Chapter 3
three
The High Road
Igave my notice two weeks ago and cashed in my shares at the same time.
Vick has been extra salty about my resignation, and I think it’s because he knows Patricia isn’t all she’s cracked up to be.
Two weeks of following her plan from my idea has left the team going in circles and redoing work—work that I have not been helping with beyond the minimum requirement.
Malicious compliance, I believe it’s called.
I follow Patricia’s requests to the letter, no exceptions. When the art brief for the German relaunch goes tits up, as I knew it would, I get called into Vick’s office on my last day. To say that I have quitteritus is an understatement. I’m so, so ready to blow the roof off this popsicle stand.
Vick asks me to sit. His eyebrows are already pinched in frustration.
“What happened with the German cover for Sand and Sun?”
I pull up Patricia’s email on my phone and slide it across the desk. “She says, ‘Tell the art department less orange in the title.’”
“But that was for the Falling Back in Love cover,” he says, his anger barely restrained.
“It says right here in the email chain, Sand and Sun,” I say, pointing to the title.
I know Patricia messed up and replied on the wrong chain, but I’m just doing what they said I was good at: Following her direction.
“Well, you should’ve interpreted what she meant!” he says, red-faced and fists clenched.
I pull my phone away for fear of what might happen to it if he gets any angrier.
“How could I have interpreted she meant a different book cover?”
“We had a meeting about it,” he snaps.
“One I wasn’t invited to,” I say calmly, though my nerves are firing at a thousand miles a second.
He slams his fist down as he stands. “Because you’re leaving!”
My heart hammers in my chest as my eyes follow his every move. Fight or flight has definitely kicked in, and I’ve chosen to stand my ground. I know I did wrong, but they deserve it. This won’t hurt the press in the long run, and it’s teaching them a valuable lesson: Don’t put fuckwits in charge.
I stay silent as he calms down from his outburst, the red in his cheeks intensifying as embarrassment floods his face. He licks his lips and runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s done this a few times today already.
“I’m sorry. That was unacceptable,” he says.
He adjusts his tie, as if it’s a too-tight noose around his neck, and then sits.
“I’m disappointed in your behavior over the last two weeks, but I can see what it’ll be like without you and it’s not what I want for the imprint. So, what’ll it take to make you stay?”
I take a deep breath and look down at my hands resting in my lap. It stings that he’s only now recognizing my value. It’s really hurtful that I had to prove my worth by showing them the pain of my absence.
“More money?” he prompts when I don’t answer.
I shake my head. “I will never be happy here.”
The words shock me, but they’re true.
His brow wrinkles. “But you were happy. You can be again, just…tell me what to do.”
A thousand things fire through my mind, from “Fire Patricia” to “Get on your knees and beg.” None of them feel sufficient to mend the wound that Waldorf Press ripped through my heart.
“We can talk about a Holiday bonus, more PTO, you can keep reporting to me—though in your job description it would still say you report to the Senior Publicist…”
He’s offering bribes instead of a real solution. The one he knows he needs to offer me. The nasty streak in me, the one that wanted to ruin Patricia’s life a few weeks ago, flares to life. It wants to rub Vick’s face in all the wrong he’s done, let him taste the shit sandwich he created.
The reasonable, rational side of me knows that no amount of hurting Vick will heal me. And though it feels like trying to calm down a screaming four-year-old in a grocery store, I quiet the vindictive side and take control again.
“Nothing you can offer will make me stay,” I say.
He winces, his eyes shutting. “Why?”
“Do you really want to know?”
He opens his eyes and sighs, then nods. “Truly, I want to know.”
I swallow back the bitterness I want to sling, and stick to my truth.
“Waldorf Press was my home. It was a safe, happy place for me to progress in my career, and grow the imprint. I wanted to bring wonderful stories to readers all around the world…and you broke my trust. You overlooked and dismissed me. You basically called me a liar when I told you the translation re-cover project was mine.”
He tongues his cheek and looks down. “So…it’s all my fault.”
“No. Patricia broke my trust, too. She was supposed to be my colleague. Someone I could bounce ideas around with, who would help me, and I would help. But she stole from me, constantly. She claimed my victories as hers. She sleuthed her way into the senior position and now the entire company will suffer from her deception.”
Vick digests what I’ve said. My hands are shaking. I’ve never felt so selfish or scared in my life—but prioritizing my health and happiness is my first and most important job. No one else is going to look out for me the way I can. The way I have to.
The way I have.
“I bought a little bookstore in Wisconsin,” I say as I stand.
Vick’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “You bought a business?”
I smile and nod. “Yeah. I’m really excited.”
“Huh,” he grunts, sitting back. “I’m sure that’s had nothing to do with your level of distraction this week.”
I pull a face. “Definitely not. Hasn’t crossed my mind once during work hours.”
He scoffs and taps his fingers on the table. It seems like most of the anger has bled out of him, but I can feel we haven’t really resolved everything. An olive branch might do the trick.
“Maybe one day, I can host a launch party for one of Waldorf’s releases,” I say.
He bobs his head, and then a little smirk plays on his lips. “That would be nice.”
Put a little bow on it and call this interaction done.
I give him another moment to see if he’s got anything else to get off his chest about my bad behavior, but he seems to be lost in thought.
“Is that all, sir?” I finally prompt.
He looks up at me from a distant place and his eyes refocus. “I wish you wouldn’t have shown me the truth so harshly.”
“I wish there would’ve been any other way for you to see it.”
“These last two weeks have been rough,” he says with a grimace. “Do you think she can do it without you?”
I shrug. “She has the same degree and experience as me.”
“That’s not an answer, Cait,” he grumbles.
I consider back to what she was like in the early days. We’d come into the press a few months apart, and she was so eager back then. Bright-eyed and excited. Somewhere along the way, the wins became more important than the work…for both of us, maybe.
“She’s going to need to remember why she joined the team, and then yeah, I think she can.”
He blows out his cheeks and leans back in his chair. “Well, thanks, for everything. And…I’m sorry I pushed you out.”
That last part sounds more pouty than sincere, but I’ll take it.
“I’m not,” I say with a soft smile. “I’m chasing my dream.”
His eyes crinkle at the edges. “Go get it.”
“Open?” I ask as I turn to the door.
“Please.”
I don’t expect Patricia’s face to be right there when I open the door, but it is. Seeing her there, forehead wrinkled, lips pursed, makes me start.
“Can I talk to you,” she says—not asks—as she turns around and heads toward her new office, not waiting for me to follow.
I glance back at Vick and whisper, “HR can’t fire me on my last day, right?”
“They can,” he mumbles, then shakes his head with a scoff. “What happened to meek Cait?”
“I think she realized she wasn’t doing us any good and went to hide in a hole,” I say, and he chuckles.
It’s not true, though. The need to be small, to pipe down, is still running very strong in the background. I can sense it just beyond every decision I make, but I just have too much indignation, too much hurt, to let it reign like it has in the past five years.
“Caitlin?” Patricia snaps from her office door.
I spin around and plaster on the biggest, fakest smile for her. I take my time walking through the cubes, turning heads as I go.
Patricia steps away from her door as I get closer.
“Close it,” she says as she sits behind her new, shiny oak desk.
“Close what? The Sand and Sun account? The gira ticket for the title color change?”
“The door,” she barks, then mumbles, “But your mouth would be better.”
Oh, this bitch. All right. Gloves off.
I close the door with a good amount of force, making her startle. Her nostrils flare and she glares at me.
“Oops,” I say as I stroll up to the window and look out.
It’s a decent office with a nice view of the city. It towers in silver and black out there in the distance, miles away. We’re closer to the burbs, which was the only way I was able to afford an apartment, and it’s been great. Better traffic than being in the heart of the city.
“Sit,” Patricia demands.
“Nah, thanks though. The view is nice.”
“Caitlin, sit.”
“I’d prefer to stand.” I glance over my shoulder. “This won’t take long.”
Her cheeks turn pink under her foundation, and her eyes almost bug out of her skull. It does feel so good to get under her skin. I might have some regretti spaghetti later, but for now, the petulant child in me is grinning like a loon.
“You’ve been purposefully sabotaging this campaign,” she says.
“I’ve been doing every single thing you ask me to do,” I reply, doe-eyed. “So, if I’m sabotaging the campaign, it’s by your direction.”
She bites her bottom lip, like she’s holding back a curse. I think I know which one it is.
Her shoulders rise and fall with quick, heavy breaths. She’s even angrier than Vick was, and he’s the one taking the hardest fall for this Sand and Sun setback.
“You’re not better than me,” she spits.
I turn back to the window to hide my smirk.
“What a strange thing to say.”
“Don’t pretend you’re not thinking it,” she says, her voice low and growly, like a dog trying to convince another dog it means business.
I clasp my hands behind my back. “We came into the press as equals. We have similar degrees and experience.”
“I heard what you said to Vick.”
She must’ve had her ear pressed to the door real hard.
I sigh and turn around, leaning against the windowsill. “It’s not like I have a lot left to do before I clock out, but can we get to the point?”
She crosses her arms. “I did a lot of work on that presentation, and I know you’re upset that I brought it to the bosses first, but quitting over it and trying to ruin it all before you go is childish.”
Ooohhhh, fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.
“I didn’t invite you to collaborate with me on the translation project. You stole my work.”
She scoffs. “We’re colleagues, we share all our work. Bounce ideas off one another…right?”
Fuck you times one million you stupid bitch.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” she says.
It’s my turn to scoff. “Because you’ll be left without someone’s homework to cheat off of when I’m gone?”
“This isn’t high school, Caitlin,” she says.
“You’re right. And I’m sick of the competitive, mean girl vibes you’ve brought to the business.”
“Competitive?” she says, incredulously. “You’re the one hiding all your research and scrambling for kudos every chance you get!”
I’m about to scream back something stupid when I realize she’s not wrong. I had stopped collaborating with her somewhere along the way. One too many stings from the scorpion while trying to cross the river…
I push off the window and stand in front of the desk. I summon all the genuine kindness I can muster, and look her in the eyes.
“I’m sorry this is how we’re parting ways. I wish the best for you and Waldorf press.”
She scowls. “That’s it?”
Maybe she thought we were going to have it out, and I’d change my mind, become her junior little doer. Or we’d have a big enough blow-up to make her feel better. I don’t know. I don’t need to know.
“That’s it,” I say, fanning my hands out in defeat.
I’m not going to apologize for taking my research off the network or not asking for her opinion on something that she’d immediately present to Vick as her awesome new idea.
Maybe Patricia didn’t realize how much she did that to me—drawing conclusions from my research in progress and giving it to the bosses.
You wouldn’t serve a half-baked cake at a wedding, and the same goes for data analysis with a million dollars or more impact.
She purses her lips, and for a second, I think she might yell again. Then, she clears her throat and stands, reaching her hand out to me. “I wish you the best, too.”
My body tries to revolt, but I force myself forward and shake her hand. I don’t want to burn the bridge; I just need to leave it behind.
“I need to get back to fixing this mess,” she mumbles as she pulls away.
I nod, and stride from her office.
The angry child in me is screaming for retribution, begging me to sling all the stones and arrows, but I’m glad I took the high road.
My departure is clean.
And my future awaits.