Dog Pile
*
Just leave me be.
“What did James say when you told him the launch date needs to be pushed back?”
I blinked, looking at Chris. His cubicle was a cave of dim light and chaos, and I sat awkwardly perched on a chair that seemed more fit for a teenage gamer. My knees nearly touched my chest as I considered my words.
“I told him we could complete the MVP by the end of the second quarter, but we’ll need to prioritize. I need your team to prepare a list of noncritical features we can push to later releases.”
Chris groaned audibly, rolling his eyes. I knew I’d slipped into jargon mode, the shield of corporate lingo that frustrated him.
“Chris, I know it’s not ideal, but this is how we make it work.”
He waved a dismissive hand but said nothing more. A long pause hung between us before he smirked, his expression shifting into something sharper. “I heard a little rumor about you.”
My stomach lurched. Was this about my family? Therapy? The drinking disaster?
“When are you going to tell Hope you’re quitting?”
The tension in my chest tightened. Of course, it was that. I forced a tight smile. “I don’t plan to announce it until we’re closer to the move date.”
Chris chuckled knowingly. “Then you shouldn’t have told your family.”
I froze, alarm rippling through me. How could Chris possibly know about that? His grin widened. “I dated Louisa, remember? Still on her socials.”
My breath caught. My sister’s penchant for oversharing had caught up with me. “Fuck,” I muttered, a mantra that played silently in my head.
What else had Louisa posted?
“Relax,” Chris said, hands raised in mock innocence. “Your secret’s safe with me—on one condition. If we push this out, I want a say in the next project manager. No Lily. None of Aubrey’s mentees. Deal?”
His tone made it clear this was more than a simple request. This was a bargain, carefully crafted to give him control. My jaw tightened, but I nodded. “Fine.”
Chris beamed like he’d won a game. “Good. You’ll thank me later.”
I stumbled out of his cubicle, barely managing a mumbled “thank you,” and walked briskly to the parking lot. Outside, I pulled out my phone and texted Robert: Are you free?
No response.
Sitting on a bench, I opened my sister’s social media. Scrolling through her feed was like stepping into a minefield of sanctimonious posts and carefully curated family photos. Then I saw it:
Mom’s cancer is terminal. We all need prayers. This situation has shown how selfish some of my siblings can be, announcing life-changing news in front of my mother while she was dying. #DramaLlamas.
My heart raced. Louisa had twisted the narrative, weaponizing it to frame me as the villain. The comments were just as I’d feared:
“Brianna is finally pregnant?!”
“Wow, announcing something like that while your mom is sick? So selfish.”
Fingers trembling, I typed out a response: “Brianna here. No, I’m not pregnant. Robert was accepted to graduate school in York, England. I didn’t know about Mom’s condition when I shared the news. We’re moving in August.”
I hit send, the brief catharsis swallowed by the rapid escalation of notifications.
“Maybe if you talked to your mom more than just on holidays, you’d know what was happening.”
“Brianna, this isn’t about you.”
“You just had to make this post your personal announcement, didn’t you?”
“Did you ask your mother how she’d feel about you moving before deciding?”
My phone buzzed relentlessly as I locked it and shoved it into my pocket. Desperate to escape, I headed for my car. As I reached for the door, my phone rang—Hope’s name flashed on the screen.
Hope’s voice was sharp. “Where are you? The director’s meeting started five minutes ago.”
Panic jolted through me. “I’m on my way!” I lied, sprinting back toward the building. When I burst into the meeting room, my face flushed, Hope’s disapproving glare awaited.
Afterward, she pulled me aside. “What the hell, Brianna? You can’t afford mistakes like this.”
“I know,” I mumbled, shame rising in my throat.
She sighed deeply, then continued, her tone more measured, “Do not announce this to anyone. Not yet.”
I frowned. “Okay, what’s up?”
Hope hesitated, glancing around as if to ensure we were alone.
“There are going to be three rounds of layoffs. Once each quarter. The business needs to be restructured by 2016. I have to justify everyone on my team, and this situation”—she gestured between us—“makes it harder for me to vouch for you.”
The weight of her words settled over me, heavy and suffocating. My stomach twisted. This conversation felt like punishment—not just for today, but for every mistake I’d ever made. I took a deep breath, trying to stay composed. “I’ll do whatever I need to do to avoid a layoff.”
Hope crossed her arms, her response curt. “No, you won’t. What I need from you is this: take the layoff in the second quarter.”
Her words blindsided me. I stared at her, dumbfounded. “What?” My voice cracked. “I’m a top performer. I’m good at my job. I—”
“This isn’t a reflection of your work, Bree.” Her voice softened. “It’s not about what you’ve done.”
Tears pricked my eyes as I looked up at her. Hope leaned forward, speaking gently but firmly. “When you quit to go to England, I can’t give you anything. No severance, no support. You’ll leave with nothing but what you’ve saved. But if you take the layoff, you’ll receive severance.”
My brows shot up in surprise. How did Hope know I was leaving?
She smirked knowingly. “Word travels fast. I’ve known for the last three weeks. Plus, you used the office printer to print Robert’s application paperwork.”
My mind reeled, struggling to process her words. She had known I was planning to leave all along, and now she was trying to help me navigate it. The weight of her offer—taking a layoff instead of quitting—pressed heavily on me. It all felt like too much.
Hope pressed on, her tone tinged with sympathy. “It’ll give you and Robert a chance to start fresh. To build a new life without scrambling from the get-go. You’ll have a safety net until you find your footing.”
“Why?”
Hope chuckled lightly, then sighed. “Because I have the opportunity to help. I have to cut two people from our team by the third quarter, and if you go, I will have a less difficult decision to make. If I were in your shoes, I would be thrilled to be offered a golden parachute.”
“But why me?”
Hope sighed, then breathed, “Because you are my friend and a good kid. You came from a crappy family and have lived a life without anyone offering to help. I am in a position to help you. Let me.”
Before I knew it, I reached out and hugged her. It was well-known that I didn’t hug people by choice. Typically, physical touch made me uncomfortable. Yet, at this moment, I just wanted to embrace Hope.
She tensed briefly, then wrapped her arms around me, returning the gesture. The tenderness of the hug overwhelmed me more than even her words.
My mother had wielded love like a weapon, manipulating it, and I had learned to fear it. Love was used as a currency in my family, a tool for control. But this—this was just help, unconditional and uncomplicated.
I clung to her, struggling to process the depth of her kindness. This moment of affection, I realized, was what family was supposed to feel like.
By the time I finally left work, I was completely drained. Robert still hadn’t texted me back. Overwhelmed and exhausted, I trudged up the parking garage stairs, each step feeling like I was dragging a weight up Everest.
When I finally reached the top level and saw my car, I let out a booming, “Fuck!”
The sight stopped me in my tracks. My car windows had been smashed, shards of glass glittering on the pavement. Across the driver’s side door, someone had carved one word in jagged letters: “Bitch.”