Frequency (Frequencies #1)
Chapter 1
Myssa
Six months.
Six months since I last hugged you, saw your smile, heard your laugh. My sister, my best friend, my confidante. Six months since they told me you were gone. Six months since the nightmares started.
Just as I always do, I push the thoughts downward and concentrate on the day ahead.
The brisk morning air ushers me faster down the sidewalk.
Commuters tug their coats around them a little tighter as the gusts pull from Lake Michigan.
Hundreds of heads stay down, focused on getting to their destination.
My earbuds blare Florence and the Machine “Dog days are over”, drowning out the taxi honks and whistles from traffic cops on the bustling streets of Chicago.
Rounding the corner, I finally reach my building and pull open the door. I’m not one for chit-chat before coffee consumption, so I cross the lobby with haste. Scanning my badge as I make my way into the elevator, I watch the numbers tick past until I reach the nineteenth floor.
As soon as I walk out of the elevator doors, I’m smacked with the lingering aroma of fresh paint.
The open area and endless cubicles have received an upgrade over the weekend. Come to think of it, I do remember reading an email about that.
Not much of an upgrade if you ask me—still the same standard colors of any IT company. Slate Blue, Grey, and white. The only thing different from when I left Friday is that the cubicle walls are higher.
“Finally,” I mumble to myself.
As a project manager, I’ve been wrestling for far too long with the challenge of focusing on vital client conversations while having to watch Bob, who sits in front of me, pick his teeth with his fingers after his lunch. The thought still makes me gag.
Entering my new space, I toss my purse on the desk and hang my jacket on the back of my chair. I notice my knick-knacks stuffed away in a box just off to the right. They must have moved everything out of the way before installing the new cubes.
I start pulling everything out and neatly display them.
The miniature skulls, dragons, and turtles across my L-shaped desk are all gifts from co-workers or friends over the last ten years of working here.
At the bottom of the box sits a group photo of me and my friends at a concert, and another of my best friend Vix and I doing a ridiculous selfie at the coffee shop we practically live at.
The memories bring a rush of nostalgia, and I can’t help but smile at the thoughts.
The last photo in the box is face down, and I hesitate before picking it up. As I pull it out slowly, I almost can’t look at it.
“My favorite wing-woman” is etched across the bottom of the silver frame. An inside joke between sisters, but my role when it came to her love life.
Nicole had no reason to lack the confidence of making the first move when it came to talking to men. Since high school, she always leaned on me for help.
Everyone was enticed by her, and rightfully so. She was tall, with a slender frame, green eyes, short dark hair and pouty lips that made her look like she’d just came off a runway.
She was sweet, caring, talked to everyone, and no one was ever left out. The only flaw she had, if you could call it that, was an indulgence in weed and the occasion Molly hit at a club. Things we thought were no big deal.
Until it was.
We were opposites, and my short curvy features paled in comparison when we were side by side.
Her smiling eyes shine up at me from the frame, and the loss washes over me.
I mindlessly swipe my thumb across her face on the glass, wishing this reality was just a nightmare.
In the picture, our faces are carefree as we half hug each other, toasting with our drinks.
This was the last picture we’d taken together before she died.
She was only twenty-six. “How do you like the upgrade, Myssa?”
I turn quickly, startled by the intrusion. Putting down the picture next to the others, I see the eager excitement in Pete’s eyes.
Pushing down my feelings, I look around, pretending to take it in while regaining my composure.
“It looks great,” I say, with a little more enthusiasm that I’d anticipated.
“Awesome! Conference in twenty in the room upfront.” He taps the side of the cubicle before walking away.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the conference room, which is themed much the same way as the rest of the office. The wall of large windows looks freshly washed, giving a clear view of the city below. Lake Michigan can barely be seen through the morning fog.
After sitting down with the coffee I’d grabbed from the breakroom, I open my laptop and finish answering emails while I wait for the meeting to begin. It doesn’t take long for the chairs to be filled, and pleasantries exchanged as Pete walks in, closing the door behind him.
“Hi everyone, today we need to go over what projects we have on deck for next year, and then we need to sort through the assignments.”
As Pete continues, I hear the faint sound of a siren below echoing off the buildings, and while I stare out the window, a shiver catches me off guard.
Images of that night flash before me.
The doorbell rings, followed by three knocks.
I groan from the intrusion of my sleep and crawl out of bed before making my way down the hallway. Peeking into Nicole’s room, I see an untouched bed, which can only mean one thing. She forgot her keys…AGAIN.
“Nik, why do you always do this—it’s 2am,” I scold as I open the door.
“Myssa Conner?” the officer asked.
“Yes?”
Everything after that was a blur. I remember the sound the rain made on the roof in the downpour.
The “we regret to inform you”, and the rush of blood to my ears.
Not being able to control my sobs as I dropped to the ground.
I don’t know how long the officer was kneeling there, holding me until the numbness seeped in.
I don’t know how I ended up in the back of his car as he drove me to the hospital to identify her body.
“Myssa?”
I flinch, the vivid memory fading as quickly as it came. I blink for a second, wiping a tear away, realizing there are seven pairs of eyes on me in the conference room, waiting for my answer.
“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?” My cheeks heat, and I’m sure that embarrassment has reddened them enough for others to see.
Pete just sighs, gathering his laptop and papers.
I feel like a kid in trouble as he towers over me, a mix of disappointment and sympathy on his face.
“Let’s discuss this in my office, shall we?” He gestures towards the door and then looks over my head to address the rest of our group.
“Everyone else—I think we’re done here. Thank you for your time.”
I follow Pete to his office, and before I can apologize, he motions for me to sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Pete and I have known each other for a better part of ten years, and our boss-employee relationship has morphed into a friendship that feels more like family.
I’ve watched his kids grow up, and he’s been there for the failed relationships and advice throughout the years, knowing my parents were no longer around.
“Look, Myssa, as your friend, I have to tell you—I’m worried about you.
I know Nicole’s death was sudden. No one could have prepared you for that, and you know I’m here for you if you need me.
But to be blunt, you’re barely hanging on, and it’s starting to show.
I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, and although your projects are still going well, what I don’t want to see is anything slipping because you’re burning out. ”
His sympathetic gaze starts to get to me, and I look away, finding a spot on the floor to stare at.
“When Nik died, I told you to take as much time as you needed. Grieving is such an important process, and you didn’t give yourself enough time to do it.
You’ve slowly declined since. This meeting today was just our daily, luckily, but it just shows your head is not in the game. ” His eyes turn pleading.
I take a minute to let what he’s saying sink in, if I’m honest with myself, I know he’s not wrong.
I’d only taken two days off for the wake and cremation, then proceeded to dive into work to escape.
The loss was too much to deal with at the time.
Thinking about it all right now, my eyes start to sting.
He pauses, his posture stiffening. I can feel it coming.
“But as your boss, I’m going to insist you take a few weeks off. Your projects are pretty much wrapped up, and I think it’s time for you to take some time for yourself. I know you have some vacation saved up, and I’ll match it so you can relax, and clear your mind.”
Trying to hold in the tears, I unconsciously pick at my nail polish.
I’d started this job right out of a high school as a project coordinator, and over the years had made my way to Project Manager.
I love what I do—the challenges of schedules and tasks and “miracles” I have to sometimes Houdini, give me the self gratification that I’ve earned my spot on the team.
So, for him to tell me that I’m slipping has me taken back.
Opening my mouth, I finally look up at him and start a weak protest of his decision. “I—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “No, Myssa. Starting today, I want you off. I’ll have your coordinator take over if anything comes up. Go home, take the time you need. Your job will be here when you get back.”
The look in his eyes tells me there’s no point in arguing. The thought of not working makes me uneasy.