Chapter Ten
JUDE
After the All Hands, I allow myself to feel a small sense of accomplishment for around ten minutes, and then it’s headphones on, back to work.
Ella takes her computer and moves to a cube out near the engineers, but leaves her suitcase in my office.
I told her she can stay with me while she’s here, but she shouldn’t expect time for sibling bonding, or for me to do much other than work even when I’m at home.
Unsurprisingly, she’s opted to stay with friends instead.
I know I should be nicer, considering she’s out here to help save my company.
I’m just trying to set realistic expectations.
Ironic that I can do that with my sister, but not Edmund, whose calls I’ve avoided since the demo ended.
I know his opinion is inevitable, but I’ve worked too hard and care too much to hear him trash our progress right now.
With Edmund, the glass isn’t half-empty or half-full: it’s why are you worried about one glass when you should be concerned with every glass in the industry?
what’s the total amount of liquid available?
how did you determine that liquid is what you should be putting into the glass?
Jonnie force-feeds me a protein bar before I head to the conference room to meet with Lacey, Steve from the data team, and Irina the AI consultant for the rest of the afternoon, trying to figure out our next move.
It’s become painfully obvious that we need to make this project smaller if we’re going to get it out the door in time, but every part of it seems equally vital to someone.
“Are we really going to turn into pumpkins at midnight on the thirtieth day if this isn’t done?” Lacey asks me, after Steve insists three new things are a must-have for his team.
Pumpkins would be a best case scenario.
Glenn comes in and grabs a chair.
“I heard from Edmund,” he tells me quietly.
“I’ve been trying not to,” I say.
“Yeah, I think he’s figured that out.”
The larger conversation has stopped; everyone’s now listening to Glenn and me.
“Did he see the demo?” Lacey asks.
“He did,” Glenn says. “I won’t say he was blown away, but by the time we ended our conversation he was able to agree that the progress you’ve made is encouraging.”
Encouraging.
Lacey looks disappointed, but I tell her Edmund probably found his kid’s first steps to be not more than “encouraging.”
It’s been a frustrating day after this morning’s high, to tell the truth.
“Enough,” Glenn says. “You guys are all forgetting to celebrate the wins. Remember? There’s always catastrophe around the corner. That’s why we pause, pat ourselves on the back, and go have a beer or four. Or sparking water with lime, I don’t care. We’re going to celebrate the win.”
He goes out onto the main floor and rings the gong in the sales area, then announces that everyone is expected at Woodbury in a half-hour. The AI consultant informs me she’s an introvert and will be heading home, which is fine with me, considering her hourly rate.
I close my laptop and get up to go. I have a few messages to reply to if I’m going to be out the door in thirty minutes.
“Are you coming?” I ask Lacey, who’s still seated and frowning at the whiteboard.
“It doesn’t seem optional,” she says. “So, yes. I’m going to try to remember what the win felt like, and then I’ll go celebrate it.”
I go back to my office and reply to a few messages. I suppose Glenn is right, and at the very least we need a break from the grind. Maybe it’ll shake something loose.
I put my shoes on, and I’m about to see if the product team’s ready to go, when my sister appears in my doorway.
“Want to walk down together?”
“Sure. We can wait for the product team, maybe.”
“They’re all packing up. If we go now, it gives you time to open the tab, CEO.”
Pretty much the whole team turns out for our impromptu happy hour, and instead of feeling panic about how each of these people depend on me for their livelihood, I take a minute to hang out with them, somehow always a step behind Lacey.
Kate tells me a completely inappropriate story while I see Steve showing Lacey something on his phone.
When I make my way over, she’s gone, and I’m treated to photos of his typewriter collection.
She’s talking to Trevor, but when I arrive he makes me take video of him and Glenn doing a shot.
I see Lacey talking to Ingrid and Dave, but by the time I make it over there she’s moved on and instead I’m stuck with Ingrid, listening while Dave reads us the setlist from Joy Division’s last ever concert. Which took place in 1980. I see Lacey slip out the door without saying goodbye.
I tell the bartender to leave the tab open until ten o’clock.
I love hanging out with the team, and I’ve been known to overdo it at the holiday party, to the point where I did my Uber rating a real disservice last year.
But sometimes, when I’m pushing everyone really hard and they need to let off steam, it’s better for them to do it when I’m not standing here.
Partly because I’ve had some awkward conversations with disgruntled drunk employees, but mostly because it all feels different when the boss is around.
I also have a feeling that when Lacey left, she didn’t go home. I head back to the office. If I’m wrong, maybe I’ll have a breakthrough on my own and figure out an impossibly short way to a successful launch.
Of course she’s there and trying to beat me to it.
The office is dark but the conference room is fully lit.
I stand in the hall outside and look in at her.
Lacey’s sitting on the table with her legs crossed, tapping one sneakered foot into the other while she stares at the whiteboard.
The sticky notes for the project are arranged there in front of her like a puzzle she’s determined to solve.
I clear my throat to let her know I’m here, but she doesn’t even look over.
“You’re late,” she says.
I put my bag down and join her on the table. We study the board in silence for a few minutes.
“What if there isn’t a solution?” I ask. “Sometimes the long way is the only way there.”
She nods.
“It just feels like there’s another option,” she says.
She stands up and walks to the left side of the board.
We have the headline for each piece of the project on a sticky note, and they’re arranged by priority in three columns, sometimes stuck together when there are dependencies.
We do the riskiest pieces first, because they tend to have more unknowns; it’s better to find surprises earlier than later.
“Our shortcut’s not over here,” she says of column one. “All of these are necessary. Agreed?”
“Yeah,” I say, joining her at the board. I examine each sticky note in column three for things that could get the ax and let us move the finish line closer.
“Logging?” I ask, pulling the sticky note off the board. “If it’s just for troubleshooting it can come later.”
“Yeah, but we’ll need it to track impressions,” she says. “Can’t launch without that.”
She’s right; I put it back. Those impressions are important for billing, but also for display on the advertiser dashboard that’s in column two. The dashboard that, as written requires a bunch of other data and real-time updates.
The dashboard that’s probably not really necessary at launch. We could get by with just sending an email for at least a few months.
I reach over to grab the dashboard sticky note at the same time Lacey does. No. I reach over just slightly before she does, because her hand lands right on top of mine.
I look over at her.
“Great minds,” she says softly, but she doesn’t move her hand away. I spread my fingers apart so hers fall in between mine. I hear my pulse in my ears.
“You’re left handed,” I say, but the observation comes out in a low whisper. I watch as she slides her hand down, running her fingertips along the inside of my forearm.
I take half a step toward her, and she slips into the narrow space between me and the whiteboard. Her hand keeps traveling up my arm to my shoulder, and it comes to rest on my neck.
Another half step closer. I lean forward and breathe her in. She smells like fresh air and the orange trees at my aunt’s house when they’re covered in tiny white blossoms.
I have one palm still on the whiteboard, and the other one has found her thigh. I reach just inside the hem of her skirt and grasp her leg, pulling her to me. Her breath catches.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say softly into her ear.
And before she can respond, we both see the lights flicker on across the main office and hear the chatter in Spanish as the cleaning crew comes through for the night.
We release each other simultaneously, like we’ve been caught stealing. I step away and swallow hard.
She turns back to the whiteboard. Exhales.
“So I think we’ve identified where we can trim scope,” she says, plucking the Post-it note out of its column and moving it the Fast Follows section. She looks over her shoulder at me. “Disaster averted, right?”
I nod, but I’m not sure I agree.
Glenn and I do our weekly one-on-one over Zoom the next day. Normally we grab a coffee and walk, but we won’t be doing that for a while.
“I don’t know why I thought having a hangover would make this situation easier,” he says, yawning. “Celebrating wins might be a younger man’s game. You don’t look any more exhausted than usual.”
“That might have more to do with the number of shots you took, than your age,” I tell him.
“Fair point. And for that reason, thank you for having them close the tab at ten. I didn’t even see you leave.”
I tell him that Lacey and I ended up back at the office.
“I have to say—as a person who spent the last week trying to make peace between two toddlers—I’m so glad you and she have figured out a way to work together,” he tells me.
“There’s no more fighting in the sandbox,” I tell him.
“That’s apparent. You guys did great yesterday in the demo.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what I’d do without her,” I say. In context, this is an absolutely true and normal thing to declare. I’m not sure what it is about my delivery, but Glenn pauses and squints through his camera at me.
“I don’t need to remind you to be careful about anything, right?” he asks.
My neck feels hot. I see my stupid face onscreen, flushing, and I’m grateful that Glenn’s not in the office to see it in person.
“I meant that she’s saving my ass on a daily basis. That’s all.”
“Got it,” he says. “Sorry. And sorry I’m not able to help you more.”
Glenn’s work-life balance has tilted heavily toward life recently, and I can tell he’s feeling guilty about it.
“I won’t say it wouldn’t be easier with you here,” I say, “but considering the circumstances… let’s just say, if you were here and not there, I’d worry about what kind of person you are.”
I see him lean back in his chair, and for a second I think the glasses are going to come off. But they stay on.
“When people are under pressure, it reveals a lot about who they are. So as hard as this feels right now, just know that it’s showing what a great leader you are. I mean it; I’m impressed.”
If only.
I can’t take this compliment from him, not when I consider the information I’ve been sitting on.
Glenn will shortly have three kids needing diapers, health insurance, and housing, and his paycheck might not be as guaranteed as he thinks it is. It’s not fair for me to keep the full picture from him.
I tell him that I wish what he said was true, and I tell him everything Edmund threatened me with. We’re not building the next chapter of Lettercat right now: we’re fighting for its survival. I can’t say with certainty that there will be a company for him to come back to after paternity leave.
He takes the news like I would expect him to. He’s understanding and appreciative of my candor. He wants to make sure I’m okay, but of course I’m not.
“Am I wrong to not tell everyone?” I ask him.
“Not at all,” he says. “The impulse is coming from the right place. But if people start jumping ship, there’s no way the company survives. I’m not going anywhere, because I believe in you. I think you’ll do it.”
It should feel good right now, to have someone as smart as Glenn in my corner. His faith in me would mean a lot more if I had more in myself. And if—even while coming clean about the realities of Lettercat—I hadn’t just lied to him.
Because I did need that reminder; I haven’t been careful with Lacey, not at all.