5. Chapter 5
“No.” I rubbed my temples, trying to preemptively soothe an emerging headache. “That isn’t going to work, not the way we set up the attributes in the system.”
This was supposed to be a simple meeting—have the order management team give an output for all the fields available in the management system. They were not supposed to take a sledgehammer to said system entirely.
“Then it looks like you’ll have to reset some of those parameters,” Frank said, unyielding.
I didn’t know him well, but his reputation preceded him. The man, twenty or so years my senior, worked for the family office and had a knack for bullying his way through meetings.
I’m not one for confrontation, but I hadn’t spent the last week setting up the parameters just for Frank to come in like a wrecking ball, Miley Cyrus style. “We defined these attributes together.”
“Maybe your team agreed on them. I surely didn’t.”
I looked at my team for backup, but Susan had checked out long ago, finding a chip in her magenta shellac nails far more pressing. Jefferey scrolled on his phone, and Ted’s head drifted downward as he sank quickly into sleep. Anna and Wesley had attended a meeting with accounting. Which left . . . Beck.
It had been about two weeks since he started, and he still had the courtesy to pay attention during meetings, or at least act like it, but we hadn’t spoken much since our tiff outside the office.
My throat felt cottony just thinking about asking him for help, but—a true sign of my desperation—I swallowed it back. “Beckett,” I managed, the use of his full first name eliciting the slightest twitch in his jaw. “Can you please pull up the meeting notes from last Tuesday?”
“Sure.”
He at least attempted a polite smile as he angled his laptop for me to see. Leaning close, I got a whiff of his fresh scent and had to hold back a little sigh of contentment. Then I mentally whacked myself with a ruler over the knuckles for momentarily forgetting the task at hand—standing up to Frank, the office place bully.
Focus.
Without asking, I commandeered his laptop, scrolling down the document to where the team had discussed—
Aha!
There it was: the notes on the defined attributes. I eagerly scrolled until I got to the end of that section. Something in my stomach dropped.
Wait. No.
My eyes went back up to the start of that section, scanning for anything about the parameters we had agreed upon, but— “It’s not here,” I voiced, unable to save face by keeping the disbelief at bay.
Beck leaned in. “Let me help. Which part are you looking for?”
“The notes I gave you after our meeting last week.” I knew I’d written at least a page on all the details. My notes were missing entirely from the section, possibly the whole document. It had probably just been an oversight, but he hadn’t liked me since I got his sleeve wet, and now my notes were conveniently missing. It left a bitter taste in the back of my throat.
He scrolled for a bit but had to start from the beginning when he didn’t find what we searched for. “I don’t know.” He had the decency to sound remorseful. I’d give him that. “I thought I included them. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I guess it’s settled then,” Frank said, stretching back in his chair.
And it was. Nothing I could do about it now except wallow in both work and self-pity.
Back at my cube, I couldn’t concentrate, not with the meeting replaying in my mind. I rested my head on my desk, trying to climb out of my pity party, but I was wedged in. I took a few deep breaths but nearly gagged. The coconut scent had put my cubicle in a tropical fog, and while everyone else complimented the aroma, I found it less and less tolerable every day.
Coconut used to be one of my favorite scents, but the aroma therapy had backfired. Now, I’d never be able to smell coconut without thinking of work. I unplugged it, but the thought of sitting and waiting for the scent to dissipate made me nauseous.
I decided to take an early lunch instead, venturing to the steps on the walkway before finding a spot in the sunshine. March in Texas was a dream—that sweet in-between from a soppy winter to a hellishly hot and humid summer. This is what I need, I thought as I closed my eyes, chewing my chicken salad sandwich. Some sunshine. A break.
I pulled up Pinterest on my phone and started a new vacation board. I was going to do it: go on a vacation. Work wouldn’t stop me this time. I spent about ten minutes poring over tropical locations with white-sanded beaches. But then I stopped. Who would I go with? Hailey wouldn’t plan a vacation with me now. Not when I’d flaked on Florida and then lectured her over a life decision she’d been excited about.
It had been two weeks since our argument. We’d fought before, but this felt big. I could barely stand the thought of her living in a different state, let alone losing her to a stupid fight.
I pulled up our text message thread, suddenly frantic for contact.
Me: I miss you.
I sighed. She was probably snorkeling with Braxton or sailing, or maybe they took an overnight trip to Disney.
But then my phone pinged with a message from her.
Hailey: I miss you too, babe.
I racked my brain, trying to think of ways to get her to warm up to me.
Me: Send me a picture of you enjoying Florida. I need to live vicariously through you.
Hailey obliged, sending one of her in a wide-brimmed hat and a flowy coverup dress. Hot pink bikini straps peeked from her neckline. She was laughing as a turquoise wave crashed at the back of her knees.
Me: Looks like you are having the time of your life.
Me: I’m happy for you, Hailey.
I kept adding on, desperate to fill the space and silence between us.
Me: I’m really sorry about what I said before. I was having a bad day and your news just sent me over the edge.
I winced at my phone, afraid I’d severed the olive branch by bringing up our argument. Then, it vibrated with a video call.
“Hey,” I said, answering.
“What happened?” Hailey asked, her nose and cheeks a tad pinker than normal and, overall, more freckly.
Though her complexion still couldn’t compare to the collection on my face and shoulders.
“Just work stuff,” I said before taking another bite of my sandwich.
“Tell me.”
I swallowed down the bite, trying to decide how to calmly relay the events back to Hailey. “Well, you know the promotion Wesley has been waving in front of me like a carrot?”
“Yeah?”
“They hired out,” I said, taking another chunk of sandwich to disguise the inevitable rising emotion.
“Are you fucking shitting me?”
I nearly choked on my sandwich. Hastily, I looked over my shoulder, double-checking that no one from the office had the same idea to eat lunch outside today. But it was just us.
Having another person on my side felt good, which led to me opening up and letting it all out. “The worst part? The guy they hired is an absolute waste of space. Today, I needed him to just pull up the notes that I handed to him, but did he have them ready? No!” My pulse quickened at the memory of facing Frank empty-handed because Beck had, what? Purposefully omitted my notes? “Forget senior-level associate. He’s more of a senior-level asshole.”
Hailey gave some sort of remark, but I didn’t hear her over the rush of my pulse in my ears as the aforementioned senior-level ass rounded the stairwell near me.
I eyed the paper bag in his hands.
Oh God.
He must have gone out for lunch. He didn’t slow as he passed me, but he did give a smug, almost imperceptible look as he headed toward the building.
He hadn’t heard me, had he?
“Emily, hello!” Hailey said, pulling my attention back to her. “What are we going to do about this? Cover his office in sticky notes? . . . No,” she said, answering herself. “That’s too tame.” She snapped her fingers. “We can hide a dead fish in his desk.”
“Wait. What are we talking about, and why do you sound like a member of the mafia?”
“Hazing the new guy until he quits. Keep up.”
I laughed. “We are not hazing anyone, Hailey.”
“He stole your job and is making your life miserable. He’s office enemy number one. He’s got to go. It’s called taking matters into your own hands.”
I smirked. “You know, a normal sister would just say, ‘I’m sorry about your job.’”
“No. I think any normal, loving sister would react this way. But I am sorry about your job. I really am. They don’t deserve you, Emily.”
I shrugged. “Them”s the breaks.”
“Have you given what I said any thought?”
“The fish thing?”
“No.” She seemed suddenly very interested in something off-screen. She had a habit of tugging on the hem of whatever clothing covered her thighs when she felt nervous. “About taking over my business.”
The last thing I wanted was to shut Hailey down after just smoothing things over, but her idea sounded like something a preteen dreamed up: flowery and unrealistic. “I don’t know, Hailey. Work is just psychotic right now.”
Definitely not a lie, though not the only reason for my decline. Somehow, placing the blame on work seemed like cushioning the blow.
“It always is.” Hailey stopped playing with her hem. She looked into my eyes with newfound righteous indignation. “Which is kind of my point. You have busted your balls for that company for years, and they still haven’t promoted you. Even after you carried the team with the last go-live.”
“You’ve only heard my side of the story. You’re biased,” I said, balling up the foil from my sandwich.
“No. I know you, Emily. You are a perfectionist. You don’t half-ass anything. When you do something, you are committed. Maybe it’s time you take your talent elsewhere.” She looked at me pointedly. “I’d love to see what you can do with Lettering Lane,” she added with a playful, lilting voice.
“Is that the name of your company?” I asked, delighted by the not-so-subtle placement of our last name.
Hailey blushed. “Yeah. I know. It’s a little cheesy.”
“I kind of love it.”
She smiled brilliantly at the compliment.
“Hailey, I have to be honest. I’m jealous. I can’t believe you did it—started a calligraphy business. You’re so fearless.” She tried to wave me off, but I kept going. “No. Seriously. I wish I could be more like you.”
“Now’s your chance.” She looked at me through her long lashes, daring me.
“Hailey—”
“Run my business. Try on my life for a bit.”
“It’s just—” Messy, risky. “Complicated.” The thought of losing my benefits alone turned a few of my hairs gray.
“Please, at least consider it. If not taking over Lettering Lane, at least apply for a different job. Surely The Arlow Group isn’t the only company in need of a boss bitch business analyst.”
“Sure, I’ll think about it,” I said because I’d already been on the steps for thirty minutes. There was work to be done. “I gotta go.”
“Hey, real quick. I’m going to be in town this weekend.”
“You will?” My voice took on a new octave.
“Yup! Mom’s coming over Saturday if you want to swing by.”
“Sure, yeah. That sounds like fun.”
“Thanks! I need all the help I can get.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Did I just unknowingly agree to help you move?”
“Yup! I’ve got to box up all my stuff, so come ready to work.”
I groaned, but I’d be happy doing just about anything with Hailey. Even if that meant wrapping her mugs in newspaper and wiping down her silverware drawer.
When Beck visited my cube, I had thirteen tabs open and was ready to stick a pen in my eye if it meant I could take a break from the spreadsheet in front of me.
Out of my peripheral vision, I’d seen someone approaching. Then I got the whiff of his scent. I let out a long exhale.
“How can I help you?” I asked without taking my eyes off the screen.
“Can you clarify something in your notes,” he said, sounding about as enthused to be there as I was to have him.
I spun away from the screen to face him, trying to rub the burning blue light from my eyes without messing up my eyeshadow. “Sure. What’s your question?”
He showed me a bullet from the notes I’d given him over our most recent meeting with Frank. “Well, here you defined this attribute as header level information, but it’s supposed to be line level, isn’t it?”
“No, you are thinking of purchase orders, which, if you look on—” I reached over and flipped a couple of pages. “—This page, you will see that here.” I worked to bite back the words that had been simmering all day. I reminded myself that I was a professional. There was a calm way to bring issues to the table. He probably had a good reason for not having my notes, but as I looked at him, these words came spewing out: “Not that it matters what I wrote since you are going to inevitably omit all my information in the meeting minutes.”
Shit. So much for professionalism.
“I knew that would come back to haunt me,” he said, leaning against the wall of my cubicle. God, I hated how long and lean the action made him look.
“Come back to haunt you? I’ll be the one redefining attributes for a week. Minimum. On top of everything else I’m already doing.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I promise I didn’t intentionally leave out your portion of the notes for that part of the meeting. But can you blame me? Your notes aren’t notes. They’re dissertations,” he said, thumbing through my pages from earlier as proof.
My jaw opened, then shut, then opened again. “I’m detail-oriented.”
“Then maybe you should be the one compiling the meeting minutes.”
“Because I’m detail-oriented, I shouldn’t be doing the meeting minutes. When I used to do them, I had to have everything perfectly aligned. It took me forever.” I scrunched my nose in mock sympathy. “Guess that’s the perks of being a senior-level associate.”
I turned back to my computer, ready to face the spreadsheets over another minute with Beck, but he hovered near the opening of the cubicle.
“Look, I really am sorry about screwing up with Frank. I made sure to add his changes to the new meeting notes. The newly defined attributes he requested are highlighted and bolded in case we need them next time.” I nodded but didn’t look back at him. “And I’ll help you with the reconfigurations, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. I have to go.”
My eyes darted to the time at the bottom of the screen. “Do you leave at four-thirty every Thursday?” I asked, turning back to face him.
He quirked an eyebrow. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”
My cheeks warmed. “I told you. I’m detail-oriented.”
Beck shrugged, stepping toward the exit. “I guess leaving early on Thursdays is just another perk of being a senior-level asshole.”
My mouth dropped open in horror.
Senior-level asshole.
He had overheard my conversation with Hailey.
Before I could do more than gape like a fish, he turned to go. “Night, Lane.”
I’d just flopped onto the couch to inhale a steaming bowl of beef instant ramen noodles, a great celebration dinner for finishing up the invitations for Anna’s baby shower, when I realized I had an unread message from Hailey. She’d sent it several hours ago.
Hailey: I have a bride who wants to meet next month. Have you thought about what I said? About taking over my business for a while?
Try on my life.
Her words echoed in my head: a sweet succulent dare out on a limb like a peach for the taking. But I couldn’t just try on her life. This wasn’t akin to squeezing my ass into her skinny jeans.
The idea was ridiculous.
And yet.
The possibilities rolled out in front of me. Days with the blinds open, the sun spilling onto my latest project. Listening to my favorite acoustic playlist while working my magic. Invitations dipped in gold foil. Envelopes sealed with wax. Names written on flower-embellished place cards. Menu items on glass in a flirtatious font.
It surprised me—how badly I wanted it. Maybe because I hadn’t given calligraphy as a side hustle any serious thought in years. Work was too busy to indulge in such fantasies. Besides, it was risky to start a business, let alone one considered a luxury service and, therefore, an unnecessary one.
Calligraphy added an elegant and personal touch, but when budgeting for an event gets tight, calligraphy is easily one of the first things to go. And, let’s be honest, if it were my wedding and I had to choose between pretty place cards and a three-tiered buttercream cake, buttercream would win every time.
Somehow, Hailey had managed to do it, started this business and found success, enough to make a living off her earnings.
I sent her a message back before I could chicken out.
Me: What platform do you use to keep in contact with clients?
Hailey: I created a Gmail just for Lettering Lane.
Next, she sent over the address and the password.
The organization of the account pleasantly surprised me. Each client had her own folder. Notes filled the calendar with due dates. It jarred me, all this coming from the girl whose backpack in high school had contained an avalanche of loose papers and half-empty snack trash.
Me: Who is the client?
Hailey: Victoria. I already completed all the invitations and signage for the shower. So there’s just some signage for the wedding and she wants live lettering at her shower.
I frowned. A lot of calligraphers did live lettering. I’d seen plenty of YouTube videos on it. They’d set up a table, and guests would come over to have a favor signed—or a product if done in a store. I typically practiced calligraphy alone in my apartment, braless. The idea of having an audience made me sweat, but I supposed I could do it.
Me: What does she want to be signed?
Hailey: Capiz shells
Me: When is the shower?
Hailey: Last Saturday in April
That would give me over a month to mentally prepare. I opened Victoria’s folder and started clicking through the email threads. It looked as though Hailey must have been communicating with Victoria through a wedding planner, Amanda.
I studied the shower invite sample with its deep green envelope and gold lettering and immediately recognized it from the letter I’d found in Hailey’s laundry pile. I made a mental note to mail the lost invite the next time I was at Hailey’s.
Clicking through emails, I found Victoria’s color scheme. It seemed like Hailey and Amanda must have done a lot of communicating over the phone because I didn’t see much about the signage or live lettering Hailey had referred to.
I opened the most recent email, which had been sent to Hailey today. Amanda had requested a meeting. Victoria wanted to get with each vendor to ensure everyone was on the same page about deadlines and expectations.
As an almost P.S., Amanda asked if Hailey could do something for the wedding similar to the attached picture—a pane of glass brushed with bright colors, then in the middle of the splash of color, a Mr. and Mrs. Last Name in white calligraphy letters followed by a wedding date.
I considered it. I hadn’t done a project exactly like that, but I felt certain I could pull something like that off. I’d do it in layers. My lettering on the glass would come first, possibly gold instead of the white in the example photo. Then I’d add her colors to the back: a swipe of sweet coral followed by a mellow magenta, all backdropped by a deep plum.
My heart rate picked up at the prospect of it. I set my phone down, trying to rein myself in. Because I shouldn’t have even been entertaining the prospect. The idea of getting to use my calligraphy skills, to show off what years of practice and dedication could do . . . it was exhilarating. And that felt dangerous, like I was standing too close to the edge of the Grand Canyon. If I got distracted by the beauty of it, I’d fall into its depthless, gaping hole.
But then again, what was the risk? I wouldn’t quit The Arlow Group. Hailey had already done the heavy lifting—getting the business up and running. I just had to keep it that way.
I’d wanted a vacation. Maybe, in a way, this could be it. A much-needed distraction from the brutally long workdays.
I replied to Victoria’s message.
Me:I’d love to meet and about the glass pane, let me see what I can do.