Consequences
*
“Brianna, can you please tell Lily what you said in your statement?” As she spoke, the HR manager’s lips pressed into a tight, colorless line.
Her mousy brown hair and standard-issue Brooks Brothers blazer blended seamlessly with her nondescript demeanor.
She radiated the vibe of someone who had lived and breathed corporate policies for decades.
I turned to Lily, sitting across the table with that glint in her eye—the one that reveled in my discomfort. She thrived on moments like these, watching me squirm under the weight of her privilege and fake innocence. Lily, the spoiled rich girl, soaked in every second of this.
I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and steadied myself before speaking. “Lily, I’m sorry I lashed out at you. It was inappropriate for me to mention your life journey in a negative light, and I regret using your upbringing to contrast my own.”
Lily’s smile stretched wider, and she hugged me before I could process what was happening. I stiffened, and the sudden contact made my skin crawl. This hug wasn’t an act of forgiveness but a performance, a calculated display of benevolence for the HR manager’s benefit.
“I accept your apology,” Lily cooed, squeezing me too tightly. I stayed stiff, arms pinned to my sides like a corpse in a coffin. “And I’m sorry I pried into your journey. In the future, I’ll be more mindful that not everyone’s experiences are the same.”
Her words dripped with false sincerity. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes so hard they might pop out and glue themselves to the ceiling tiles. Instead, I forced myself to stay still, letting her have her moment.
The HR manager nodded. “This has been a productive conversation,” she said, her voice as bland as her expression. “We expect full cooperation going forward.”
Lily nodded eagerly, her overly enthusiastic response contrasting with my stiff, reluctant one. I forced a terse nod, knowing this truce was temporary at best. As the HR manager motioned us toward the door, I braced myself for Lily’s inevitable switch back to her mean-girl self.
Instead, Lily surprised me. As we walked down the hallway, she turned to me and said, “I want to get coffee with you. Do you have time?”
I raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. Lily hadn’t spoken to me outside of meetings in two years—not since she left my team and climbed the corporate ladder. “Why?” I managed to ask.
She sighed, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I’ve been a bitch to you these last few years.”
Well, I’ll be damned.
“Come on,” she urged. “Let’s sit and chat. My treat.”
Typically, I would’ve dismissed her offer as another power play, a subtle way to remind me she had the money to buy me coffee without blinking. However, something about her tone made me pause. Honestly, I wasn’t above a free cappuccino. If nothing else, I could figure out what game she was playing.
We trudged through the parking lot, the gray slush of old snow crunching under our boots.
Chunks of salt stuck to the soles, and the biting wind nipped at my cheeks.
When we stepped into the café, the sudden warmth hit me like a wall, leaving me momentarily dizzy.
Lily walked to the counter while I found a quiet table in the back, away from the gray-suited middle-aged men who populated the place like clones.
Their soulless uniforms and muted ties gave the room all the personality of a tax seminar.
She returned with our drinks—my cappuccino and her black coffee, stark and joyless, just like her. Setting the cups down, she leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to talk about your childhood.”
I nearly choked on the foam of my drink. “You want to play emotional tourist? No thanks.” I dropped two sugar cubes into my cappuccino, stirring aggressively.
Lily sighed and shook her head. “That came out wrong.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to explain herself.
“You were right,” she admitted, her voice quiet. “I did have everything growing up. The best schools, family vacations, and loving parents. They wanted me to be perfect.”
The smirk tugging at my lips stayed silent, but my mind whispered, Poor little rich girl .I gestured for her to continue.
“I wanted to know how you did it,” she said, eyes locking onto mine.
“Did what?” I asked, frowning.
She set her coffee down, leaning closer. “How you kept going. How you didn’t fall apart. I’m on anti-anxiety meds, antidepressants, and sleeping pills. I follow an anti-inflammatory diet and play on three adult league teams, and I still feel like I can barely function. But you—you seem fine.”
I snorted into my cup. “I’m on half of those things, too.”
She shook her head. “It’s not the same. You should’ve been a statistic—a single mom, a dropout, working at a gas station. But you’re here, a professional. How?”
I wanted to snap. I set my cup down and leaned back. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s a fact,” she replied, her tone serious. “What makes you different?”
I stared into my cup, considering her question. The usual lies came to mind—God, yoga, sheer determination. But what was the point? The truth sat right in front of me.
“It’s desperation,” I said finally.
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Desperation,” I repeated. “If you fail, your parents catch you. They make your bed, hug you, and maybe call a friend to help you find work. If I fail, I’m homeless.”
She blinked, her composed mask cracking. “My parents wouldn’t be happy.”
I laughed, leaning forward. “Of course not. No parent is happy when their kid fails. But they’d help. For you, failure’s a bump in the road. For me, it’s a cliff.”
Her face tightened. “Are you saying your parents wouldn’t help you?”
Another laugh escaped me, louder this time. “No. My room’s gone, claimed by my sister. My parents’ connections extend to a nurse and a few war buddies. If I needed money, I’d beg my siblings, and they’d make me sign a blood oath before lending a dime. Even still, only two could even afford it.”
Lily’s pale face betrayed her discomfort. I wasn’t trying to shock her, but I couldn’t soften the truth for her benefit.
“That’s the difference,” I continued. “You survive. I fight. We’re playing two different games, Lily. You’ll hit VP by thirty-five and build a perfect life. Good for you. But me? I’ll keep hustling and hoping to scrape by. Trust me, you don’t want my life.”
I stood, threw on my coat, and drained the last of my cappuccino. “You really don’t.”
I stepped outside, the cold biting my skin, with my boots becoming progressively more soaked. The bitter thoughts followed me: Fuck Lily, fuck this job. I planned to return, clear a few emails, and leave early.
Then a notification popped up on my phone:
From :
Subject:
January 4th: Invite for 10:30 a.m. – Follow-Up: Workplace Conduct – December 24th / January 3rd
I groaned out loud. “For fuck’s sake.”