by Emily Belden
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Emily Belden
on my own, which means I know it better than anyone else.
So basically, if you want this program to do something spe-
cial, I can code it to perform in that specific way and export
the data you are looking for in whatever format you need—
Excel, PDF, you name it.”
“That is very, very compelling.” Loafers’ eyes light up. He
looks like the kind of guy who likes spreadsheets.
I have to admit, I may not have my personal life together,
but I feel like a boss right here, right now.
“Swipe to the left to advance to the next screen.” I am a
cruise ship director, riding my professional high.
About a minute later, the food runner comes back as prom-
ised with a speedy tray of desserts. But as he approaches the
table, his foot gets stuck on the drop strap of my Birkin and
he loses his footing. A plate with key lime pie tumbles off the tray, landing first on the outfit I’m wearing, and then onto
my bag. The mason jar sundae topples next, knocking over
Zareen’s wine and Eyebrow’s Moscow Mule as well.
I hardly notice the whipped cream that has splattered onto
the lens of my Warby Parker tortoiseshell frames—I haven’t
been able to wear my contacts since sleeping in them the other
night—as I bend down to wipe off my only- looks-expensive purse. That’s when I notice the restaurant worker’s foot has
also somehow managed to dislodge the urn from my Birkin.
Decker is not in my bag anymore. Where the hell did he go?
I push back in my chair and take a quick peek under the
table, as though I’m attending to the mess of whipped cream
as the wait staff swarms over to the table to begin the clean-
up process. I can see that the urn is halfway between me and
Loafers. One ill-timed stretch from him and this thing is going to get lobbed over to James Van Der Beek. Fuck.
I surface back to the top of the table for air, dessert topping still smeared over my lenses, but who cares? I have officially
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lost my place in the presentation, and there’s no way I can concentrate knowing this urn is floating around like a soccer ball just waiting to be kicked out of play under our table. Zareen
notices I’m distracted by more than just the spilled desserts
and pulls her second power move in five minutes.
“Oh dear, it looks like my tablet got bathed in pinot noir.
Charlotte, do you have a moment to take a look at why this
thing isn’t working?”
Monica picks up on Zareen’s distraction tactic and chimes
in as well.
“Yes, gentlemen. Why don’t we give the staff a moment to
clean up over here a bit. Can I interest you in a port at the bar?
Or perhaps a cigar from their case? I hear they have a lovely
selection of rare organic Cubans.”
With the four of them making their way to the bar, I scurry
over to grab the urn, put it back in my bag, and lodge my bag
tightly under my chair, wrapping the straps around the leg so
as to avoid a repeat performance.
“Sorry about that, Zareen. Now what’s the matter with
your iPad?” I ask as I finally wipe the schmutz off my lenses
with a cloth napkin.
“Cut the shit, Charlotte. There’s nothing the matter with
my iPad. What’s the matter with you, though? Are you feel-
ing okay? What was that?” She puts the back her hand to my head to feel for a fever.
Maybe I wasn’t as graceful as I thought in retrieving the
urn? She’s on to me, and the thought that I may have blown
this dinner—as well as my cover—causes my hands to start
to tremble.
I quickly shove my hands behind my back. “Not now. Not
now. Not now,” I mumble to myself. The air…it’s getting
harder to breathe.
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“What did you say? Speak up, I can’t hear you, Charlotte.
Speak up!”
“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I tell Zareen as I stand up from
the chair.
“What? No, no, no. Leaving is not an option, Charlotte.”
She pushes me back into my seat. “I can see Monica closing
up the tab at the bar right now. You’ve got to pull it together and finish this presentation. Please. Give it five more minutes, then you can go splash some water on your face in the bathroom or whatever you need to do.”
“I need to go,” I repeat.
“You can’t. These guys are loving it. We’re so close to securing this business.”
I try to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. Tell
Monica to finish the presentation. You have no idea how bad
this will get if I don’t go home.”
“How bad what will get? What is happening with you,
Charlotte? Just a moment ago you were army-crawling under
the table. Now you suddenly have to head home? Please fill
me in so that I can understand why your antics are sending
this dinner to hell in a handbasket.”
Zareen is my boss and I’m afraid she just might fire me
right here, right now if I leave with no viable explanation for my behavior tonight. So I close my eyes and brace for what is
bound to be a rough landing.
“I was married to man who died and his ashes are in my
bag right now but they weren’t two minutes ago. His urn fell
out of my purse and rolled under the table and that feeling of
losing him again hit me like a ton of bricks. Earlier today, his mom came to my apartment to try to steal the urn back. So,
yeah. Everything is just sort of combusting right now and I
feel like I can’t breathe. God, I feel like I can’t breathe!”
“Shhhh, relax. Relax, Charlotte.” Zareen pulls me in to
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her side as she rubs my back with her hand, the sound of her
jewelry clanking together like wind chimes. “In through your
nose, out through your mouth.”
I give that a try and compose myself enough to tell her,
“I’m not doing okay right now. I’m sure I’ll be fine tomor-
row, or even just later tonight, but I can’t stay here. I’m really sorry I ruined everything.”
“It’s okay,” Zareen’s tone softens. She sounds motherly.
“Monica will finish the presentation. The slides are pretty
self-explanatory, right? You sent her the deck this morning,
so she has it on her phone, right?”
I nod my head yes. I sent Monica the slides in case my phone
acted up. Not in case I did.
“Well then, I’m confident Monica can handle this. She’s
an expert schmoozer and this will be—no pun intended—a
piece of cake for her.”
I smile at her, grateful for her understanding as I toss the
bag over my shoulder and prepare to leave.
Zareen grabs my wrist. “Charlotte, thank you for your hon-
esty tonight. But I need you to know that I’m putting you on
a forced l
eave for two weeks. Don’t worry, it’ll still be paid.”
“A what? Why?”
“I know we go way back, and I know you are struggling
with something right now, but you can’t conduct yourself
like this at my company. You need to figure out whatever is
going on in your personal life and get it together before com-
ing back to the office.”
“I said I’ll be fine. I said I just needed a night to myself.
Not two weeks, Zareen.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“And I’m worried about your company. If you put me on
leave, who’s going to run the programming then?”
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“Marigold will do it,” she says with so little hesitation, it’s actually frightening.
I’ve been with Zareen for five years and suddenly she thinks
some twenty-two-year-old who’s been interning with us for
a month and a half is a capable protégé? Moreover, that Mari-
gold has what it takes to hold down the firm for more than
half a day without instant messaging me some novice coding
question? I’m offended. Maybe Zareen’s the one who needs
to take some time off and figure things out.
“So, you’re replacing me with Marigold?”
“No need for dramatics. You’re not being replaced. You
need more than just a day, Charlotte. Maybe you can’t see that
right now, but if what you said is true, then those are serious issues and you need to—”
“If what I said was true? You don’t believe me? You think
I’m making this all up? Actually, don’t answer that. I’ll take
the house arrest and see you in two weeks,” I say and high-
tail it to the door.
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I cancel all of Leno’s midday walks since it looks like I’m going to be home for the next two weeks and can actually do them
myself for once. At least, that’s what this note from Human
Resources in my inbox is implying. The note, coupled with
Zareen sending me straight to voice mail three times in a row
and not answering a single text, call, or email this morning,
also tells me she wasn’t bluffing about this whole leave-of-
absence thing.
The forced PTO makes me realize I haven’t taken a single
vacation day in the four-plus years I’ve worked at The Influ-
encer Firm, and it feels so weird not to be getting ready to go into the office today. Instead, it’s 8:30 a.m. and I’m trouble-shooting the Keurig, which appears to be tits up again.
After pressing the brew button incessantly to no avail, I fi-
nally cave and decide to go to Alfred’s. Frankly, I haven’t been able to shake the honey-chai whatever whatever that Brian
brought to WeHot, and if the coffee is ten dollars a cup, maybe I’ll sip it slow enough to do all the urn research I’ve been in-9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 107
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tending. So I strap on a sports bra, throw on a short-sleeve
shirt, slide into a pair of leggings, and complete the whole
“fun-employed” look by leashing up my dog, throwing my
hair in a messy bun, and tossing my computer—along with
my husband’s urn—into my bag.
Thankfully at this hour, it’s not quite blazing hot just yet.
But give it forty-five minutes and the sun combined with the
smog will turn the wire chair I’m sitting on into a waffle iron.
For now, I find a shady spot near a water bowl for Leno as I
take the first sip of my latte. The caffeine hits me instantly, the way a sip of wine at happy hour takes the edge off a crazy
day. Today, arguably, is going to be the craziest considering
the morbid tabs I’m about to open.
Hey, how did last night go? Brian’s text lights up my Apple
Watch just as I’m typing the words “nearby mausoleum” into
Google.
When I’d told Brian I’d get back to him today about visit-
ing the urn, I hadn’t thought I’d be in the shit with my work.
But as tempted as I am to brush him off—again—I also realize
there’s a good chance I’m going to put this whole urn thing
to bed today. I mean, I have to if I want to go back to work.
Realizing that this may be one of the last times I have the
urn in my possession and can meet Brian somewhere neutral for him to see it (or whatever he wants to do with it), I decide to cave on his request.
If you want to see Decker, I’m at Alfred’s having coffee rn on the back patio.
Moments later, the world’s fastest texter who actually has
a very important job writes back: Perfect timing! I have a break in rounds. I can be there in 15.
While I’m still alone, I attempt to pull up Brian’s Facebook
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profile. But when I type in his name, it shows that I “unfol-
lowed” him. In tech speak, that means we remained con-
nected as Facebook friends, but under this setting, he never
showed up in my feed.
I remember doing this because at the time, I hadn’t wanted
to see where he was gallivanting off to in his impeccably tai-
lored Banana Republic short-sleeved button-downs, or what
concerts he was checking in front-row at with other friends
from the frat, or his next relationship conquest. All of that
would have been proof that another person close to Decker
was able to bounce back and live a normal life and that I…
hadn’t. I was still stuck in a constant state of being mad and
angry and sad. Like a bad soundtrack on repeat.
There’s also another reason I unfollowed him. A very spe-
cific reason. A reason that I’m hoping he’s forgotten now that
we’ll be sitting face to face for the first time in years.
As I stare at his profile picture, his smiling face is like a
shiny fishing lure drawing me in. Whether I’m ready for it
or not, I’m curious for more. So, I uncheck the “unfollow”
box and his profile comes into full, bright view like a sur-
prise party.
On the top of his wall is a pinned post reminding every-
one about a fraternity fundraiser. Probably the one Debbie
mentioned. I had forgotten for a minute just how much of
a frat boy Brian really is and can’t decide if it’s admirable or sad that nearly a decade after graduation, he’s still the social chairman of the group.
As I move on to look through his photos, I discover a
gradual transition from his spiky-haired frat boy days. Even
though he was already graduated, I remember a version of
Brian Jackson who was still fond of beer bongs and layering
pastel-colored polo shirts. One who couldn’t say “Go Tro-
jans!” without making a condom joke. But each passing picture
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shows a more polished version of him. He’s a doctor now—a
children’s doctor. There’s a photo of him crossing the stage at graduation, a photo of him dressed up as Superman standing
next
to his patient—an adorable Clark Kent, mind you—on
Halloween, a photo of him with an X-ray of a broken arm,
and so on and so forth. I have to admit I didn’t really peg him as a guy who would be responsible enough to be in charge of
kids’ health, but good for him for growing up. Consider me
officially impressed.
“Howdy, howdy,” he says, forcing me to snap out of my
digital stalking spree.
“Morning,” I say in the most casual, I-wasn’t-just-looking-
at-every-single-Facebook-photo-of-you kind of way.
“Got to love Alfred’s: where the lattes are overpriced by
about a dollar per ounce and there’s always a chance you’ll
see Leonardo DiCaprio playing cat’s cradle with Jonah Hill
on the back patio,” Brian says, doctoring up his drink with
a packet of Sugar in the Raw and a healthy dose of creamer.
I think he’s being facetious about the celebs, but I do afford
myself a three-sixty-degree stretch in the event we might have
an actual sighting.
“Thanks again for texting me,” he says, reminding me why
I invited him in the first place. I dig into my Birkin and put
the urn on the table like it’s a centerpiece.
“Ta-da.”
“Oh, hey there, buddy,” he says. I want to judge him for
talking to an inanimate object, but realize it was only a few
nights ago I found myself doing the same thing.
“So why are you here? Don’t you have to be at work?”
“No…” I say, struggling to figure out what should come
next.
“Oh, no. You didn’t get fired?” He whispers that last word like my parents are at the table next to us.
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“No, I did not get fired, thankyouverymuch . But I did get put on a forced leave, whatever that means.”
“I think it means free vacation. What happened?” Brian
asks as he lifts his circular black Ray-Ban sunglasses to the top of his head, pulling back his thick brown hair.
“Well, you know I had a big client dinner last night. There
was a snafu and I got put on some sort of a paid leave.”
“Tell me more about this snafu.” Brian swirls his drink
with a stirrer. The way he casually invites me to go on makes
it seem like I was telling him about a bad haircut I just got or some great poke bowl I had for lunch—like I actually started this conversation.
Ordinarily, I would never repeat what happened at BOA.