Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Madison
I’ve been waking up stupid early for the past six days in a row. Pretty much ever since Liam unexpectedly announced to all of our friends that he’s putting down roots here.
Everyone was so legitimately happy. Which made me feel all sorts of warm and weepy inside to see him surrounded and welcomed by friends.
It also made me feel all sorts of panicky since I don’t have an ironclad plan to be able to stay in Noel. And I need a plan. With Liam committed to staying and all of our friends wanting me here, I have to figure out a way to make it happen.
If only Madison Joy Editorial would take off the way I need it to.
I don’t know what else to do—I’ve made every connection I possibly can, sent every uncomfortable “cold” email, consistently posted professional graphics on social media, and received nothing but five-star reviews from all of my clients.
I do have a couple of repeat clients with new manuscripts in the pipeline, but I’ve never had more than two or three clients per month.
And that’s simply not enough to pay my bills.
I’ve been able to put off making a responsible move since I’m not paying rent with Liam, but we have to move out of this house in six weeks.
Not to mention we need to stop being roommates and simply be boyfriend and girlfriend for a while if we’re not going to rush the relationship faster than we should.
These are the thoughts that infiltrate my dreams and short-circuit my sleep cycles. I’ve started applying to every freelance copywriting position I can find that allows remote work. Unfortunately, my honed-in expertise in proofreading is not helping me land any of those positions.
My “how am I going to make a livable income?” anxiety is spiraling to an all-time high. And it’s leaving behind a reverberating echo: Do the responsible thing, Madison. Do the right thing, Madison.
I’m curled up in a not-very-comfortable chair on the back patio, gripping a mug of the English breakfast tea Liam brought back from London.
Steam curls up and disappears into the morning fog, a mesmerizing dance of mist. The backyard of the rental house is nothing to write home about, but the crisp, fresh air is helping me think more clearly.
Between the tea and the blanket I’m wrapped in, I’m a comfortable temperature, able to appreciate the cool gray of the sky as it slowly changes colors with the sunrise.
The patio door opens behind me, and Liam comes out dressed in joggers and a long-sleeve athletic shirt. Luxury, of course.
“Morning,” he says before bending down to kiss me. “What are you doing up so early?”
“Just awake,” I say, leaving it at that.
“Want to join me for my run?” Liam asks, a teasing tone in his voice.
I scoff. “Absolutely not. If you ever see me running, I expect you to step in and rescue me from whatever is chasing me.”
He laughs heartily, the sound like a sunbeam cutting through the foggy morning. “Okay, I’m heading into the office early. Keep it hush hush, but we’re officially offering the plant manager role to Beau today. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him.”
Liam’s excitement brings tears of joy burning behind my eyes. His contentment in Noel and eagerness to make a friend’s day is such a stark contrast to his attitude when he arrived here. Back when he had very vocal judgments about small towns and a total disregard for anyone’s opinion.
When he hasn’t been at the plant, Liam’s been working in a different capacity over the past week.
He’s officially going out on his own, setting up a consulting business to offer executive coaching and temporary fractional COO services.
He let me pretend to be useful by listening to my hard-won expertise in incorporating a business, as though he couldn’t have figured it out on his own.
I made it crystal clear that this new business venture had better still hinge upon him wearing his fancy suits every day.
I might just draw up an official contract.
I have a feeling that his independent consulting firm will literally skyrocket overnight once he puts the word out, very unlike Madison Joy Editorial.
“How much longer will you be officially working for Holden?” I ask.
“We don’t have a specific timeline—however long it takes to get Beau running things on his own.
Which I don’t think will take long—he could probably take the reins right now and be fine,” Liam says.
“I’m guessing just a few weeks. I’ll have to take a trip back to Houston to wrap things up at the office there and pack up my apartment, but I’m hoping to have everything closed down there before Christmas.
I don’t want to be distracted while celebrating my first Christmas with you in Nebraska. ”
He kisses me again, and I contemplate convincing him to ditch the run this morning. When I clasp a hand around his neck, he senses my evil plan and smiles against my lips.
“You’re trouble,” he says with a smirk. “Will you be here before I leave for work or are you meeting Clara early today?”
“I should be here,” I reply. “I’m supposed to meet Clara at Emily’s office at nine to go over the plans one final time before I leave for Nebraska tomorrow.”
“I’ll run extra fast,” Liam promises. “See you soon.”
While Liam is on his run, I take a quick shower and get dressed in jeans and the Christmas sweatshirt that Clara bought for me last year—it has a skeleton wearing a Santa hat beside a Christmas tree, and it is the greatest holiday sweatshirt ever designed.
I know it will make her happy seeing me wear it.
Maybe Clara can Christmas-magic a long-term job solution for me today.
I eat a quick breakfast with Liam before he dips me back in a dramatic kiss on his way out the door. Hamlet stands in the entryway, meowing loudly after him.
“I know, Hammie, I’m pretty obsessed with him too,” I say, leaning down to scratch Hamlet under the chin. He leaps onto my shoulders and makes himself at home there as I walk around putting dishes in the sink and wiping off the counters.
When my phone starts ringing, I expect it to be Clara calling with some last-minute urgent need before our meeting.
I’m surprised when I see “WritInc” as the contact name displayed.
I never deleted the office number from my phone contacts, but I never expected to hear from them again.
Worried that they might need updated contact information for my tax documents, I answer.
“Hello?” I don’t try to hide the contempt from my voice, even though, if it’s some poor HR soul, they don’t deserve my unbridled wrath.
A throat clears before I hear, “Hello, Madison, this is Chad calling from WritInc.”
Well, at least we know my unfiltered contempt was deserved.
“What do you want, Chad?” I ask. There is zero reason to dance around with niceties.
He clears his throat again, rather aggressively. Gross.
“I’m calling because our decision to rely on AI at the editing stage of our process may have been . . . premature,” Chad says. “I mean, I’m not entirely convinced it was a mistake, but we’re reevaluating the decision-making process and—”
I roll my eyes so aggressively, I nearly give myself a headache. Even though he can’t see me, I hope he can sense the eye roll in my voice. “Cut the crap, Chad. Why are you calling?”
“We’d like you to come back to WritInc. Back into your same position,” Chad states.
My mind floods with emotions, thoughts, and hormone chemicals that I can’t identify.
“You what?” I clarify.
Chad sighs heavily. “We’ve decided that it is a worthwhile cost to have a human proofreader doing the final checks on all of our publications.
We’d like you to come back to your position.
I know it’s a holiday week, but if you could come in next Monday, we could talk specific details of your employment package and get you set up to start again right away. ”
The world is spinning, and I need something grounding to latch on to.
“Why? What happened to make you change your mind?” I ask.
There’s a pause. “Chad? You still there?” I demand.
“Yes, still here. We, uh, we had a few complaints from customers about errors going out in the newsletters,” Chad admits.
I can’t help the smug happiness that spreads through me. I told you so.
“What kinds of errors?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant and not like I am completely reveling in his mistake.
“Most of them weren’t significant, just some small things the AI didn’t catch that customers felt made the publication look unprofessional,” Chad says.
I don’t say anything, forcing him to continue.
“Last week we lost a customer because of a more . . . well . . . sensitive error. And Mr. Douglas insisted that we bring you back.”
Curiosity extremely piqued, I take advantage of this opportunity to press my thumb into Chad’s pain point. Because I told him this would happen! “What was the mistake, Chad?” I ask.
“Well, the client was a Chamber of Commerce for a mid-sized town in Ohio, and the story was about a new commercial retail space opening. Including a new private hair salon that required a monthly membership fee to utilize multiple benefits,” Chad says, and I hear the embarrassment rising in his voice.
“Um, there was a line contrasting the salon to a public hair salon, but the, uh, the ‘l’ was left out of the word ‘public.’”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing. Because of course artificial intelligence wouldn’t recognize it as a mistake when it’s technically still a word.
When I finally manage to contain my giggles, I can hear Chad’s scowl beaming through the silence.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Actually, I’m not sorry.
I tried to tell you that something like this would happen.
This never would have happened if you would have just listened to me instead of thinking you could slash my position to cut costs. ”