Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
It’s been four days since I almost died.
We’re in Andrew’s car, on our way to the hospital for another treatment. We’ve decided to have them done there from now on to prevent anything further from happening.
The conversations about this have been so relaxed and comfortable. Not once have I thought about how hard you’d have to throw a chair against a window in order to crack it so that I could jump out and escape.
The drive is only twenty minutes, which feels both too long and nowhere near long enough. Long enough to dread what is coming. Not long enough to prepare for it.
Andrew drives with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road, jaw tight enough to crack a molar.
I sit in the passenger seat with my hands folded in my lap like a child being delivered to boarding school.
Both of us know there is something more here now.
Both of us know we can’t acknowledge it.
Not while he is still my boss, and I am still his assistant.
And yet, in about twenty minutes, he will have to put his hand down my pants and make me come.
The fact that I am not currently wandering the halls of a psych ward wearing grippy socks and a nightgown is nothing short of a miracle.
We arrive at the hospital and make our way to our designated room. Dr. Shaw greets us and lets us know that she’ll be right outside.
Yippee.
I lie down on the bed and look away. Andrew does his thing.
Just like the last time, it takes a while. I almost feel ashamed of it. But Andrew doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t sigh, shift impatiently, or make me feel like I’m taking too long. He’s patient, gentle, and all those horrid things that send a reluctant warmth through me.
Minutes pass like that.
Then, because I can’t fucking help myself, I turn my head a little. Just enough to see him.
He’s looking away, respectfully, but I can see the flush high on his cheekbones. I can see the way his throat moves when he swallows.
Touching me does something to him.
And seeing that definitely does something to me.
The tightening starts low in my abdomen, and my hand curls into the sheet as my breath catches.
Andrew’s breathing changes too. He shifts in his chair, just slightly, and that is what finally pushes me over the edge.
I come less than a minute later.
The next morning, I’m back at my desk, pretending to be a normal person with a normal job and a normal amount of knowledge about my boss’s hands.
I’m halfway through moving a finance call when a message pops up.
Marissa Kane: Do you have a few minutes to swing by my office today?
Carly Michaels: Sure. What is it about?
Marissa Kane: I wanted to talk to you about Westbrook.
Oh no.
By the time I make my way down to Communications, I have mentally apologized for overstepping in three different ways and considered which fruit basket to buy in case an apology isn’t enough.
The Communications floor is louder than the executive floor, and messier too.
Colorful Post-it notes cover the walls, coffee cups sit on almost every surface, and as I pass an open door, I hear someone say, “We cannot describe angry residents as ‘highly engaged stakeholders.’ That is how people end up on the news.”
I slow down, smiling to myself.
It’s like a whole other world from the floors I usually tiptoe through, where everything gleams and murmurs and even the plants seem prissy.
Marissa waves me into a small meeting room with glass walls. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course.” I sit down and fold my hands in my lap. “If this is about the phrasing I used for Westbrook, I can explain my thought process. I know some of it was probably a little blunt, but—”
“Carly,” she says.
I stop talking.
“This isn’t a disciplinary meeting.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Okay.”
Her mouth twitches. “I’ve been thinking about your notes. They’ve been very useful. So have some of the other things you’ve contributed in the past.” She leans back in her chair. “You have an eye for this.”
I feel my face getting warm.
“We’re going to post an opening soon,” she continues. “Communications Coordinator. It’s not senior, but you’d be helping with press materials, talking points, resident concerns, that kind of thing. Westbrook would be a big part of it.”
My heart starts beating loudly in my chest.
“Oh,” I say, eloquently.
“I can’t offer you anything,” she says quickly. “You’d have to apply, and there would be a proper interview with me, HR, and someone else from the department. But I think you should.”
I will apply so hard to that job. I will apply the shit out of it.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say, trying very hard to sound like a normal, balanced professional woman. “I’ll consider it.”
“So you have to write a cover letter and everything?”
“Yep,” I say, opening my laptop. “I have to apply like everyone else.”
Annie pretends to gag, and I chuckle, even though I secretly agree with her.
I hate applying for jobs. I hate the whole performance of it.
The pretending that I am a sleek, professional product that can be summarized in three bullet points and a few confident sentences.
It feels icky. It’s the same reason I never post on LinkedIn.
Writing about myself in that way gives me the heebie-jeebies, like I’m supposed to sit there and say, Look at me and my success.
I’m driven, passionate, and whatever other fancy adjectives people use when they want strangers to believe they sail through life and tackle every challenge with a smile.
I literally have a stress rash on my neck.
“But they know you,” Annie argues, curling her legs underneath her on the couch. “You already work there.”
“I’m not getting any special treatment,” I explain with deep sorrow. “She was very clear about that.”
I would not have objected to special treatment.
Annie leans in, squinting at the document on my screen. “What have you written so far?”
“My name.”
“Good. Strong start,” she says, nodding, and pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth. “What are you writing now?”
“The date.”
“Girl, you’re going to get hired on the spot.”
I let out a sad little laugh and stare at the blinking line. It mocks me. “What do I even say?”
“Why you want the job?”
I tilt my head and purse my lips, pretending to think. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to write that I want them to hire me so I can fuck Andrew Bennett?”
“Carly Jane Michaels,” she says, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Language.”
“I’m kidding,” I say, then add under my breath, “sort of.”
“Are you finally admitting to being deeply, desperately in love with your boss?”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t take it that far.”
Annie gives me a look.
“I wouldn’t,” I insist, even though my face gets warm.
“Sure,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But anyway. You’re not applying to this job just because you want to get dicked down by WALL-E.”
“WALL-E, really?”
“You have legitimate reasons. Write them.”
I look back at the blank document.
She’s right.
Yes, it would be nice to get away from Andrew’s office.
It would be nice not to sit outside his door every day, pretending I don’t want to climb him like I’m a forty-something white man with a midlife crisis and he’s Mount Everest. A better title could also mean more money, which means I could help Mom more without doing mental math every time I buy groceries.
But that isn’t the whole reason.
I scroll back up to the job posting and read it again. Communications Coordinator. Press prep, project messaging, community response. The words are dry in that special way HR language always is, and somehow it still sounds fun to me. Challenging and terrifying, but fun.
I want to think about messaging, public trust, and how people react when companies say the wrong thing. I want to be creative. Use my brain. I want to be the person someone goes to for advice because it’s my area and because I’m fucking good at it.
So I write that. Not exactly that, obviously. But something along those lines, sprinkled with examples of how I’ve handled similar situations in the past.
It takes forever, and by the time I’m done, the popcorn is gone, Annie is snoring next to me, and I have a crick in my neck.
I attach my résumé before I can change my mind.
Then I hit submit.
By lunchtime the next day, I have refreshed the application page so many times that my finger is starting to ache. This is, obviously, very normal and balanced behavior.
I tell myself I’m going to the cafeteria because I need food, not because sitting at my desk waiting for a response that absolutely will not come today is slowly turning me into a hollow shell of a woman.
The cafeteria is busy when I get there. I grab a salad I know will taste like damp cardboard and head toward the drinks fridge.
Then I hear my name.
“Carly?”
My hand freezes around a bottle of water.
Josh.
He’s standing near the coffee station with another guy from IT. A half-wall with potted plants separates the drinks fridge from where they are, so I know he can’t see me. Which means he isn’t talking to me.
He’s talking about me.
“Dude,” the other guy says. “Drop it.”
Josh lets out a laugh that doesn’t sound like him. Or maybe it does.
“I’m just saying. Must be nice, right?” he says. “Luxury trips, days off whenever she wants, and now Communications suddenly seems interested?”
The water bottle slips a little in my hand.
“Josh,” the other IT guy says again, sharper this time.
But Josh keeps going.
“Guess we should all get on our backs and spread for upper management if we want a promotion.”
The whole cafeteria blurs around the edges. I stand there with my stupid salad and my stupid water and forget how to move.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The voice comes from my left.
Megan is standing a few feet away with a coffee cup in one hand and a container of soup in the other. She looks frozen at first, like she can’t quite believe he actually said it out loud. Then her face hardens.
Josh turns toward her, and the color drains from his cheeks. “I was just joking.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“Come on, Megan.” He gives a weak laugh and lifts both hands. “Don’t make it a thing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He takes a step toward her, which suddenly puts me in his line of sight.
For one horrible second, our eyes meet.
He looks startled. Then guilty. Then, somehow, annoyed, like I’m the one who embarrassed him.
“Carly,” he starts.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
Megan looks between us, and something in her expression changes. She sets her coffee down on the nearest table. “No,” she says to Josh. “You don’t get to talk to her right now.”
“Megan—”
“I’m going to HR.”
The words land hard enough that even the nearby conversations seem to quiet.
People are going to talk about this confrontation for weeks, I can already tell.
This is the most dramatic thing that has ever happened inside these walls, and BenCo once had a Christmas party end with a senior analyst crying with her hand in a chocolate fountain.
Josh laughs once, short and nervous. “Seriously?”
“Yes,” she says. “Seriously.”
Then she turns and walks away, soup still in hand, shoulders stiff with purpose.
Josh stares after her.
I keep my eyes on the floor.
My salad suddenly feels heavy in my hand, ridiculous and impossible to eat. I put it back on the nearest shelf and leave the cafeteria without buying anything.