Lauryn Harper Falls Apart

Chapter One

There is a limit to the socially acceptable number of times you can ask someone to repeat themselves—and five fateful seconds ago, I spent my last what .

For most people, I stick to two. A lifetime of being deaf in my right ear has taught me that people give up when they hear one what too many.

They’ll wave it off with a Never mind , leaving me to stew in frustrated curiosity.

For friends, I’ll allow myself a third. They’re usually more patient, but even they can only repeat themselves for so long before they grow self-conscious and decide no offhand remark is worth that much fanfare.

My problem: I’ve hit my what limit on someone who is definitely not a friend, and there’s no way out.

I tried so hard. Dan Gorland—my boss’s boss’s boss, the smugly all-knowing chief strategy officer here at Ryser’s DC headquarters—opened his mouth to repeat himself yet again, and I zeroed in on his every word with utmost precision.

I tilted my one working ear closer to him.

I tried to tune out the jazzy trumpet solo playing from the elevator speakers above us.

I fixed my gaze on his lips to make out the shape of his words.

But as he spoke, he brought his coffee to his mouth, blocking my view.

I could only stare helplessly at his Starbucks cup as he once again uttered an incomprehensible string of sounds.

His voice turned up at the end, like a question.

There was an uneasy smile on his face. His brown eyes darted strangely behind his black-rimmed glasses, flitting between me and the closed elevator doors.

I toss a glance at the doors too, wishing I had a witness.

Not thirty seconds ago, I’d been talking in the lobby with Selma, the only person at this company I’d consider a friend, three- what status and all.

While we waited for the elevator, we’d been joking about a clunky company-mandated content platform we’ve been trying to get rid of.

If she’d been here, she could have answered him for me.

But right before the elevator reached the lobby, she patted her back pocket and groaned that she must have left her phone in her car.

So, when the elevator opened its doors, I stepped inside alone—and promptly jumped when Dan materialized beside me. I covered my surprise with a smile and said hello, he said whatever mysterious thing he said, and now we’re in hell.

This is why I hate in-person interactions.

If this had been an email, none of this would be happening.

I’d have read his words in unmistakable Calibri and known exactly what to say.

Even if this were a Zoom meeting like the ones Dan calls when he doesn’t feel like coming into the office, I’d still be safely tucked away in my ninth-floor cubicle, content in the knowledge that if I had trouble hearing anyone, I could just turn the volume up.

Real life, unfortunately, does not have a volume button.

“Lauryn?” Dan says. His tone is direct, prompting, like he’s a teacher calling on a student who’s done nothing but disappoint him. His once-polite smile is tight and frozen. I’m running out of time.

I purse my lips, considering my options.

I could ask him to repeat himself again , but he’s already losing patience with me.

I think about the presentation he gave at the office-wide meeting last month, how he barked Next slide twice when his assistant didn’t advance the slide at the speed of light.

As though he were urgently saving a life and not delivering a dull presentation about how Ryser, the food conglomerate we work for that produces everything from cereal to cat food, could boost profits by breaking into the lucrative skin-care market.

The thought of him taking that brusque tone with me makes me want to wither away on the spot. I’ve spent ten years carefully crafting a reputation for excellence in my slow climb up the corporate ladder. I’m not letting a sixty-second elevator ride knock me down a rung.

I could stall until the elevator reaches my floor.

My gaze flickers to the top corner of the elevator, where a digital red 4 beams at me.

I don’t think I have five floors of stalling in me.

What would I do, pretend to think it over with the world’s longest Um ?

Act engrossed in the light jazz playing overhead and say, Oh, my favorite song!

There’s a thrilling flute solo coming up—let’s wait and listen for it ?

Or I could fall back on my usual approach: an insincere chuckle and a Yeah .

Not foolproof, but it’s gotten me through many a strategy meeting.

If someone’s made a joke or asked a question that can be answered in the affirmative, I’m in the clear.

It’s the times when it’s not applicable—like when I’m at the doctor’s office and the nurse asks for my date of birth, or when I’m waiting for my latte at Starbucks and the person next to me asks me if I’m in line—that it muddies the waters.

But that’s not so bad. They just look at me a little strangely and repeat themselves like the nurse did.

Or, in the latter case, start forming a line behind me that I don’t notice until it’s four people deep, at which point, in a desperation to absolve myself of my newly appointed role as Official Rogue Line Leader, I flee the store before my order’s called.

It’s not a perfect strategy. But it is starting to sound more appealing.

Another glance at the indicator panel. We’re still passing the fourth floor somehow, even though I feel like we’ve gone up and down this entire building at least three times since the moment Dan opened his mouth and asked me god knows what.

I suck in a breath and make a decision. A smile splits my face and a laugh falls out of me, all carefree and cool. “Yeah,” I say.

I try my hardest to put every intonation possible into that one word.

It’s a versatile yeah . If he’s asking if I’m excited for the CEO’s talk at the all-staff meeting this afternoon, then yeah !

If he’s asking if I want to give an impromptu presentation at said meeting, then—well, I’d have a new problem, but at least I’d be free of this one.

This yeah can be anything as long as I sell it. I know from seeing myself in the corner of Dan’s occasional Zoom meetings that my normal expression resembles resting bitch face—a face that once prompted Dan to ask if I had a problem with his Q2 strategy.

At the time, I stammered out a denial and apologized, though I’m still not sure what I was apologizing for—having a face?

If Dan had an ounce of self-awareness, he might stop to unpack why he found my resting bitch face threatening.

Every other person on the call was also unsmiling.

Selma was actively frowning; she told me once that she plays Tetris in another window during boring calls, and I assume an L block was getting the best of her again.

But Selma is blond and can turn on cheer and charm like a faucet.

Resting bitch face on me, a half-Black woman who spends too much time agonizing over minor interactions, must have Dan throwing me into angry Black woman territory by default.

So, I started smiling more when Dan’s in attendance. It’s stupid, but it keeps him from calling on me, and I’ve got to play the game if I want the communications manager promotion I’ve spent the last two years gunning for. Angry Black women don’t get promotions.

Now, though, I play it up even more. I am a circus clown. I am the Cheshire cat. I won’t give Dan a single reason to be thrown off by my chuckle- yeah . I hold my manic grin and my breath and wait for him to accept my response.

Accept it, Dan. Accept it.

Instead, his face falls. His eyes widen. He takes a step back, clutching his coffee cup tight enough that it bows slightly.

I step back too, bumping into the unforgiving steel wall.

How could one word leave him this aghast?

I feel an urge to smooth over the situation—offer up an apology, maybe.

But a blind apology could backfire as spectacularly as the chuckle- yeah .

For the thousandth time, I wonder what the hell he could have asked me.

I give up the guessing game and pivot to my usual strategy when awkwardness strikes: flee. I train my eyes on the elevator doors and wait for salvation.

The rest of the ride is silent, save for a gentle saxophone valiantly doing its best to fill the dead air.

When the elevator reaches my floor, I’m ready to bolt, but Dan surprises me by stepping off first and breaking into an all-out run down the hall, even though he’d pressed the button for the fourteenth floor.

Clearly, yeah was the wrong thing to say.

In retrospect, there are a few important pieces of context I wish I’d thought of at the time:

The content platform Selma and I were joking about in the lobby is the Brand Learning Library, a hub for storing our PR guidelines. Everyone else calls it BLL, but Selma and I call it Bill.

We’re the only people who call it Bill.

Selma and I have been plotting how to get rid of Bill, in all his sluggishness, since he was introduced last year. Specifically, we use the term kill Bill . It sounds more purposeful, like we’re on a mission. With Uma Thurman.

The language I used when talking to Selma was perhaps a little suspect to the outside observer.

I was telling Selma that I’d be meeting with our boss today to propose getting rid of Bill, and that I’d gathered some statistics to support my case—but I didn’t say it in those exact words.

According to the formal HR report Dan submitted later that morning, I used the following phrases: I’m finally gonna kill Bill.

I’m doing it today, before the all-staff. I’ve got all the ammo I need .

Our CEO’s name is Bill Sullivan.

Twenty-five minutes later, when my boss calls me into her office with a startlingly somber expression, she tells me exactly what Dan asked me in the elevator that morning.

He’d asked, “You’re not seriously planning to murder Bill Sullivan, are you?”

And I, like an absolute psychopath, had laughed and said yes.