Invitation to the Game
The invitation is waiting when Vivienne gets home from work.
It’s on the kitchen table, and she stands over it, clutching a handful of mail fetched from the community box.
She looks at the envelopes in her hand and then at the one on the table.
It’s even in her spot and she tells herself that Marco must have stopped home for lunch and brought it in from the door, but she doesn’t text to ask him.
She knows that’s not the answer. She just wishes it was.
The truth brings with it the uncomfortable reminder that their employer has the keys to their company-owned condo.
As for how the invitation is at her place setting—
The front door slaps open, and Vivienne jumps. Marco calls, “Here comes trouble!” and the kids tumble in, ignoring his shout of, “Guys! Shoes off!”
Vivienne slips the envelope into her laptop bag and scoops up one child under each arm. “So, who’s going to tell me what happened at preschool?”
“After they take off their shoes!” Marco shouts to be heard over the dual cries of, “Me, me, me!” Vivienne laughs and carries them into the living room, where she tugs off their tiny sneakers.
It’s just past eight. Vivienne sits cross-legged on the bed with the unopened envelope in front of her. One white vellum envelope. Her name printed on the front. It looks so simple. So innocuous.
Marco walks in and collapses beside her. “I don’t know how you do that every night. Grace wants one book; Jamie wants another and, apparently, reading a chapter from both just won’t do, and—”
He stops, his gaze following hers to the envelope. “Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
He grabs it, rolls from bed and walks toward the blazing fireplace.
Vivienne leaps up. “You’d better be joking.”
“It wouldn’t do any good. They say that if you burn them, they’ll magically appear in your house the next day, with one teeny-tiny scorch mark in the corner.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“I’m not sure it’s meant to be.” He lifts the envelope to the light, as if he can read the contents without opening it. “Fuck.”
“You said that. I agree, but it’s not going change anything. Nor is burning it. Nor is pretending I never got it.” She takes a deep breath. “It’s an honor, right? We have to remember that.”
“Sure.”
She glowers at him. “Once more with feeling?”
Marco tosses the envelope on the bed and gives her a one-armed hug. “Sorry, Viv. Yes, it’s an honor. The biggest the company offers. The chance to join the executive ranks, which you absolutely deserve.”
“So do you.”
He makes a face. “I’m a programmer. Dime a dozen. You’re the one they can’t afford to lose.”
“It would mean a raise. A big one. An actual house. Better location. Better school. More opportunities for the kids. That’s the main thing, right? A better life for them?”
“Sure.”
This time, she doesn’t tease him about his lack of conviction. She feels it, too, in the pit of her stomach.
It’s lousy timing. That’s the core of the problem. Their year got off to an amazing start with baby number three, a little girl. Then, six weeks later, Vivienne woke after a glorious five-hour stretch of uninterrupted sleep and went into Hannah’s room to find their infant daughter cold in her bed.
After that they began to talk about leaving the company.
Their jobs are perfect. The compound is great.
Everything they could want is at their doorstep.
But this cookie-cutter life isn’t for them.
The walls close in too easily, and Hannah’s death only made that so much more obvious.
As bad as Vivienne feels about abandoning the company after it’d been so good about their loss—giving them all the time and support they needed—she has to do what’s right for her family.
“Did you tell anyone we’ve considered leaving?” she asks.
Marco’s brows lift. “Are you kidding?”
“Sorry.” They both knew better.
“I bet it’s an algorithm,” Marco says.
“Hmmm?”
“An algorithm to determine who they need to retain. You’re valuable. And after…Hannah, it could be assumed we might be looking for a fresh start someplace else.”
She picks up the envelope.
“Don’t,” Marco says.
“Not opening it doesn’t change—”
“I mean…” He exhales and shakes his head.
She opens the envelope and pulls out what she knows is inside. The vellum card. The six words.
You are invited to the Game.
There’s no hint as to what the Game is. If you ask, they’ll say it’s a silly little thing. The company was founded by gamers and this is a tribute to that sense of whimsy and nonconformity.
We may be a multinational corporation, but we remember our roots and when you ascend to our executive ranks, we don’t invite you to some boring cocktail party. No, you get an invitation to the Game.
Just a silly little thing.
But as Vivienne stares at those six words, the RSVP number on the back, she knows what her husband meant by, “Don’t.”
Don’t accept.
Don’t go.
Please, just don’t.
“I hear an envelope winged its way into your condo last night.”
Vivienne looks up from her desk to see Erika Price, VP of Strategic Design. This time last year, Erika had been a skyrocketing star, two years younger than Vivienne and two pay grades beneath her. No one had been surprised when she received her invitation.
Vivienne studies Erika. She’s not sure what she’s looking for. Signs of terrible damage inflicted by the Game? The haunted emptiness in eyes that have seen too much, reflecting the memory of a horrific choice she’ll regret to her grave?
Uh…yeah. Sorry, Marco, but you’ve seen too many horror films. We both have.
Even thinking that about Erika is enough to make Vivienne smile. She knew Erika before the promotion, when she’d been a vivacious new hire, always bubbling over with excitement at some innovative design concept. She’s even happier today, newly married and expecting her first baby.
Vivienne flinches at the last thought. Ten months and she only need to think the word baby for the grief to surge. Grief and guilt, remembering how relieved she’d been that Hannah slept so long, greedily seizing the chance for a little extra sleep, never even thinking of checking on her.
She shakes it off and fixes her eyes on Erika’s face, careful not to let her gaze drop to the bulge under the younger woman’s blouse.
“So getting an envelope isn’t exactly a secret, huh?” Vivienne says.
“I’m not supposed to say anything, but I had to offer my congratulations.” Erika pulls over a chair and sits. “And I wanted to see how you’re doing. People talk about the Game. Rumors are everywhere. Hey, we’re a tech firm. We’ve all seen one too many sci-fi films.”
“I was thinking horror.”
Erika grins. “That, too. So, while I can’t say anything specific, if you have any concerns, I can tell you this much about the Game.” She leans in. “It’s really kinda lame.”
Vivienne raises her brows.
“Boys and their toys,” Erika says. “I used to be a hardcore D&D’er. Pencil and paper. So I appreciate old school. But there’s nostalgia and then there’s embarrassingly outdated.” She whispers, “Our first joint project? Convincing the board it’s time for version 2.0.”
As Vivienne walks out of the staff dining room, she looks at her cell phone. The RSVP number is right there. Punched in and waiting. It’s been punched in and waiting for almost two hours.
Just push it. Press the button and say yes.
Marco’s overreacting. He’s worried about you. And you’re not the only one still reeling from Hannah’s death. Being overprotective is his way of coping.
She spots a woman leaving the executive dining room. Vivienne knows her. Knows of her, at least. Everyone does. Hers is the name invoked in whispers of the Game.
Just look at Fran Lee. She played the Game. Got her big promotion. And something inside her snapped. You can see it in her eyes. Her husband left and took the kids, and she doesn’t even seem to care. All she has is her job, and every year, she slips a little bit more.
She’s broken. The Game did that.
Vivienne wants to lag behind. Find some excuse to stay far from Fran Lee.
Return to the dining room and grab a cappuccino to go.
They really do make the best cappuccinos.
Well, unless you count the executive dining room’s version.
The average employee gets better food and drink—free—than they could buy over in San Francisco, but the executives get just a little bit better.
Not merely handcrafted cappuccino from an Italian-trained barista—their cappuccino is made from fresh-roasted beans, ground after you place your order.
Which is all the more reason to ignore the niggling voice that urges her to run after Fran and talk to her. Go back, get a cappuccino, and dream of next week, when she’ll taste the wonders of the executive version.
Yes, that’s what she should do because, really, a good cappuccino is worth it. Worth just closing her eyes, strangling her doubts and plowing blindly forward.
My life for a quality caffeinated beverage.
She picks up her pace, and she’s almost at the elevator when she catches up to Fran.
“Ms. Lee?” she says. “May I have a moment?”
Fran keeps walking, “Is it about the Game? Silly question. It’s that time again, meaning no one just stops me to chat.
Let me guess—you’ve received a little white envelope.
You’re concerned. You’ve heard rumors. You look around at your options to determine who best to speak to.
Fran Lee. It’s always Fran Lee. Poster child for the horror that is the Game.
What is it they say? That the Game broke me. Yes?”
When Vivienne doesn’t answer, the white-haired woman stops and turns. “Well, speak up, girl. If you’re executive material, you’d better put some steel in that spine and some snap in that tongue or those old boys will roll right over you.”
“Yes, that’s what they say.”