Chapter 6 #2
“Sophie.” My name sounds like relief, which makes the knot in my stomach loosen a little. “My apologies for the confusion this morning and any stress it may have caused.”
The knot unravels completely, and it feels like submerging in a hot bath at the end of a long day. “I’m not gonna lie, the past five minutes have been something I’d rather not have to repeat anytime soon,” I say.
“Your name was on the employee elimination list submitted by your manager. But Omar overrode that list at the last minute and would like to include you in the round of interviews for the final spot on the team. You can imagine the pickle that put me in this morning.” She sounds annoyed, but on her behalf, not mine.
The pickle that put you in? I think. And now I’m annoyed. With everyone. Except Seth.
“I’ve spent the last twenty minutes playing phone tag with Mark and Omar, trying to get a definitive answer.”
“So sorry to inconvenience you,” I say, unable to hide my irritation.
“It’s HR. Some days are more challenging than others. It comes with the territory,” she says solemnly, because she can’t read the room to save her life.
“Do I have a job or not?” I ask, bluntly. Just put me out of my misery.
“I’m sending out a revised email to clarify.
You’re not to log in to company software from this moment forward.
Omar Walker’s assistant will contact you via phone to set up an interview for early next week.
The decision will then be made to either retain or lay off by next Friday.
The good news is, if you’re retained, it will be at full seniority as far as salary, PTO, 401(k), and benefits are concerned.
And you’ll be paid in full for next week, even though you’re basically getting the week off. ”
“Ah, and there’s the silver lining.” I exaggerate the words, because clearly Mindy and sarcasm are unacquainted. “It’s practically a vacation. A staycation, if you will. Lucky, lucky me.”
“That’s the spirit.” I half expect her to add, May the odds be ever in your favor, in Effie Trinket’s voice, before signing off with a chirpy, tone-deaf, “Have a great day, Sophie.”
“Great,” I sigh, before disconnecting the call.
The wheels are turning. Mark put me on the fire list. He knew when he called me this morning that Omar was trying to email me, I assume to set up an interview.
He told me to ignore it and that it was a mistake.
And he told Seth that half our team is being retained.
There are only four people on our team! Which means I’m interviewing against the new guy who’s been with the company for two months, when I’ve been on this team the longest, am the most experienced, the most knowledgeable, the only woman, and suspiciously the only one Mark seems to have it out for.
My cell rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s an unknown number with a 614-area code. It’s coming from the home office in Columbus. “Hello, this is Sophie,” I answer professionally, but on the verge of screaming in frustration.
“Good morning, Sophie. This is Nate Garcia. I’m Omar Walker’s assistant.”
“Morning, Nate.” I can’t bring myself to say good.
“How’re you holding up? I imagine you’ve had a bit of a shock this morning; I’m so sorry.” He sounds genuine. Why doesn’t this guy work for HR?
“Not gonna lie, I’ve been better. I’m feeling a bit blindsided at the moment.”
“Mark.” It’s said with disdain.
“Sonofabitch,” I say under my breath.
He barks out a laugh, and it sounds like agreement.
“I like you, Sophie. No wonder Omar fought for you. Let’s get this interview scheduled so you can show him what you’re made of.
” I hear him typing on a keyboard. “Omar was trying to be efficient when he emailed you this morning, but bless him, the man is a menace when it comes to managing his calendar. Tuesday is a travel day, and he has back-to-back meetings all afternoon in the Atlanta office. Any chance you’re available to move the interview to Monday? ”
“It would appear my calendar is wide open, so yes, Monday would be fine.”
“I see you’re not in the Columbus office, but the org chart only states that you WFH.”
“WFH?” I question.
“Work from home. Where do you live? I like to be mindful of time zones. Don’t want to schedule you for an eight AM eastern time interview and ask you to get up in the middle of the night if you live in California.”
“I live in Arvada.” Realizing he’ll have no clue where that is, I add, “It’s a suburb of Denver.”
“Ah, lovely. You must be a skier?” he asks, making small talk.
People think that because Denver is in close proximity to the mountains, by default, everyone who lives here skis or snowboards.
False. I relay my one and only attempt with a dry laugh because it was a debacle.
“I tried it once. Careening down the side of a mountain on a wing and a prayer isn’t sport; it’s a death wish.
I spent the rest of the day in the lodge drinking hot chocolate and reading a book, thankful I’d narrowly dodged my demise. ”
He laughs lightly, but sincerely. “I tried street luge once. A friend sold it as the rush of a lifetime.” And then he adds flatly, “It was not.”
“Did you sit out the rest of the day roadside with a drink and a book, contemplating mortality too?” I ask, enjoying the light banter because it’s distracting me from the rest of the disaster.
“I spent the rest of the afternoon in the ER—fractured arm, bruised ribs, and a nasty case of road rash.”
I cringe. “Ouch.”
“Yeah, well and truly learned my lesson. Daredevil, I am not. So, I get that skiing wasn’t for you, you sane woman.” I hear him return to typing as he jumps back into planning mode. “Let me just open up Omar’s Monday calendar.”
I wait.
“Okie-dokey, it looks like he’s available from nine to ten, which is too early for you, noon to one, or five to six.”
“I can make any of those times work. Early is better for me; I’m a morning person.
” I don’t know exactly what’s coming with this interview, but the fact that Mark is obviously being sketchy about this makes me want to crush it out of spite for the slippery little fucker.
Speaking of fuckers, I glance toward the front window and remember that the Nespresso is still awaiting a cleanup in aisle ten and jot a reminder on a sticky note, so I don’t forget about it.
He begins humming. Is that “Run the World” by Beyonce?
I feel like he’s trying to tell me something.
“Let’s slot you in at nine, seven o’clock your time then.
” Less than three seconds later my in-box pings with a Zoom meeting invite, because I haven’t logged out yet.
“Any questions or anything else I can help you with, my friend?”
I’m emerging from the fog of confusion, and reality is setting in.
Knowing I won’t get any answers from Mark and figuring I don’t have anything to lose, I ask, “I don’t know anyone from the management team on this invite, except Mark.
Any advice or insight for the outsider? Are they all like him?
I’d like to know if I’m walking into an ambush.
” After all, if anyone is in the know, it’s always the assistant.
A low chuckle comes through the phone like I’ve touched a nerve.
“Oh Sophie, this company needs more of you and less of them, if you know what I mean. You didn’t hear it from me, but Omar talked to agents, quality and training, and claims to get some background on you.
They all showered you with praise. I would warn you against Mark, but you already know him; I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him—which isn’t far.
I’m known for my wit, not my brawn. Steven Cassman is fake-nice and clueless.
Travis Cotton is super analytical, very smart but emotionless, so he’s hard to read.
Don’t let them intimidate you. And Omar, well, Omar got where he is because he’s intelligent and charismatic.
He's looking forward to shaking things up. You’ll love Omar; everyone does. ”
Well, that was more than I bargained for. “Thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure. My cell number is included in my signature line on the email I just sent. Please don’t hesitate to contact me with any questions.”
“Will do.”
“I hope, despite everything, you have a peaceful weekend, Sophie.” Damn, that was so much more convincing than HR Mindy.
“You too, Nate,” I tell him. For once, the burnout of life isn’t bleeding through, and I mean it. “Bye.”
“Bye.” He manages to make it sound like two syllables, buh-eye, and instead of grating, it’s sweet.
I log out of work and log in to Netflix for a distraction. The mess in the driveway can wait another hour.
Benji returns home drenched in sweat because he stayed to help Mabel weed her small vegetable garden and then mowed the lawn. It’s a few minutes before noon, and he heads straight to the bathroom to shower.
I’m finally at a comfortable stopping point in my Netflix diversion.
One episode of Black Rabbit turned into four because I got sucked in, and it felt like a healthier escape at eight o’clock in the morning than Lola’s emergency bottle of tequila that she keeps in the little cabinet above the fridge.
The morning has slipped away in a fog of self-pity.
I take a few minutes to pee, put a load of laundry in the washer, sweep up the deceased coffee maker, toss it in the trash can next to the garage, and make my daily PB&J.
When I sit down to eat, I pick up my cell intending to text Lola my depressing news, but an Instagram notification catches my eye.
goodguysfinishfirst_sometimes tagged you in a post.
Maybe this day has decided to stop throat punching me. Without a second thought, I tap on it and take another bite of my sandwich.
The image obviously wasn’t taken with a cell phone.
This was taken by someone with not only great equipment but the knowledge and creativity to use it.
It’s a rooster standing inside the doorway of a barn, a chicken coop in the background.
A mud puddle in front of the bird is in focus with craters left by the impact of huge raindrops and the resulting percussive rebound upward as the puddle is displaced.
It’s visually stunning. In nature this happens so quickly that it can’t be captured in minute detail by the naked eye like this.
The photo should be gloomy given the obvious storm, but the colors are sharp, fascinating.
Everything about it is powerful: the perspective, Mother Nature, and the proud bird protectively standing guard.
In a haze of awe, and already feeling oddly comfortable with him, I type a comment without thinking. It’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and sarcasm rules me.
Nice cock.
And then I stare, thunderstruck at my screen. “Oh my God, no!” I whisper shriek. “No, no, no,” I repeat. It’s synchronized with aggressive tapping on the comment, willing it to disappear. When nothing happens, I yell, “Benji! Help!” out of desperation.
Water running in the bathroom down the hall tells me he’s still in the shower. I’m on my own. “Shitballs, this can’t be happening,” I whisper under my breath.
And then to reassure me that, yes, bitch, this is happening, a reply to my comment appears on my screen.
goodguysfinishfirst_sometimes Steve isn’t nice. He’s a narcissistic asshole, but the hens, sadly, seem to dig machismo.
I can’t help it and snort a laugh while my cheeks heat like the sun’s shining through them from the inside out.
Your hens clearly need an infusion of feminist pride and self-love.
Lola’s told me this, and it probably applies to hens who pick the wrong mates too. I open our message thread, and there’s already one waiting for me.
Good Guy
Steve’s my uncle’s rooster. And he really is a narcissistic asshole.
So, you’re a country boy?
I should be doing something productive around the house since I’ve spent all morning moping in this chair, but I can’t resist giving him a few minutes.
Good Guy
Depends on the year, I’ve moved around a lot. Currently a city boy.
Hmm… moving around a lot could indicate some age. Maybe he is forty. I want to ask him where he lives, but that seems too private. I don’t even know his name yet.
Well, the photo is stunning. The puddle and rain come alive. Capturing movement like that is tricky. You clearly have a gift.
Good Guy
The impressive cock doesn’t hurt either.
Where’s an emoji when you need one? I could use a winky face or a crying laughing face as a follow-up to get a read on the situation. Damn, are we flirting? I’m so bad at this.
Impressive? Now you’re just feeding Steve’s ego.
Good Guy
In all honesty, thank you. A compliment like that from someone with an eye like yours means a lot.
There’s my answer. We’re joking, not flirting. Which is better, right? I’m days out of a relationship. A dismal failure of a relationship, but still a relationship. I need a break. And a new friend would be good for me.
Benji’s voice jolts me back to reality and out of my head. “Aunt Soph, were you yelling for me?” He’s peeking out of the bathroom door, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping on the floor.
“Crisis averted. Finish your shower, it’s all good,” I yell back. Because right this second, it kind of feels like it is. Confusing, but good.
Then I type,
You’re welcome. I’d better get back to work.
I don’t need to convolute this exchange with my overthinking when it righted itself.
Good Guy
Me too. Talk later. Have a good one.
That kind of positivity should make me want to throw up in my mouth a little, but it doesn’t. Not at all.
You too.
I kinda like Good Guy. A lot.