4. Brooke
Brooke
Stumbling into my apartment door with more cupcakes and cookies leftover than anticipated, I'm absolutely fuming . I can't believe him. He shits all over my baking, then he steals from me? What's his fucking problem?
I slam the door a little harder than I meant to with a kick of my foot. Instinctively, I tense, waiting for Ricky to pop out of his room to yell at me some more. When he doesn't surface, I tiptoe to the kitchen and dump my boxes onto the only empty spot available on the countertop. Dirty plates take up the rest of the space—I clean up after myself; why can't these goddamn miscreants give me the same courtesy?
My scowl stays firmly in place as I dump the dirty dishes into the sink and run hot water over them. I am not going to wash these dishes. But I just can't live like this. When I moved into a six-bedroom brownstone, I thought my dreams were coming true: leaving Calvin. Starting my own life. Living in the city .
Reality quickly slapped the shit out of me. And now I'd really like to slap the shit out of my roommates—particularly Ricky and Jack. Jack at least has a job outside of the home, as does everyone else. Except Ricky. So, he's just… always around. But Jack leaves his dirty dishes and laundry strewn around the apartment unless he has a "lady friend" coming over, which is approximately never.
Plopping down on the couch, I can only sigh and stare at the boxes of unsold goods. I'm so close to being free, totally free, but it still feels so far. I bet I would have sold a ton more if fucking Dustin hadn't shown up. Looking all chiseled and grown-up handsome with that thick-ass beard. Too bad his personality hasn't matured past high school, not with the way he acted.
"Ugh!" I huff out and curl my knees to my chest. I can feel my frown lines deepening by the second until Huey jumps onto the sofa next to me with a tiny mrrp. "Hey, boy-boy."
Huey, unfortunately, doesn't say what I want to hear. What I want to hear is something along the lines of You're doing great! You got this! You blocked your dickhead ex-husband and sold $400 worth of cupcakes and cookies—that's amazing! Instead, he extends a leg and flares out his little toes before licking himself. I can't help but let out a chuckle. He just looks so silly.
But before I can truly settle in, I hear Ricky stirring in his room. Nope. Not going to engage. I cannot handle his preferred conversation topics of blockchains and the latest meme coins. I've truly given up on trying to make him understand the environmental impact of cryptocurrencies. The best I can do is scoop up my cat and retreat to my own room, which is exactly what I do.
Once the door is shut, I allow Huey to slide out of my arms like the fur-covered slinky I'm sure he actually is. Just like every night, he takes up his post on the tiny loveseat. I slide into my own butt-divot on the seat and power on my laptop for a little pre-sleep mindless TV. I'm in the mood for something classic, so I queue up an old 1930s, pre-Code film and let the forced trans-Atlantic accents seep into my mind.
As I watch Clarke Gable and Claudette Colbert slowly fall in love, my stupid mind drifts back to Dustin and our… pretty horrible ending, actually. But god, I don't want to think about that. I can't believe I saw a future with him. What was I thinking?
Juggling four boxes of cupcakes and a grocery bag full of cookies on a packed subway car is a little harder than I thought it would be, but somehow, I manage. They're only a little squished by the guy who shuffled in much too close for comfort. I could feel his breath on my neck. But he was totally unbothered by the situation, scrolling on his phone with earbuds in, lurching slightly when the train jolted forward or shuddered to a stop.
I really thought I would be used to subway rides by now, but I just can't keep the regional commuter rail out of my mind. Living in Wallington was pleasant, my crumbling marriage aside, and the park-and-ride train stations were so convenient. But suburban life was isolating unless you had built-in friends from high school or college. I did not. Calvin did, and none of his friends bothered to reach out to me at all after the divorce.
Fuck 'em. I don't need 'em.
And truth be told, the hustle and bustle of Manhattan always energized me. Riding into the city and ascending the stairs up to the streets, allowing myself to fall into step with my fellow workers—all of us buzzing along to our various destinations, working for eight (or ten, really) hours, scurrying back and doing it all over again the next day. It's a constant. Working here has given me stability for the past six years.
Unfortunately, that stability seems to be coming to an end. DropTop, the no-code app-building startup I've worked for since day one (or really about day one hundred, considering funding rounds), has officially been acquired by Atmosphere. A hulking behemoth of tech that swallows up every promising idea and adds it to the roster, like some kind of computer-powered homunculus.
And, since I never made it to an executive role, I didn't get a portion of the payout. But that's the furthest thing from my mind as I trudge up the stairs to our office and find Andrea and Felicity nervously waiting for me.
"There's a guy from Atmosphere in Conference Room B," Felicity whispers. Andrea nods and fiddles with the hem of her bright red floral dress.
"Okay," I sigh, looking down at my sugary treats. "Let's get these in the break room, and I'll deal with him."
Andrea takes half the bags and follows me to the break room, Felicity in tow. The energy is… off. It's not the cautious optimism a new day brings; it's more nervous tension. I didn't even think to check my emails on my days off—I trust my team implicitly, otherwise, why would they be working here—so I'm not really sure what I'm walking into.
No one says a word, so we silently arrange the cupcakes and cookies on one of the tables with a hastily scrawled note that says "FREE". Other teams are starting to file in, and I honestly love seeing their eyes light up when they find the goodies. That's why I do this. I'm not passionate about no-code solutions, of course not, but I am passionate about making people happy.
Darrell, my senior engineer, rolls into the break room and lets out a squeal. "Cupcakes? For me? Oh, Brooke, you shouldn't have!"
"They're for everyone , Darry-dear. But try to put a few aside for your husband and daughter, okay? I want to have something to talk about with them during our summer party," I laugh, finally able to crack a smile.
"You won't be able to get a word in edgewise and you know it." He scarfs down half a cookie and groans happily. "God, these are so good. Which reminds me! I've been meaning to ask—could I buy a few dozen cupcakes for the kiddo's birthday? She still raves about the rainbow tie-dye ones you made last summer."
"Wh—really? Yeah, of course! It's in a couple weeks, right?" I beam happily, filled with pride that someone wants my cupcakes for their daughter's birthday.
"Yep! Fiona's turning five, which still feels weird to say. Where does the time go?" He smiles and shakes his head. "Why does everyone look so stressed out?"
"No one said anything?" Andrea asks.
"Nope, not a word. What's up?" Darrell drops his cookie and stares intently at her.
"Atmosphere sent… a guy," she says. "He's in Conference Room B. I haven't heard anything from Kelly, but he looks tense. I don't know what to make of it. What if he's here to tell us we're all fired, and they're staging a hostile takeover? "
"You know what, Brooke?" Darrell abruptly turns to me. "I think I'm feeling a bit poorly. I might have to work remotely for the rest of the day."
"Nooo, you can't leave me!" Felicity wails. "If we're going down, we go down together."
"Hey!" I clap and stand up straight. "No one is going down. This is going to be fine, okay? We're going to be fine. Atmosphere bought us because they believe in our product. And who makes the product?"
"A lot of people," Darrell replies. "Back-end, UI, UX, Product gives direction based on customer feedback—"
"—Yes, correct, but where I was going with that was that we make the product. We can't be easily replaced with conglomeration drones," I assure him. Half for myself, half for the team. I'm not going to say anything to the contrary, but I am a little nervous. But the team needs me. This is why I get paid the medium bucks. "I should probably get in there, huh? Introduce myself and put my best foot forward on behalf of the team."
"Be careful," Andrea whispers. "If you go in and come back out singing the praises of Atmosphere, I'm calling the cops. Or the FBI. Or the CIA. Or whoever deals with domestic brainwashing victims."
"Okay, okay, that's enough. We're getting ahead of ourselves. Until told otherwise, this is business as usual. When Lexie gets here, please tell them to submit their PR for the checkout module revamp, and I'll take a look when I'm back."
The team exchanges a look before chorusing back to me, "Yes, boss."
I love them, I really do, but when they gang up on me like this? It's a little bit like herding cats. But they're extremely competent at what they do, and I'm truly privileged to lead such an incredible team. Which is exactly what I should be telling myself before I plead my case—I assume—for everyone to keep their jobs, thank you very much.
Now, I'm getting ahead of myself. Heading over to my desk, I quickly power on my laptop and check my calendar. Yep, there it is, plain as day: Atmosphere X DropTop, nine-thirty in the morning, Conference Room B.
Kelly, my director, knocks on the wall next to my desk. Usually, I love the open concept of the floor, but right about now would be a fantastic time to have my very own office. With a door. And preferably a large window showing the city streets below, but beggars can't be choosers.
"You ready?" Kelly asks with a glowing smile.
"As I'll ever be," I mutter back with a much less glowing, much more forced grin. Unplugging my laptop from the external dual monitors and clacky keyboard, I force the tension to exit my body and follow her to the all-glass conference room. Various other teams look up from their screens as we pass, and I manage a thumbs-up to the UX team, who hurriedly focus their attention back on their work.
Kelly walks confidently in front of me and pulls open the floor-to-ceiling frosted glass door, revealing the conference room with its long post-modern table. At the head of the table sits a man with perfectly windswept chestnut hair and a luscious beard.
You have got to be kidding me. Fucking Dustin . My smile sits heavy on my face and I can feel my cheeks twitching under the exertion.
"Good morning, everyone," he says without looking up from his computer.
"Good morning!" Kelly sings out. I can barely manage a strangled grumble.
Dustin looks up from his computer at the weird noise, and his eyebrows nearly disappear to his hairline. His jaw drops open a half-inch, and his eyes sweep me from head to toe. Just as his staring becomes less than socially acceptable, he clears his throat.
"Perfect. Everyone is here. First of all, it's great to meet the both of you," he says a little forcefully. "I'm Dustin Sanders, head of Engineering Onboarding. Today's meeting is simply to explain what Atmosphere is all about and where DropTop fits into our puzzle. Please, sit."
"Well that sounds just wonderful, Dustin!" Kelly beams as we slide into opposing chairs. "We have the best team this side of the Mississippi and I'm sure you'll be incredibly impressed with our expertise."
"Gluh," I blurt out. Kelly whips her head around to stare me in the face. She smiles brightly and raises her eyebrows, the classic "fix your face" mom-glare. "Apologies. Great to greet you. I mean, great to meet you. I'm Brooke, and I manage the UI Engineering team."
"Yes, I was just reading about that. Great stuff. Your team is responsible for the intuitive design, right?" He steeples his fingers and seems perfectly content to pretend he had no idea who I am until this very moment. I can work with that.
"Correct, together with Product and UI. We rely heavily on collaboration and client feedback, which the Product teams in turn triage and assign priority to. From there, my team and I produce the modules and integrate with the back-end functions in order to create a seamless experience for the end user," I rattle off my corporate speech.
"Great. Now, Kelly?" He notes something down on his laptop.
I'm sure he says something after that, but my pulse is whooshing in my ears, and I can only focus on the faux wood grain stamped onto the table. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. My job, and my team's jobs, are in his hands. His . If it were anyone else in the world, I'm sure I could win them over. But him?
We're toast. But god, I have to try.
Two hours later, I practically stumble out of the conference room in a daze. If I look at this objectively, Dustin really grew up well. His perfectly trimmed beard is thick—men all over the internet would probably pine for facial hair like that. Especially considering the chiseled jawline I know that beard is hiding. And there's no sign of premature balding like his Uncle James. Good for him.
But his attitude? Jesus. He's such a dick. It's like he kept all of the teenage dickishness every boy has, multiplied it by twenty, and called it "personal growth." I bet he posts long-winded paragraphs on LinkedIn about what losing his beard trimmer taught him about B2B sales. I bet he wears University of Michigan shirts unironically. I bet he charms the hell out of boomer parents with his stock portfolio. I bet he listens to those men's dating advice podcasts and negs women.
Okay, maybe that one's a bit of a stretch. He doesn't disrespect women; he disrespects everyone. But he's very good at hiding it professionally. He was disgustingly prepared for that meeting, and I know Kelly is seeing motherly hearts every time she looks at him. Even I have to admit that his notes (that he shared with us before officially ending the meeting) were precise and accurate.
I still don't like it. And I really don't like the fact that I'll be working so closely with him. Integrating tech stacks—can't we just smash it together and see what happens?
"What did you just say?" Felicity interrupts my train of thought—doom thoughts, really—with a look of shock.
"Huh? What did I say?" Shit, did I say any of that out loud?
"You asked if we could smash the tech stacks together and see what happens—are you okay? Was the meeting really that bad? Is he horrible?" Andrea interjects.
Christ. "That was a joke, guys. The meeting was fine. Everyone's job is safe, I promise." I hope . "Back to work, team."
The team grumbles but turns back to their computers and dutifully type away. I open my laptop again and pull up a blank document. All I can think about is how I'm going to keep the team safe. I'm going to have to apologize. I'm going to have to smile and schmooze. I can do that, right?
Right?