Chapter 2
Olivia
It’s a shitty day.
Fridays are always painful—I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the hours start to drag out into years. But today is particularly bad.
I spilled Mr. Keller’s coffee on my shirt on my way in, and now there’s a fist-sized stain on the hem. The elevator was broken when I got to it, and I had to come up the stairs, carefully balancing his replacement coffee in the foam tray.
And the second I arrive in his office, he lays into me.
“I don’t pay you to be late, “ he sneers, snatching his coffee—double espresso with a flavor shot of vanilla; I’ve had to memorize the order—and taking a sip. “I pay you to be prompt and ready-to-go no later than eight forty-five. If I’m here before you, you’re late.”
I glance at the digital clock on his desk. It’s eight forty-six. Keller’s still wearing his jacket; he clearly just got here.
Rather than argue, I nod, my eyes on the floor. “Yes, sir. I apologize for my lateness. The elevator—”
“I don’t want to hear your petty excuses,” he says, shaking his head. “You’ve been full of excuses since the moment I hired you. It’s just laziness—nothing more, nothing less. Step it up, Miss Quinn, because there’s a long line of people ready to replace you if you get lax, understood?”
I inhale through my nose to stifle my frustration. “Of course, sir,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Get to work, then.”
I leave his office, heading over to the desk out front where I work. Mr. Keller is a businessman, and for the past few years, I’ve been his assistant—scheduling his meetings, keeping him on track, and sending all of his emails.
Or, at least, that’s what’s in my job description. In reality, his demands are a lot more all-encompassing than that. He can’t seem to decide whether I’m his professional assistant, his secretary, his intern or his maid.
He makes me get him coffee in the morning.
He makes me call restaurants to make reservations for him, as if he’s allergic to the phone receiver.
He puts the burden of some of his business decisions on my shoulders, but he also makes me clean his office at the end of the week, claiming that maintenance does a poor job.
I settle in at my desk, closing my eyes for a second to cool off from my interaction with Keller. Once my head is clear, I boot up the desktop computer and open up Keller’s email inbox, drafting replies to a few of the newer messages.
I get into the groove of my work, as always, grateful for the closed door that separates me from my boss. However, he’s never content to leave me alone for long. I’ve only been working for an hour when he opens the door and leans out.
“Miss Quinn, I need you to come see something in here.”
Stifling my sigh, I turn on the desktop’s screensaver and get to my feet without a word. When I step into Keller’s office, he closes the door behind me.
“Pull up a chair,” he says, nodding at the extra chair in the corner of his office. I oblige, sitting where I can see his computer screen, which displays a neatly-organized resume.
“What do you need, sir?” I ask.
“I’m trying to evaluate this job application,” he says, sinking into his leather chair beside me. “There could be a better candidate, so I’m on the fence. I needed a second set of eyes on it.”
That’s not in my job description, but as with everything else, I don’t really have the wherewithal to refuse. I nod silently, leaning forward to scan the information on the screen.
I’m just getting to the applicant’s education section when I feel his hand on my thigh.
Immediately, I stiffen, my shoulders going rigid. I give him a second to remove it—maybe it’s an accident. Maybe he just brushed against me without meaning to.
But he lingers far too long. His rough fingers squeeze, and then his hand moves up—
“No,” I blurt out, jumping to my feet. I take several steps back, putting as much distance as possible between us. “What—what the hell are you doing?”
Keller bites his lip, his gaze raking my body. I fold my arms over my chest. I never dress immodestly at work, but right about now, I’m regretting my skirt and wishing that I’d put on my cardigan before coming in here.
“Oh, come on,” he says slyly, with a wink. “You can’t deny there’s been tension between us. Why not just go with the flow?”
“Tension?” I repeat. My heart is pounding so hard that I can feel each beat in my temples, but it’s definitely not from the kind of tension that Mr. Keller thinks it is. It’s from panic.
“Sure,” he says. “I mean, we’ve been flirting for ages, right?”
“What are you talking about?”
“All the banter, and the back-and-forth insults—”
“I was just trying to do my job,” I say, staring at him in disbelief. “You were the one insulting me.”
He throws up a hand, beginning to look annoyed now that I’m being resistant. “I thought you would be into this. I thought that we might—”
“No,” I interrupt, my voice cool. “We will not.”
I cross his office to the door. He doesn’t say anything as I pause, then glance back at him. I won’t look him in the eye, but instead focus on his shoes.
“I’ll be tendering my resignation, Mr. Keller. Given the circumstances, I am quitting immediately.”
“No two weeks? That’s—” he shouts after me, but I let the door slam before he can finish his sentence. Professional courtesy be damned. I don’t owe him anything, not after what he just did.
I’ve hated this job ever since I got it. The whole time, it’s been the bane of my existence, but I’ve hung on. I’ve held out. Until now. This is the last straw. After years of insults and unprofessional rudeness, he has finally crossed a line.
There’s not much to gather from my desk, just a framed photograph of my parents: my father, with his arms wrapped around my mother’s shoulders, both of them smiling fondly out of the picture.
I tuck it into a cardboard box, along with my personal collection of Post-It notes and the potted succulent I keep on the edge of the desk.
I can feel Keller’s eyes on me through his office window as I march straight to the elevators. I jab the button three times, then remember that it’s broken and groan quietly. Stairs it is.
As I leave the building, there’s a spring in my step, and I feel giddy with the sudden rush of relief. The panic I felt in Keller’s office starts to fade, to be replaced by a sense of euphoria.
I did it. After all of this time, all of his ridiculous requests, all of the times he’s ogled me and berated me… I finally had the guts to walk away.
I only make it a block down the street before the reality of the situation begins to settle on me, though. And by the time I’m at the Metro station, the box in my hands seems to weigh a ton, as if a ton of bricks have been stacked inside of it.
Oh, god. I just quit my job.
The panic is back.
I just quit my job, and I have no source of income, and I’m never gonna be able to get another one that pays as well as Keller did.
I wait on the platform, staring at the tiled floor of the subway station, and do a few quick, mental calculations. My monthly expenses—rent, and bills, and groceries—plus the extra money that I send to my parents.
I can’t skip that payment; they’d never admit it, and they would assure me otherwise, but my parents need my help. I don’t want them to think anything is wrong, either. It would just worry them, and in her condition, my mother shouldn’t be worrying about anything.
I’m on the verge of tears. More than a few people on the platform are staring my way, their gazes analytical. I know what they must be thinking. I’m dressed in business attire, with a cardboard file box in my arms. I look like I just got fired.
Before the train arrives, I pull my phone out of my pocket, resting the box on my hip, and dial Riley’s number.
To my relief, my best friend answers immediately. “Olivia?” Her voice is tinged with concern. “Aren’t you at work? Did something happen?”
I laugh; it’s the only response that feels natural. It’s a hysterical sound, and more than a few subway passengers gawk at me openly.
“Oh, boy,” Riley sighs. “What happened? Was it your boss?”
“That pig,” I choke out. “He finally crossed a line. I’m so screwed, Riley. I don’t know what to do. I’m just in the subway, freaking out. These people probably think I’m cracking up.”
“Did you walk out?”
“I didn’t just walk out. I quit.”
Riley inhales sharply and is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Honestly? I’m proud of you.”
“Okay, okay, you’re proud of me, sure—I’m proud of myself! But I’m also completely screwed. I’m gonna be broke. How the hell am I going to support myself after this, let alone—”
“You’re rambling. Take a deep breath,” Riley advises me. I swallow, then do my best to comply, sucking in a breath through my mouth. The air tastes stale and metallic down here.
“What am I gonna do?” I say.
“Listen, I’m home right now, if you need to talk. Come over, and we’ll figure this out, okay? It’s not the end of the world.”
I nod, even though I know she can’t see me—it’s mostly to calm myself down. I feel a little better already just talking to her.
“Okay,” I sniff. “Thank you. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“I’ll get ready for a budgeting session,” Riley says.
Riley lives in a brownstone on a quiet street on the Upper East Side. She’s been living with her fiancé, Cole, since before the two of them even got together: she was a nanny for his kid, Archie, who she is now in the process of formally adopting.
Cole and Archie are out at the moment, at his preschool’s field day. This information comes as a relief. It would be fine if they were around, but if it’s just Riley, I’ll be able to say whatever comes to mind without making sure it’s kid-friendly first.
The Sullivans’ house is, as always, impressive. The garden out front is well-kept, and when Riley invites me inside, the foyer is clean and bright, the wood gleaming.