Chapter 4
I stare at the plate of pancakes that my asshole roommate left. I don’t have time for this, so I throw them in a Ziploc bag and put them in the freezer and clean up the kitchen a little. Then I start cooking lunch. It’s pretty fast on the stove and I’m grateful.
I grab my laptop on the table and make a dash to my room to freshen up. “Ouch! What the actual hell?” I curse under my breath as I trip over a duffel bag in the middle of the hallway.
I rub my throbbing shin and pray it doesn’t bruise.
I stand upright and as I try to move, the pain shoots up my leg. “Damn…” I trail off, suddenly realizing that I don’t even know his name. The pain is still there, and I have my mom’s voice in my head that I’m such a weakling.
As I walk into my room, I trip over the boots from yesterday that I didn’t put away, smack my other knee into the dresser, shout something very unladylike, and for about four seconds consider just not going to this job today and going off to reside in the woods because Mrs. Randolph already hates me.
She doesn’t just dislike me, she hates me.
My first day working with her is still vivid in my head.
She asked me to serve her coffee as some weird sort of test for my competence.
I had to remind her that I was there for the event coordinator role and not for the secretary or personal assistant.
She glared at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out of her rug, and I swear every time she’s called my name since, she’s tested new ways to kill me with only her eyes.
If I give her a reason now by showing up late to the biggest meeting of the week. Oh, she’d feast on my bones.
Shower? No time. I rip off my pajama shirt and toss it to the corner. It’s only been a day here, but my laundry pile is already like a mountain range of shame.
I dig through my suitcase and come up with a blouse that used to be white but now was eggshell? Gray? I don’t care. I shake it like that will magically iron it. It doesn’t but on it goes. I pair it with a pencil skirt that makes my waist look slimmer and makes me feel good about my body.
Half of the clothes in that closet are from my college days and that’s because I’ve been saving up for more important things so I can’t afford to go on a shopping spree even though that’s long overdue.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t scream, “give me raise,” or “put some respect on my name” but at least it looks like I have my life put together.
Then, I fuss with my hair and finally get it into a neat crown braid with few tendrils framing my face.
I throw one shoe on, the other dangling half-off as I bolt out of my room. Coffee is non-negotiable so that I don’t reflect Mrs. Randolph’s bad attitude. As I get into the kitchen, my steps falter as I see my flat mate already there. He’s covered in sweat and scarfing down the food I left for him.
“You’re here?” he says like he’s annoyed.
“I am leaving right now.”
His eyes travel down my body. “But you’ll be back?”
I smile. “Aw, are you going to miss me?”
He laughs as my eyes travel down his body, looking at his sweaty shirt.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Since we’ll be living together, I should probably know your name.”
“You have six days, Cameron Gray.”
He clicks his tongue. “Ah, you do know who I am.”
I side-eye him, grabbing my lunch for the day. “You have mail laying around. I don’t know anything about you besides you have six days left.”
He shakes his head. “Well, mail snooper. You know my name and can connect the dots from there.” The way he’s talking is like he’s a big shot whose presence I’m oblivious to. I make a mental note to check him up later.
“Well, I’m Brie Sparks.” He raises a finger before I can fully complete my introduction. I find myself staring at his lips, waiting for his next words. “I’m sure none of your boyfriends has been honest with you, but Ms. Sparks, you’re too loud in the mornings. You need to be more considerate.”
There’s a retort on my tongue but I bite it back for the sake of peace. Even though I’m running late, I plaster on a smile and ask, “Do you appreciate that I’m cooking for you? Or will glaring at me fill you up and help you not be so angry?”
His expression hardens but he doesn’t say a word in response.
A silly little smile tugs at my lips. His attitude is a big red flag. “What do I care?” I mutter kindly. I grab my bag, coffee in hand and face him fully. He’s typing on his phone, his brows knit in concentration.
Then I’m out the door.
By the time I launch myself into my car and drive onto the main road, I’m sweating like I’d run a marathon. The thin fabric of my blouse sticks to me like second skin. My gut tells me that living with Cameron Gray is going to complicate my simple life and make things more difficult for me.
I spend the whole drive watching the minutes race toward my doom. 9:14. 9:18. At 9:20, a pedestrian strolls across the street so slow I think I’m about to spasm. By the time I stumble out in front of the building, I’m thirty minutes late. I’m dead. Julia should prepare for my funeral tomorrow.
The lobby guard doesn’t even look up from his crossword to acknowledge my greeting when I zoom past with my badge. The elevator doors slide shut, and I whisper, “Maybe she won’t notice,” which frankly is the biggest, dumbest lie I’ve ever told myself.
Mrs. Randolph notices everything. If a pin from a stapler falls, she knows about it.
The elevator dings and I tiptoe out like I was entering enemy territory. The office is buzzing as usual with phones ringing, keyboards clacking, people chattering.
My eyes scan the place until it lands on the ice queen, Mrs. Randolph.
Through the glass of the conference room, I can see that she’s dressed in a flashy yellow dress that looks like something I’d rock to the Grammys.
She’s making a presentation at the front, clipboard in hand and my whole team was inside, alongside the board members.
Her eyes find mine through the glass and I find my feet shuffling there awkwardly, bracing myself for the verbal attack that is coming.
“Brie.” That’s all she says once I walk inside, and my knees weaken.
I plaster on a fake smile. “Morning, Mrs. Randolph! Sorry, the uh––”
She raises one finger in the air, interrupting me. “Have a seat and try to follow up. We’re almost done anyway.”
The walk to my chair is pure torture. Everyone’s heads turn to catch a glimpse of me.
Todd from accounting smirks like my humiliation is his caffeine.
Sandra from publicity looks at me with big sad eyes like she was already planning my eulogy.
And of course, Miranda has a big smile on her face.
I’m sure she was praying for me to be absent altogether.
I settle down and take out my laptop. Mrs. Randolph lets the silence simmer, then clicks her pen. “As I was saying, before our latecomer joined us.”
I want to crawl under the table and die. My face is on fire as my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
The meeting goes on forever. Charts are analyzed then there’s the talk about deadlines and new marketing strategies, plus prospective clients. I catch maybe thirty percent of it, because the rest of the time, my brain has been screaming, you’re getting fired!
When it finally ends, everyone shuffles out. I stay put, praying she will forget about me if I sit very still.
“Brie, wait behind,” she says, and I halt.
Sandra squeezes my arms on the way out and flashes a warm smile. Miranda follows and then it’s just me and Mrs. Randolph. She paces, her heels clicking the tiled.
“Do you know what time it is, Brie?”
“Yes, ma’am, I—”
“It’s almost 10:00AM. Do you know what time our meeting began?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Correct and yet you arrived half an hour late without a legit reason or proper apology.”
My throat feels like sandpaper. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Randolph. I—”
She holds her hands up. “Excuses every time. I’m sick of it. Do you think clients care about what’s going on in your personal life?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you think deadlines wait for you because you––” She sticks out her neck, waiting sarcastically for me to reply.
“No, ma’am.”
Her voice gets even colder. “This isn’t the first time your performance has been questionable.”
That makes tears to prick my eyelids.
All I manage to say is, “I can do better, I promise,” which sounds pathetic. Such a typical phrase to say.
“Promises don’t pay bills. Results do. Prove you can handle pressure. Starting today.”
She shoves a giant folder into my arms. It’s so heavy I almost drop it. “Finish this by the end of the day. Do it manually, no excuses.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My voice cracks as I feel a sob stuck in my throat.
“And one more thing, Sparks. If this ever happens again, I’ll be forced to send you to the audit department where you’ll be more useful.” She gives me one last deadly glance and struts out like a peacock on heels.
The second the door closes, I collapsed in the chair. “Oh my God, she hates me even more now.”
And maybe she was right before. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. I couldn’t even cut straight lines in kindergarten. And now here I am, twenty-five, already late to the most important meeting, about to drown in work that three people would struggle to finish.
I stare at the folder like it is going to bite me. My stomach growls, but no way am I going for lunch. Not with this shitload of work. Mrs. Randolph will find out from three floors away if I’m eating instead of working. Damn, pancakes.
Okay, Brie, you survived worse. High school gym. That haircut in sophomore year that made you look like a mushroom, living with the Wilsons, you can survive this too.
I open the folder and see spreadsheets. There are notes in handwriting that might as well have been ancient Greek. I sigh wearily and drop flat on my desk.
Hours pass on a blur as I tend to the work. My back aches, my eyes burn and time ticks faster as if daring me to race it to midnight.
During lunchtime, half the cubicles are empty with everyone else laughing over sandwiches and other snacks while I chew on a pen cap like it’s food. By five, my notes are filled, my fingers cramping, my brain beaten into submission.
I’m finally done by 7:00pm. I haul the folder back into Mrs. Randolph’s office. She doesn’t even look at me, just flips through the pages and mutters, “We’ll see if this is acceptable.”
That’s it.
No thank you, or anything.
I shuffle out with my shoulders sagging.
At least I made it through the day alive…
Or without losing my job.