Meet Me in Maui

escape later

MARLEY

I can’t understand how I can pour so much into my career and still have nothing to show for it. Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic, per usual. But the numbers on my computer screen are impossible to ignore. They glare at me, bold and red. Numbers that would terrify anyone in my line of work.

They’re terrifying.

I check the time on my watch. It’s still early. The sun is still hiding in the shadows, draping Savannah in that soft, hazy stillness it displays so well. In a few short hours, my staff will be arriving.

I lean back in my chair, taking advantage of the peace, my mind rolling back to the tremulous road that brought me here.

How something that started as a dream in sixth grade has now become a reality at 32 years old.

It was a rocky start, turned great, and I was on a high, but now I’m suddenly afraid that my dream may fade away and turn into nothing but a memory.

Mod magazine is my self-made baby. A lot of hours, stress, sleepless nights, and tears went into my journey, but it was all worth it.

Mod was new, fresh, and on the verge of making itself a household name.

The cultural women’s magazine had reached the top.

Sitting on the shelves next to Vogue, Essence, and Cosmopolitan.

I land interviews with some of the best celebrities.

I have the best photographers and journalists to help make this magazine great.

But now it seems to be slowly dwindling.

A brief moment suspended in the air before gravity slowly starts to pull it back down.

And as nauseating as it is to have the mere thought of an epic fail linger in my mind, I am coming down too.

I feel it in my heartstrings. A blue funk trying to take over my mind.

I try not to overthink, but I can’t help it; it’s what I do. Overthink. I’m an overthinker. A perfectionist. I fear failure. I over-analyze. It’s a blessing and a curse.

The sun finally makes its debut. My mind is still in overdrive as my team arrives, the office seeming to wake up with lights flickering on, one by one. As soon as they log in, they will see the mandatory meeting I’ve scheduled on the Teams calendar.

I check my watch again. 8:30. My assistant, Andy, knocks twice on my office door before she cracks it open and wobbles into my office, pregnant belly and all, to remind me of the meeting I’m almost too ashamed to have.

Never have I ever walked into a meeting to tell my team that our numbers are sinking.

“Everyone is here, Ms. Jacobs. They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”

“On my way,” I smile tightly. I lock my computer screen. When I stand, my eyes drift to my wall calendar near my desk. Most of the days blurred together, boxed and color-coded.

Interviews.

Layouts.

Editorial meetings.

But tomorrow’s date is circled with a purple heart around the word Maui, written in my bubbly handwriting.

The week-long solo vacay I’d had my travel agent plan for me months before I realized my magazine would be in jeopardy.

I stand there, my eyes narrowing at the hearts circling the numbers from January 3rd to January 10th.

An overdue vacation in paradise surrounded by clear blue waters, while I spend most of my time reading books and taking naps in a cabana.

Yes. Much needed.

But not when my sales were going to shit.

I start to contemplate on my way to the conference room. Maybe I should stay. The magazine needs a strategy to get out of this hole. I can reschedule this trip for next month.

My wits and sanity think otherwise. A click in my brain. A kick in my ass.

No, girl. Go. You need this!

Right. I do need this. I will go. It’s not like the magazine will fail if I’m out for a week. What good will I be if I don’t rejuvenate my mind, body, and soul? I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. I’m going to take my vacation, but work first. Escape later.

My staff is already mid-conversation when I step into the glass-wall conference room, voices overlapping in eager bursts. My true and trusted team. Over half of them have been with me since my magazine started as a digital publication, and before it went to print.

The chatter calms when I enter. All eyes on me.

I’m dressed in my burgundy pencil skirt and matching blazer, balancing my third cup of caffeine for the day.

It’s piping hot and full of dirty bean water that will give me the much-needed energy necessary to get me through this day.

I set the mug down on a coaster at the head of the table where I stand.

“Good morning,” I smile, and 12 voices echo it back to me in unison.

My best friend, Willow, or Lo, as everyone calls her, sits to my right, beaming like a ray of sunshine. I’ve just promoted her to Executive Editor, and she is now working closely under me.

I’m proud of her. She has worked twice as hard for this position, not wanting to seem like she’s gotten it for the sake of being my best friend, but because she was truly and insanely talented, which she is.

Through and through. No matter how much I tried to hand Lo the EE title, she wouldn’t take it.

She wanted to finish school, come in at a level that made sense, and build her way up without anyone questioning how she got there.

I match my bestie’s grin before facing the rest of the team.

“I wish we were here for pleasantries,” I begin, fingers resting lightly on the back of my chair. “But I’m not going to lie to you, I’m upset. Our Q2 numbers are down 12 percent in print and nine percent in digital engagement.”

I watch a few people shift in their chairs.

“We can blame market trends. We can blame attention spans. Or…we can admit we played it safe last quarter.”

Silence and then a grunt from Siobhan, one of my day ones, who then proceeds with, “Or,” she drags out the word. “We can blame your sister. She was supposed to give us an exclusive that would have had Mod flying off the shelves.”

My eyebrows lift, and I tilt my head with a grimace.

“I mean, no offense, Mar, I’m just being honest.”

Honest, of course she was. It was the Siobhan way.

It wouldn’t be the Siobhan way if she weren’t giving morality, high energy, and the unapologetic truth.

In life and at each and every board meeting.

I loved that about her. It was the reason I hired her to be my editorial director.

But her truth was pouring salt on my irritability right now.

Truth hurts.

Mainly because, right now, my sister, Jinni, is a sensitive subject. For various reasons that would take an entire book to explain, so I won’t. At least not now.

(hint hint)

And although I’m upset that my baby sis reneged on the interview she promised she’d give us, I understand her reason for backing out. I’m proud of her for finally taking a stand and telling her story, her way.

A timid hand goes up from Janessa, another day one, who works in marketing. “What is going on with that and is there a way you can convince your sister to-”

“No.” I cut her off before she can finish. “There isn’t. Jinni has made up her mind and has decided to make a tell-all book. She doesn’t want any spoilers from any interviews with anyone until after it’s released.”

Murmurs pick up between everyone in the room. Everyone except Lo, who gives me an apologetic look.

“Listen,” I interject once again. “Let’s stay focused. Please. We missed a good one with that, I agree. But we can, and we will find something better, if not just as good. I believe that we can turn these numbers around.”

Hell, we have to.

The Creative Director, Timmy, leans forward. “The self-love issue tested well in focus groups.”

“It did,” I nod in agreement. “But testing well and selling well aren’t the same thing.”

Janessa slides a manila folder across the table. “Can I remind everyone that our strongest performing issue in the last five years was the June Weddings feature?”

Lo taps her pen once against her notebook. “She’s right. Eighteen percent circulation spike. Thirty-two percent increase in ad partnerships. Bridal, travel, jewelry. It was a clean sweep.”

My mind floats back to June 2021. I don’t need to look at the numbers to know that Janessa and Lo are right.

The issue is one of the few covers hanging on my wall at home.

An African-American supermodel with skin the color of rich umber graced the cover.

She was fresh in the super modeling world and irresistibly gorgeous.

But it wasn’t just her beauty that had people rushing to the newsstands.

It was the custom wedding gown by a Nigerian designer that sealed it.

Flesh-toned silk that melted into her skin and the intricate hand-sewn beading that caught the light no matter which way she turned.

The dress went viral and the cover sold out in days.

Siobhan clasps her hands together. “Which just goes to show that nostalgia and romance still convert.” A serene smile graces her red-painted lips.

“I actually put something together a few months ago, just in case we decide to do a wedding issue again.” Felix sits at the opposite end of the table and flips his laptop around to show us his mock cover concepts.

Island citrus hues. Veils in motion. Bridesmaids in brown satin gowns.

Sculptural presentations of food. Tables draped in floor-length tablecloths that swathed and pooled to the floor.

As the art director, he’s truly created an eye-catching mood board.

Siobhan nods vigorously, her black, bone-straight hair that’s giving 1970s Cher, moving in waves. “I love it. I honestly have been thinking the same thing for some time now. We should revisit the theme. But that’s just my opinion.”

I feel like a Negative Nancy when I say, “I love it too, but do we really need another wedding issue? Mod doesn’t cover weddings.”

Siobhan rolls her eyes. “I mean, we want to do what sells, right? And weddings are hot. They sell.”