Chapter 12 Not a Cult. Hopefully
Not a Cult. Hopefully
Harlee
Summer’s over.
Not that I had one.
Between Page Turner, summer school tutoring, and trying to keep my life from quietly unraveling, there wasn’t room for softness. No golden hours. No version of me that wasn’t calculating, adjusting, holding it together with both hands.
I used to be good at that—maximizing time, staying ahead of the fall.
Lately, it feels like I’m catching it mid-collapse.
Now I’m here. Balanced on the edge of something new.
Northbridge practicum. James Wilde Media.
It’s not the plan. Not clean. Not Herman Prince-approved in spirit—just in technicality. A reroute dressed up as opportunity. A lifeline I didn’t ask for but can’t afford to ignore, not after Shawl disappeared and my graduation timeline went with it.
So I take it.
Because the alternative feels worse.
Still… my nerves are loud.
This isn’t just one thing. It’s everything.
Classes. Deadlines. The quiet, constant pressure of needing this to work.
I read my syllabi last night and felt it—that familiar drop in my stomach, like the ground shifting before I can find my footing. Midterms already looming. No room to fall behind. No room, really, to fall at all.
Wynter’s in Germany. On stage. In motion.
Living like uncertainty is something you dance with instead of brace against.
I miss her.
I envy her, too.
Which feels unfair. But it’s there. She jumped—and somehow built a life on the way down.
Me? I’m still here, trying to convince myself this doesn’t mean I’m failing. That this is strategy. That this is… growth.
That this counts.
I’m at Big Momma’s for a few more nights before the move is official. It’s quiet here. The kind of quiet that presses in, makes you take inventory of everything you’ve been trying not to think about.
In a few days, everything shifts.
And for the first time in a while, beneath the noise and the doubt and the pressure—
there’s something else.
Small. Fragile.
But there.
Hope.
I wake up early, and the room looks like my brain feels: cluttered, disorganized, functional. Suitcase still open. Books stacked like they’re mad at me. Half-folded laundry. Receipts. A life in progress.
I shower quick, diffuse my hair into cooperation, and throw on a simple black dress. Kicks for the commute. Pumps in my bag for later. Minimal makeup. My rings. The usual. The only things in my life that consistently show up on time.
In the cracked mirror, I look like myself… just a little more certain than I feel.
Close enough.
I take a selfie and send it to Wynter and my sister, Harper—part moral support, part evidence.
If I’m stepping into this version of my life, somebody’s going to see me do it.
Wynter responds almost immediately.
Bestie: Your ass is stacked like Legos in that dress. You look amazing, babe!
I laugh, and the sound punches a small hole through my anxiety. Bless her. Truly.
By 9:30, I’m downtown with coffee in hand and my stomach doing the kind of flip that would earn a judge’s score in the Olympics. I badge in, take the security photo, and ride up with an elevator full of suits, lanyards, and oat milk lattes.
It feels less like a workplace and more like a very ambitious crossover between a TED Talk and the Hunger Games.
I’m clutching my coffee like a stress ball, repeating my new mantra:
You’re here for the credit. Not a cult. Just a practicum. Hopefully.
When the doors open, I step into a glossy, glass-lined hallway that screams money was no object. The double doors ahead read James Wilde Media Group in a font so sleek it looks like it charges rent.
Even the light fixtures are doing the most.
A woman in a hunter green blazer looks up from her phone.
“You must be Harlee.”
I glance down.
Dunks.
Still on.
I mentally scream, then force my face into neutrality like I’m not two seconds away from evaporating.
“Yep,” I say, waving a little too casually. “That’s me.”
“I’m Desiree. I’ll be showing you around today.”
She pivots and the tour begins at a pace that suggests she’s late for three meetings.
“Front office, HR, People Ops,” she says, already moving. “Conference rooms on thirty-seven and thirty-eight. Comms and brand on thirty-nine. Security and web dev on forty-two. Legal and strategy on forty-three. C-suite on forty-one.”
She says it like I know what any of it means.
I nod like I’m absorbing it, but my brain is buffering.
One step at a time, Harlee. Locate the bathroom. Then conquer corporate America.
We pass glass-walled rooms where people are already mid-meeting, hands flying over laptops, faces serious like they’re negotiating world peace instead of… whatever brand studios do.
Desiree swipes a badge at a stairwell door.
“I usually take the stairs,” she says casually. “Faster than the elevators.”
She’s in heels. I’m in kicks. And somehow I still feel like I’m the one who needs to hydrate.
On the next floor, I pretend to admire the skyline while discreetly catching my breath.
Desiree gestures ahead. “Yoga studio.”
I blink. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“It’s always open. Meditation Tuesdays, movement Thursdays. Recharge pods on forty.”
“Recharge… pods,” I repeat, because my mouth is still participating even as my soul considers leaving the premises.
Desiree keeps going, unbothered. “James designed the space around natural light and intentional zones. Wilde is more innovation and performance.”
She says their names like it’s normal. Like in this building, founders get last names and gravity.
We round a corner, and that’s when I see the bullpen. Open desks. Two monitors everywhere. People talking, typing, laughing, moving like this is their natural habitat.
In the middle of it, two women are already in a standoff.
“I cannot believe you won’t close the shade,” one snaps.
The auburn’s face tugs at something in my memory.
Not a person. A feeling.
Sharp. Judgy. Like I’m about to be graded on a curve I didn’t agree to.
The other woman, curvy with long black hair and a face that looks like it was designed by a goddess with a steady hand, rolls her eyes.
“No one else has a problem with the shade being up, Rebecca.”
Desiree doesn’t even slow down. She angles me toward an empty desk near the chaos like this is normal.
“Here you’ll be,” she says. “Tap the trackpad to wake it up. Temp password is in your email. Two screens. Slack me if you need anything. Virginia will message you the rest.”
Then she’s gone, heels clicking away like punctuation.
Plot twist: I’m alone.
Well, as alone as you can be in an open office full of people who already know where everything is. I drop my bag beside the desk and sit, forcing myself to breathe like I’m not on the verge of a nervous system event.
Okay. Work.
I turn back to my desk like it’s a lifeboat.
Trackpad. Screen wakes. A clean login window stares me down like it knows I’m nervous.
Temporary password. Then MFA. Then another prompt. Because apparently corporate America believes in trust issues.
Slack opens and immediately starts lighting up.
#welcome-harlee
#people-ops
#accounting
A message from Virginia lands with a smiley face and twelve links, which feels like a threat wrapped in a bow.
I click the onboarding portal.
Step one: confirm direct deposit.
Step two: sign the laptop security policy.
Step three: complete sensitivity training.
Step four: request access to three systems I’ve never heard of.
I make a checklist in my notes app because if I don’t organize something right now, I’m going to start alphabetizing oxygen.
When the first training video loads, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the elevator.
Okay. This is work. I am doing work.
Behind me, the argument about the blinds escalates.
“It’s glaring in my eyes,” the auburn hisses.
The black-haired woman gestures broadly at the windows, sunlight spilling in like it has something to prove. “The whole point of being up here is the view. You don’t get to make the sun your enemy at eleven in the morning because you’re committed to suffering.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. My sensitivity training narrator drones on in my earbuds about workplace respect while, ten feet away, two grown adults argue over… well daylight.
I vaguely remember the funnier one calling the auburn woman, Rebecca.
Then the other woman stands with a flourish, already done with the conversation, and reaches into her desk.
She pulls out a purple sun hat.
Not a cute little accessory. A full, wide-brimmed, I’m-on-vacation-and-ignoring-emails sun hat.
She places it on her head and rolls her chair back like she’s about to order a frozen drink.
I choke on a laugh.
Rebecca folds her arms. “Oh my God. You are dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Hat Lady flicks the brim. “You walked across the office to ask me to close the shade at my own desk.”
Rebecca opens her mouth.
Hat Lady doesn’t let her get a word out. Bright smile. Zero fear. “This is a coworking space. Meaning we cowork in this space. Everyone but you is fine.”
Rebecca glares, realizes she’s lost, and turns on her heel. “You are uncompromising.”
“Sure am!” Hat Lady calls after her, blowing exaggerated kisses into the sunlight like she just won something.
I laugh out loud this time, soft and unplanned.
Hat Lady catches me watching and winks, like we’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds.
“Welcome to the circus, new girl,” she says.
A few minutes later, she appears at the corner of my desk, now hatless, smiling so wide it should be illegal before noon.
“Sooo,” she says, leaning in like we’re already friends. “I’m Loridonna, but you can call me Lori. Did you enjoy the show?”
“Harlee,” I say, shaking her hand. “That was… a lot.”
She looks me up and down, approving. “Harlee like the motorcycle? That’s badass!”
“I've heard,” I say, but I can’t help smiling. Her energy is warm, loud in a comforting way. Like she refuses to let the room swallow her.
“So where ya from? Give me the details now so I don’t have to cyber stalk you later” Lori beams, in a mustard orange geometric tea length dress with a cropped white blazer.
“From? Just outside of Alexandria, but I’ve been in the Chi about hmm, three years now, I go to Northridge. I am a part of their grad practicum program.”
“Practicum girl,” Lori says, nodding at my desk. “You’re brave.”
“I’m tired,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
She laughs.
And then a voice cuts through my peace.
“You look familiar? Did you use to work at the Whole Foods near Grant Park?”
Rebecca.
She’s back like a sequel nobody asked for. Arms folded. Expression smug. Like she’s been rehearsing this line in the mirror.
My body goes cold. My brain tries to find a professional response and comes up blank.
Lori steps forward immediately, voice flat and deadly polite.
“Don’t even try it,” she says. “Not in my presence. Take that passive-aggressive mean girl nonsense somewhere else.”
Rebecca rolls her eyes like she’s allergic to audacity and walks past us with that “I’m too important for this” strut, heels clicking like she’s trying to start a fire.
I watch her go, posture perfect, misery neatly pressed.
And then it hits me.
Oh.
It’s the soy latte bitch.
From the day I interviewed.
Lori turns back to me, still smiling like she didn’t just commit workplace homicide with her tone.
“She’s PR,” she says, breezy. “Thinks everyone here should kiss her little narrow behind because, other than the EAs, she’s basically James Wilde’s second hand.
According to her, she built their image. ”
I blink. “Ah. So it’s privilege. Got it.”
I give her a knowing nod. She returns it, satisfied.
“You’d think so,” Lori says, like it’s obvious. “But nobody actually pays her any mind. She’s just… committed to the attitude.” She waves a hand, dismissing it entirely. “Anyway.”
Then she nods toward her desk. “If you need anything, you roll over to me. I’m right there. Think of me as your emotional support coworker.”
I laugh, and something in my chest loosens. "Understood."
Later, Lori swings back around and perches on the edge of my desk like this is her natural habitat.
“How’s it going?” she asks. “The welcome committee wear you out yet?”
I sigh dramatically. “Girl. Why is everybody so… engaged.”
“Nosey,” she corrects, smiling.
“That makes more sense.”
She laughs. “Relax. By next week you’ll be forgotten. They’ll move on to the next shiny new thing.”
“Oh thank God,” I breathe. “I really thought I had to remember everyone’s names.”
Lori’s smile softens. “You don’t like attention?”
“I don’t like being perceived,” I admit. “And I’m only here because I need the hands-on hours for my master’s.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Master’s? In what?”
“Mathematical Engineering.”
“Damn,” she says, genuinely impressed. “Okay, STEM.”
“I’m just trying to finish,” I say. “That’s all.”
A beat later, Lori claps her hands once, like a decision’s been made.
“Come eat with us.”
“I have onboarding videos,” I protest, pointing at my screen like it’s my parole officer.
“It’ll be there when we get back,” she says easily. “Also, I need another girl. Going to lunch with the guys makes me look like I’m in a very specific kind of relationship.”
I snort. “Fair.”
“So it’s settled,” she says, already standing. “Grab your phone. Keep the Dunks—excellent choice, by the way. Love the whole vibe. We’re walking.”
Something in me softens at that.
Like maybe I don’t have to change into the version of myself I thought this place required.
I glance at my checklist. At the slow-moving “in progress” bar on sensitivity training.
I’m adjusting.
I grab my bag and follow Lori into the hallway, letting the office noise swell around me—voices, footsteps, the low hum of something in motion.
This could be good.
I’m here for eight months.
Might as well see what happens if I say yes.