CHAPTER 2 #2
People don’t call customer service when they’re happy.
They call when there is a problem. When they’re disappointed or when they go unheard.
I spend hours each week listening to complaints about packaging, pricing, formulas, shipping times, undertones and applicators.
I’ve learned more about what frustrates customers than any marketing deck could ever teach me.
I file it all away mentally.
One day, I tell myself, I’ll build something better. A brand that actually listens. A line that solves the things customers complain about in hushed, exasperated tones when they think no one important is paying attention.
This job may not be the dream, but it is data.
And most importantly, it’s income, which is desperately needed.
My mom and stepfather—two struggling, wannabe artists—barely have two nickels to rub together so it’s on me to support Dylan while they’re off living a hippie lifestyle.
We pretty much live hand-to-mouth, but we’re happy, and that’s the most important thing.
I slice open the tape carefully and fold back the cardboard flaps.
The first thing I see is a pair of oversized black sunglasses.
For a second, I stare at them, confused, before recognition clicks. They’re mine. Or they were. I thought I lost them months ago—probably left them at my desk during a long shift and forgot to grab them when I rushed out to make a driving appointment.
“Okay…,” I murmur, lifting them from the package.
Beneath the sunglasses is a photo—slightly bent at one corner.
It’s me and Dylan from two summers ago at Coney Island. He’s mid-laugh, taller than me already, his arm thrown over my shoulders. I’m squinting into the sun, hair whipping across my face, both of us holding melting ice cream cones like trophies.
I kept that at my cubicle, taped to one of the shelves where it hung just over my monitor so I could see it all the time.
I swallow hard, an uneasy churning takes root in my gut.
Next comes a coffee mug—chipped slightly at the rim—the one that says Future Founder in gold script. A joke I bought for myself during a particularly brutal week of back-to-back complaint calls.
And then, at the bottom, my notebook. The black one with elastic binding. The one filled with scribbled observations, product ideas, customer quotes, half-formed branding concepts I’ve been too afraid to show anyone.
These are all from my cubicle.
All of them.
That churning in my gut morphs into full-blown nausea.
That’s when I see it—a folded piece of paper tucked along the side of the box. My name is written on the outside in Julie’s handwriting and my stomach bottoms out as I know with dreaded certainty what it will say. I open the envelope and pull out a letter, unfolding it carefully.
Harper,
This is the most difficult note I’ve ever had to write.
The words blur slightly and I blink, forcing myself to keep reading.
I was going to call you, but I wasn’t confident I’d be able to keep it together long enough to explain everything clearly, and you deserve clarity.
My fingers tighten around the page.
As you may have heard, the company was recently acquired. With the new ownership comes a complete restructuring of our operational model. One of the first decisions made was to shut down all in-house customer service branches and transition entirely to automated and outsourced systems.
I stop breathing for a second.
Effective immediately, your position has been eliminated.
The kitchen goes very still.
I am so, so sorry. I scrambled this afternoon to gather as much from your cubicle as I could before facilities cleared everything out. I didn’t want your personal items to be lost or boxed up without care.
My eyes sting, but I keep reading.
You were one of the best representatives we had, Harper. Not because you hit metrics, though you did, but because you genuinely cared about the people on the other end of the line. That kind of empathy is rare. I know how much you needed this job, and I hate that this is how you’re finding out.
My throat constricts. A burning sensation rushes up my spine.
Please know this has nothing to do with your performance. These changes are sweeping and impersonal, and they do not reflect your talent or potential. I believe in you deeply, and I hope you’ll stay in touch. If there’s anything I can do to support you, I will.
With regret and admiration,
Julie
I lower the termination letter. The apartment, which just seconds ago had returned to a level of acceptable stability, is suddenly unsteady. Beau lifts his head from the floor and looks at me, sensing the shift.
Income.
Flexible hours.
My livelihood.
All… gone.
I glance toward the fridge, where Dylan’s plate sits neatly covered in foil, and the weight of it presses down harder than the smoke alarm ever did. I stand there in the kitchen, Julie’s letter still in my hand, and realize that everything just changed.
The letter slips from my hand onto the counter.
For a what feels like an eternity, I stare at the box of my things like they belong to someone else. Someone with a steady paycheck and a plan. Effective immediately. The words echo in a flat, corporate voice that doesn’t care how rent gets paid.
This job was supposed to be the stepping stone. The foot in the door. The industry access. It was how I learned what customers hated, what they returned, what they wished someone would fix. It was also how I paid the bills.
My eyes drift across the kitchen to the stack of envelopes I’ve been avoiding.
They’re not subtle.
Vet bills from Beau’s emergency visit. Grocery receipts folded into statements. Utilities with bright red due dates. Rent circled twice in pen. And underneath, the medical bills from Dylan’s horrible bout with the flu last month—sterile, heavy, unavoidable.
My stomach cramps and I think I might be sick.
Beau pads over and sits in front of me, looking up with those big brown eyes that always seem to know when something goes awry. I crouch down and pull him into my arms, pressing my face into his fur. He leans into me without hesitation, solid and warm and unaware of corporate takeovers.
“I didn’t plan for this,” I whisper. He exhales softly against my shoulder.
How do I replace that income? How do I keep everything balanced? How do I not let Dylan see the crack in the foundation?
I pull back and hold Beau’s face between my hands. Those soulful eyes stare at me with a steadiness I need. He trusts me to care for him, just as Dylan does, and I won’t let them down. “I’ll figure it out,” I say, even though my chest feels uncertain. “I promise.”
His tail thumps once against the cabinet.
Across the room, the bills sit in their pile. The fridge hums. The apartment seems to close in around me.
But I stay there on the kitchen floor, holding him, because there isn’t another option.
I will figure it out. I have to.