Chapter 6. Brynn
brYNN
If I’d known I’d be starting today, I would have worn flats. Everyone here is dressed on trend and I look like an accountant—one with a crushed silk purple flower growing out of her shoulder.
My stomach rumbles, distracting me from being the go-getter I need to be in order to last here.
A jock-looking guy pops up from behind a large monitor at the only other long table facing mine, which isn’t a workspace at all. At least Micah didn’t put me in a closet.
“First day?”
I nod, scanning the floor for the communal coffee pot, hoping one exists.
“I’m Donovan.” He offers up a robotic wave before picking up some folders from his desk. “Senior copywriter. I guess you’ll be joining our team.”
He flips his dirty-blond hair out of his eyes like a young Justin Bieber. The guy’s sockless and wearing salmon-colored khakis, a blue button-down, and a T-shirt underneath that reads, THE FUTURE IS FEMALE.
I extend my hand. “Brynn. Coffee?”
He grins. “Well, Brynn Coffee, walk with me. I’ll show you the Starbucks.”
“Um, anything like . . . complimentary, for the employees?”
“I gotcha.” He clamps the folders under his arm, his hands in his pockets, and flips his hair in the direction I’m to follow.
I hurry after him. Show me the free food, new favorite person. “Have you worked here long?”
“I joined Kershaw McKenzie last spring. You’ll like it. We work killer hours, sometimes weekends. But we play hard too.” He winks at me. “Have they assigned you to anyone?”
“I’m helping out one of the account supervisors.”
“Probably Meredith. She’s . . . um, cool most days. Don’t get on her bad side.”
“I haven’t met her yet. I only interviewed with that guy Micah. He wasn’t going to hire me. Then said I could shadow his team for a couple of weeks. Is that typical?”
“Who knows, things change fast around here. We refer to him as For-mica, like the countertop. Shiny on the surface and out for himself. He’s a punk.
Around your age, I’m guessing. No offense.
He got his career handed to him. His great-grandfather started the agency back in the Stone Age.
He’s smart, I’ll give him that. He doesn’t hang much.
Thinks he’s better than us. The ladies call him a ‘specimen.’”
“Oh, like Captain America?” Posters of Chris Evans once plastered my bedroom walls in middle school; I may have practiced my kissing on one in particular.
“I guess. I don’t think he’s so great looks-wise, personally. But you know, whatever side you’re on—or both.” His eyebrows rise.
Let me guess, Donovan. You’re straight.
He leads me to a freestanding vertical garden, a massive partition in the center of the floor covered in lush green vines that climb the agency’s two stories.
My feet trip over each other. “Geez, who waters that?”
“They call it a ‘living wall.’ Supposed to reduce stress.”
“Kind of Little Shop of Horrors, but without the mouth.”
He gives me a funny look.
Why did I say that aloud?
I spot the free coffee and continental breakfast behind it. Free food? I’m less stressed already. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.” His eyes wander over my suit, camping out on my chest. “Nice . . . flower.”
“Yeah. It is.” My voice quivers. I turn away, cutting off his view.
This is my dead mother’s suit, you creep.
The guy looks to be in his late twenties too.
Ew. My eyes sting, but I draw in a deep breath.
Not here. Not now. I’ll never have to work with him, only this Meredith person.
And I don’t need to make friends here. Relying on myself is the only way to get out of this financial hole.
I’ll impress them so much, they’ll pay me to stay.
Ooh, sesame bagels . . . and peanut butter. I spread some on my bagel. My stomach churns with happiness, albeit not the extra crunchy kind.
Alas, you can’t have everything.