Barbie #2
“I went shopping with you last week,” I point out.
“To buy a wedding gift for Betty and Vincent,” she counters. “When was the last time you went out?” Her gaze lands on her fingers. “I know you became Work Barbie after you got dumped—”
“Since when were you majoring in psych?” I deadpan, and my sister rolls her eyes. “And I’m just really dedicated to my job.”
“But what happened to your plan to settle down and have kids before thirty? Can’t really do that when you’re constantly inside.”
I lift a brow. “Do you think I can magically find someone and pop out children in the next seven months?”
“Miracles have been known to happen,” Bell replies, and we both fight our snickers. Then she sighs and levels my setup with a wry glance. “Look. Don’t tell Betty I said this, but she’s genuinely worried about you.”
What? “Because I’m not following my ridiculous life-plan?”
“Nah… It’s just… You’re constantly stressed out from work. You never leave the apartment—not really. Don’t even deny it, Barbie.”
I shoot her a dry look. I do go outside, contrary to what she’s spouting.
“You’re always at home,” she continues. “And she might—”
“Don’t tell me she’s thinking of pushing the wedding—”
“Yeah. I know.” She sucks in a breath and winces. “I told her not to worry, but you know how she is.”
I do know. Betty has always been the worrier between the three of us. She overthinks everything and always puts everyone but herself first—especially her sisters. She’s the epitome of the eldest daughter syndrome.
“So,” she continues, “I may or may not have told her you already promised me you’re going to have a mini-vacation on your work trip.”
“Are you serious?”
“It won’t be hard. It’s not like you’ll spend your entire time working. You’ll be in South Carolina. There are plenty of things to do. You can hit up their beaches. Check out their lighthouse. Liberate their lobsters.”
“Liberate their lobsters?” I twist in my seat to face her. “Bell, I can always go to a beach or check out a lighthouse here.”
“And? Have you?” she asks, and I can only stare at her while I try to rack my brain for any example to prove her wrong. “I’m serious, though—When was the last time you went outside and did something for yourself?”
My lips form a flat line as I realize the last time I ever did anything for myself was probably—if I have to realistically ballpark it—never. It’s a hard pill to swallow.
“I mean, you could always fight with your coworker the entire time you’re there,” she remarks, and I frown at her. “Every morning, I wake up to you two arguing over… sheets.”
“Cover sheets.” My scowl deepens. “He refuses to acknowledge the fact that we have a standardized cover sheet—”
“Is this really what you want to do with the rest of your life, though?” Bell asks. “Arguing with some guy online over sheets?”
“I’d argue with him less if he’d stop making it hard for my team to do their job,” I grumble. Leading the QC team has been a never-ending source of stress for me. I keep forgetting to eat lunch until Betty fusses over me about it at dinner, which makes me feel even worse.
My team is just here to make sure everything we review is up to the company’s standard, so we don’t get charged a fee for every legal doc incorrectly filled out.
As Ed stressed to me in many one-on-one meetings, we don’t want to risk the chance of having our big-name clients take their business elsewhere, or else there could be layoffs.
Every time there have been whispers about layoffs, Ed always makes me keep track of the number of reports and files my team looks over in a given day to assess if their bandwidth is fully utilized. Not only that, he always asks me to keep track of the impact they’ve made at the company.
I know it more or less means that if my team’s not making a positive impact, the company’s shutting down the QC team, and everyone I’m responsible for gets laid off. I don’t want to be the reason why six people are out of a job.
“And you know I’m putting in my resignation,” I say, lowering my voice. I’m met with a skeptical look, which I understand wholeheartedly. I said I’d quit after I worked at the company for a year when I got hired. “I mean it.”
“When you’re not too busy arguing with the guy over sheets,” Bell says finally, “live a little.”
“By liberating a lobster for you?” I tack on, and she beams at me.
“It can’t hurt, can it?” she teases. “Liberate the lobsters for me and then unwind with a fruity drink or two.”
I meet her eyes, and she waggles her brows. After a beat, I sigh. “I do love fruity drinks.”
“Duh,” she deadpans. “And I’m your sister.”
“All right, fine.” I turn to face my monitors again and stare at the computer program before me, biting back my smile when she loops her arms around my shoulders from behind. “When I’m not too busy fighting with Carter over cover sheets, I’ll have a fruity drink or two.”
“That’s all Bets and I want.” She plants a wet kiss on my temple and cackles hard when I shove her off of me.
With a sigh and a wrinkled nose, I return my attention to the monitors in front of me, my gaze landing on the grainy profile picture I’ve seen far too many times.
Maybe it’s because his mom was in the hospital, or maybe it’s the fact that I don’t want to spend the entire conference arguing with the guy in person over cover sheets, SOPs, and everything else he likes to fight me over, but the only way this trip is going to be a little bit more bearable is if we try to be nicer to each other.
I’d like to leave the company with some pleasant memories.
And since I can’t imagine Carter being the type to extend the olive branch, it’s up to me to take the initiative like I always do.