoulder. “And great work.” Then she heads back into her office, keeping the door open this time.
Jill spins her chair back around, facing her computer. She catches me staring. Her eyes narrow. “What do you want?”
I nod at the computer. “What was that about?”
She blows out a long breath and looks around the room quickly. Michelle, who sits closest to us, has her headphones on, and everyone else is too distracted to notice. Still, Jill leans in and lowers her voice when she says, “There’s a promotion up for grabs.”
“No way. What’s the position?”
“Senior writer,” she says quietly. “It comes with a big pay increase, too. Like, huge.”
I smile widely. “That’s amazing. Have you spoken to Camilla about it?”
“I have, but she’s considering a couple other people in the office, too. Which is why I need to nail this interview, to show her that I’m the best journalist we have.”
“You are,” I say. It’s true. I’ve subscribed to The Rundown for over a year now, ever since Jill first started. I’ve read so many articles written by her coworkers, and, don’t get me wrong, they’re all great. Every single one of them has such a unique voice and style that creates this literary montage. But Jill’s pieces have an intimacy to them, as if she totally immerses herself in these peoples’ lives to write articles that perfectly capture them in a vulnerable, flattering light.
Jill is like me—we both see Ridgewood as a stop along the way. It’s not where we’re meant to end up. Julie is different. Julie has a career here; she’s building a family. She wants the white picket fence and the husband who comes home from work at five. For her, Ridgewood is enough. It’s home in a way that it will never be for the two of us.
I know what this promotion means to Jill. A better job, a better résumé, a better chance to move to a different newspaper in a city far, far away. It’s the same reason I work two jobs and fight to afford a car. It’s a means of escape. A way to go see Suzy, sure. But it’s more than that. It’s the comfort that comes with knowing that at any moment, at any chance I have, I can get in, drive, and never look back.
Sometimes reality is easier to face when it feels like you have an escape route.
Even with the stress and the heat I can see the sparkle of excitement shining in her eyes. “This is the story, Jackie. If I can make this happen, the job is mine.”
A bead of sweat drips from my brow. “What story is it?” I ask, dreading the answer.
Jill clams up. “I don’t want to say too much and jinx it,” she says, superstitious as ever. “I need to send off this message and hope for the best.”
I gulp. “You got this.”
My mind is racing with every worst-case scenario. I try to gaslight myself into believing I’m fine, that nothing is going on, that I’m reading too much into nothing, but I can’t shake the feeling that the person my sister is desperately trying to interview is me .
To quiet my mind, I begin my next task: transcribing old interviews. But I’m too distracted to make it through a single sentence. My gaze keeps wandering back to Jillian, who has been typing and deleting the same sentence a dozen times now.
“Pssst... Jackie,” Michelle calls from her desk, her headphones now resting on her neck. “You okay? Your face is beet red.”
I touch the back of my hand to my forehead and feel how hot it is. “Fine, yeah. Just hot.”
Michelle heads over to the mini fridge, then tosses a can of Diet Coke at me. By some miracle, I catch it. “Drink that, and water, too. You need something to eat? I have a protein bar in here somewhere...” She begins digging around in her purse.
I press the cold can to my neck. “This is great. Thanks,” I say. I do feel like I’m about to pass out, but the heat has nothing to do with it.
“You do look terrible,” Jill chimes in, fingers hovering above her keyboard. “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I say quickly. I need to stay here and monitor this potential situation.
Jill only shakes her head. “Whatever you say,” she says, returning her attention to the computer screen.
The next five minutes tick by in slow agony. I’ve retyped the same sentence into a half-blank Word document about thirty-seven times. I’ve chugged the entire can of Diet Coke, and now the caffeine is making me feel jittery. My foot is tapping on the floor. I’m unsure when I even began doing that, but I can’t seem to stop.
Then Jill pushes away from the desk, her chair wheeling a few feet back. “Done,” she declares, standing up and stretching her neck. My gaze followers her to the mini fridge, watching as she pulls out a water bottle. Then she starts talking with Fatima, buying me a few seconds.
I can’t help but look at my phone. I have to check. I have to know .
After dimming the screen brightness, I pull up my iDiary inbox and wait for it to load. As soon as I see the text, I sink into my chair.
Hey pleasebreakmyheart. I’m Jillian, a journalist from the women-owned and -operated online magazine called The Rundown. We’re fascinated by the community you’ve built here and would love to learn more about you, the account, and what inspired it. Send me an email over at [email protected] so we can schedule a time to talk.
I read it again, hoping the text will begin to rearrange itself into an entirely new message and I’m actually just illiterate. But nope, the letters remain exactly where they are.
So Jillian’s promotion relies on her securing an interview with me, where she will no doubt figure out who I am and blow the entire anonymous presence I’ve now spent weeks building. Where she’ll realize I’ve been recycling bits and pieces from her life, reusing and rewording them to fit into new molds. I had convinced myself she’d be proud of me, but after seeing how this blog affected Wilson, I’m not so sure anymore. What if Jill feels betrayed? Taken advantage of? Exposed ?
What if I have to go back to pre- pleasebreakmyheart Jackie? The version of me that wasn’t good at anything ?
I can’t lose this blog. Not yet.
But I can’t let Jill lose this promotion after hearing how badly she wants it.
As the rest of the day flies by, I desperately try to come up with a solution. Then it’s five o’clock, and Michelle is offering me a ride home. As usual, Jillian is staying late. If I had a feeling that she and Camilla were secretly back together, this full-on confirmed it. Everyone knows “staying late” is the universal way to say “sleeping with my boss.” I just need to poke around a bit more and find concrete evidence to confirm these suspicions.
By the time Michelle and I settle into her car, I realize that I forgot my backpack in the office.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, already annoyed at having to abandon the air-conditioning blasting at my face.
I run back up the street. As I’m waiting for the light to turn red so I can cross, I see the front office door open. Jill walks outside, then Camilla behind her. Camilla locks the door, and the two of them walk to Jill’s car, which is parallel parked right outside.
I’m so hung up on the fact that the door is now locked, with my backpack inside, it barely hits me that they are getting into the car together . When it does, I come to a full stop.
Jill’s car windows are barely tinted, and I watch as they sit down inside, talking and grinning the entire time. And then the worst possible thing happens.
They kiss.