Just a Name

by Becky Monson

  I scrunch my face. What if I’m wrong and this is not what she’s mad about? “Well, what do you think I’m talking about?”

  She eyes me wearily. “I haven’t a clue.”

  Okay, so maybe I’m wrong. That was a close one. “Then what are you disappointed about?”

  She lets out a breath. “Because, Holly. You are not taking this vacation thing seriously.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well—”

  She cuts me off with a hand. “I gave you a week to get me a vacation request and it’s been ten days and the only thing you’ve done is put it off.”

  I reach up and wrap some hair around my finger, my eyes downcast. “I have been working on it,” I say. I look up to find her glaring at me, her head pitched to the side, her eyes full of disbelief.

  “Have you? Because, honestly, it’s a vacation. I’m not asking you to become a black belt in karate.”

  I take a deep breath and sit up confidently. I’m just going to be straight with Marie. I need to tell her that fixing things with my team is what I need to do first, and then I can go. What I can’t tell her is I also need to be here to make sure Tiffany doesn’t dig her talons into Mike’s old job. So really, I need to put off a vacation until after I’ve secured the promotion.

  But before I can say anything, Marie has pulled her laptop over, clicked on a few buttons and turns the screen around for me to see.

  “See that number there?” She points to the highlighted number near the bottom of the screen.

  “Yes,” I say, not sure what it means.

  “Those are your accrued days off since you’ve started working. Sixty-five days.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “See the number under that? Those are the days you have yet to take off.”

  I nibble on my bottom lip. Sixty-two days. I have only taken three personal days off since I started working here. In my defense, we do get a lot of holidays off since this is a bank and all. But I’m not sure I should throw that out there right now.

  “Sixty-two days,” Marie says, flabbergasted.

  “Marie,” I start, trying to come up with my on-the-spot defense.

  “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” Marie says, holding a hand out to stop me from going any further. “I see someone who is working too hard, someone who has put work ahead of life. And I understand you’re a hard worker, and I like that about you—but people who work this much will break. I’ve seen it happen too many times.”

  I mentally scoff at that. That wouldn’t happen to me.

  She sighs. “Mike’s job, the one you’ve been working toward—do you know why he’s leaving? He can’t take the stress of it anymore. He’s tired of trying to juggle it all.” She looks me in the eyes. “I need to see you taking care of yourself so I know you’ll be able to handle all the responsibility. And three days off in the past five years? That’s not you taking care of you.”

  “I—” I start but then stop, as she shakes her head at me. What can I even say to that?

  She breathes out a heavy breath. “Just go, Holly.” She bats a hand at me toward the door of her office. I’ve never seen her this mad.

  I can’t leave it like this. I need to fix this. But what can I do?

  “Well, I do have something planned,” I say, the words spilling out of my mouth as I realize I do have an option. The worst option ever.

  “You do?” Her face brightens up at this.

  “Yes,” I say. Then I lick my lips to stall for a second. “I just . . . wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

  She scrunches her forehead. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m not sure it falls under what you’re wanting me to do,” I say and lick my lips again. They feel suddenly very dry, as does my throat.

  “Tell me,” she says.

  “Well, my friend Quinn approached me for a news feature, to go on my honeymoon, but with someone with the same name as my fiancé.”

  “Huh?” Marie questions, confusion on her face.

  I take a steadying breath. “Quinn—my friend—does the midday news for channel four, and she pitched an idea where I do a nationwide search for someone with the same name as Nathan to go on my honeymoon trip with me. You can’t change the name on a ticket, see, so it would have to be someone with his exact name.”

  “Didn’t that woman in New York do the same thing a while back?” she asks, her eyes getting brighter.

  “Yes,” I say, feeling sickly butterflies gathering in my stomach.

  “I followed that story and I was disappointed when they didn’t fall in love.”

  “Right,” I say, now feeling like I might throw up the butterflies.

  “And your friend Quinn can help you do the same thing?”

  “Yeah, she’s already pitched it to the station and they love the idea.” This is a lie—I have no idea if Quinn’s even told Jerry about it. Although, knowing Quinn . . . it’s possible.

  “And you’re going to do it?” She squints at me through her square-rimmed glasses.

  I take a big breath, “I was considering it . . .”

  Marie stares at me for a minute, as if she’s taking in all I’ve just said. Then the corners of her mouth pull up until they’ve formed a huge smile and she chuckles to herself.

  “Well,” she says, “I have to say, Holly, this is a big surprise.”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling unsteady and not really believing what I’ve just said. This is a big surprise for all of us. “Of course, I’m not sure how this will look for the bank, so obviously I’m willing to . . . uh . . . not do it because of all that.” I circle my hands around in front of me.

  “Oh, no,” Marie says, shaking her head. “You have to do it.”

  “I do?” The nausea is now a real thing. I might puke. Right here on Marie’s gray carpet.

  “Yes, of course,” she says, her eyes bright with excitement. “I honestly didn’t think you’d have something like this in you.” She leans forward, her elbow on the desk, her cheek perched on her fist.

  I want to yell “I DON’T HAVE IT IN ME!” and then run from the room screaming, but instead I grab the sides of my chair, steadying myself, holding me to my seat.

  “But this,” she chuckles to herself. “What an adventure.” She looks to the side, her face full of wonderment.

  “Yeah,” is all I can muster. Then I look up, making one last-ditch effort before I think I’ll have to excuse myself to hurl. “I mean, this could look bad for the company, having their employee do something like this. All over the news and,” I swallow loudly, “all . . . uh . . . that.”

  She bats the words away with her hand. “Oh, I’m not worried about that. You know how to be discreet. And who knows, maybe this will be good advertising for the bank. One of our own doing something so crazy, so adventurous, so fun. No, I think this is just what you need. I have to say, I was disappointed before, but now … now I’m really proud of you, Holly.”

  She’s using all my trigger words . . . crazy . . . adventurous. I’m none of those things. Those were my mom’s things.

  Oh, all the cuss words ever invented. What have I done?

  Chapter 10

  I am freaking out. No, wait. I am freaking the freak out.

  After meeting with Marie, I had no choice but to call Quinn and tell her I’d do the trip. She was ridiculously excited, as I would have expected. She told me she owed me her firstborn, which I told her I didn’t want. Then she got all annoyed that I wouldn’t want her firstborn, especially because Chris Hemsworth was going to be the father. She was going to name the baby Thor, and how could I not want baby Thor?

  Obviously, the conversation took a weird turn.

  We did eventually get back to the trip that I’m now apparently taking with some stranger named Nathan Jones. A trip I never in a bazillion years would have ever said yes to, and somehow ended up saying yes anyway. I’m in a constant state of nausea.

  And Marie is totally on-board. She told the executive team about the trip and all th
e news coverage to give them a heads-up and make sure there were no reservations. I said many prayers there would be, but there weren’t. Everyone was all for it. Of course they were—it’s not their life being broadcast on the news or subjected to a trip in a different country with a complete stranger.

  I had one last hope to get out of this whole mess, which was that the story would be rejected by the news station. Unlike what I told Marie, Quinn had never presented the idea to her producer, Jerry. So I figured if Jerry turned it down, I could tell Marie the station dropped the idea and then I could pretend to be sad about it, all the while feeling like I’d just won the lottery.

  But I got a text from Quinn this morning with the words “IT’S A GO!!!!!!!!!!!”

  And now I’m walking to Hester’s to meet up with my friends and I suddenly feel like I’m having one of those movie moments—I want to drop to my knees in the middle of this sidewalk and scream “WHY MEEEEEEEEE?” with a fist at the heavens.

  “There she is,” Alex says as I enter the restaurant. I’m sure they were just talking about me and this whole crazy trip and I don’t even have it in me to care.

  I glance over the table and realize I’m the one who’s late today. Both Quinn and Thomas are even here. I don’t think this has ever happened in all the history of me and my friends meeting up.

  “Holly,” Bree says. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks,” I say, slumping down in the seat next to Quinn.

  “How you doing?” Alex asks, concern on his face. I had already been to his office earlier today to tell him Quinn’s ridiculous idea was happening and how I got stuck doing it. I had to leave out the promotion part, since he can’t know about that.

  “Meh,” I say, clumsily flopping my purse on the table. I look over at Quinn to see her eyes are red-rimmed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Quinn sniffs, her eyes filling with tears. “They want to give the feature to Moriarty,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. A single tear slides down her cheek.

  “The feature?”

  “You—your feature,” she says.

  “What? Why?” I ask, temporarily forgetting I don’t even want to do the feature.

  Stacey Moriarty is Quinn’s Tiffany—her arch nemesis at work. She likes to call Stacey by her last name because it makes Quinn feel like Sherlock Holmes (the Benedict Cumberbatch version). Plus, it’s too fitting. Moriarty does the five o’clock news and is the station’s darling. She’s literally the face of the station. Practically every other billboard on I-4 is of her stupid, smug grill. She also hates Quinn and makes her life hell whenever she can.

  “Yeah,” she sniffs. “I’m sure it’s because they think I’m too fat.”

  The table is suddenly filled with objections over this. Thomas’s are laced with many colorful words, which Quinn doesn’t even try to be mad about.

  “Quinn, you are not too fat. You’re not even fat,” I say, putting an arm around her. “I’m sure they just think she’s the veteran. Which is true. She was there before they invented television.”

  That doesn’t even garner a laugh, and Quinn usually loves a good dig at Moriarty’s expense.

  “This was supposed to be how I made things right—how to get the station to see me for a real reporter and not someone who dropped an f-bomb that went viral.”

  Now I feel bad that I watched it today . . . twice. Okay, three times. But in my defense, I was feeling crappy and needed a pick-me-up, and what better way than from the person that owed me big time? I didn’t know then the feature would go to Moriarty and now I feel crappy for a whole other reason.

  I look around at the table, seeing a bunch of sheepish expressions from my other friends and feel pretty confident I wasn’t the only one who watched it today. Really, we’re the worst.

  “You guys,” Thomas says. “This is an easy fix. Holly,” he gestures to me, “you just tell the station you won’t do it unless Quinn has the story.” He folds his arms, sitting back in his chair.

  Quinn sits up taller at that. She sniffs, a bit of color returning to her cheeks. “You think that would work?”

  “Of course it will,” Thomas says, bobbing his head side to side. “You guys should know by now that I’m the smartest person here. I have all the good ideas.”

  We ignore him. “That could work. You would do that, right Hols?” Quinn turns to me, her red-splotched face looking so fragile. It’s rare to see her like this.

  “Of course,” I tell her.

  I will absolutely do this for Quinn. I wouldn’t do it unless she’s running the show anyway. That’s definitely a deal breaker for me. Now if only I could hide this little blossom of hope that’s begun blooming that maybe this could break the deal.

  Quinn is suddenly feeling much better—I can tell this because she waves over the server and orders some chips and salsa—a big no-no for any diet she happens to be on.

  “So, Holly, how are you feeling about this whole trip?” Bree asks now that Quinn seems to be feeling better. Bree’s sitting back in her seat, her feet up on the chair, her knees pulled into her chest. She’s got her martini glass in one hand, like every Monday night.

  “I’m feeling a little better right now,” I say and everyone smiles and nods thinking I’m referring to Quinn and the feature. I am—seeing the relief on Quinn’s face and that I can help her does make me feel better. But also that little blossom—that morsel of hope that I might not have to do this—well, it’s helping.

  Maybe when I request that Quinn gets the feature, I’ll request a bunch of other stuff to sweeten the deal. Like bumping the tickets up to first class and getting separate rooms in the hotel. Come to think of it, I’m not going if they don’t do that, so I’m definitely requesting the separate hotel room thing. What else can I add? So many possibilities.

  “You guys, can we turn the focus on me for a bit?” Thomas says, putting both hands on his chest. “Holly is stealing all the attention.”

  I scrunch up my nose at him. We’ve barely talked about me. We were mostly talking about Quinn.

  “Shut it, Thomas,” Quinn says, adding an eye roll for emphasis.

  “No, but seriously, I need to vent,” he says.

  “Fine,” Quinn acquiesces, but not whole-heartedly.

  He looks around the table, his eyes somber. “None of you,” he points his index finger at each of us. “Not one of you got Mugshot Monday right.”

  “Oh, geez,” Alex says.

  “And you, Holly,” he puts a hand on his chest, appearing as if he might be choking up with emotion. “You didn’t even play,” he says, his voice choppy like tears might start pouring at any second.

  I shake my head at him. “I didn’t feel like it.”

  He takes in a loud, horrified-sounding breath. “What kind of sister are you?”

  I stare briefly at the ceiling, shaking my head. Thomas has taken the whole stepbrother/stepsister thing to new heights.

  Alex snorts. “Poor Holly. You get to have Thomas as a brother.”

  “Hey,” Thomas retorts. “She’s lucky to have me. Even if she’s terribly unsupportive.”

  I give him my best stink-eye. I may not have played Mugshot Mondays, but I did look. I always look, even if I don’t submit answers. Just in case my mom’s face shows up there. Thomas and Quinn have seen pictures of my mom and they know her name. Plus, you don’t forget Melanie Murphy’s face. She’s a dead ringer for Susan Sarandon. Everyone was always saying that when I was younger. And that was the first thing out of Thomas’s mouth when he saw her picture. So I know if he ever came across her mugshot he would recognize her.

  Thomas’s eyes go wide as if he’s just remembered something. And then he slaps the table with his hand. “We haven’t discussed the most important thing of all.” He smiles with glee.

  “What’s that?” Quinn asks with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

  “Holly’s dad and my mom have picked a date for the wedding.” He gives me a double eyebrow lift.
/>   Oh, S-word.

  “Holly,” he crosses one leg over the other, placing his elbow on his knee. He leans in, his chin resting on his hand. He’s really loving this. “Why don’t you tell everyone?”

  “When is it?” both Bree and Quinn ask at the same time.

  “June eighth,” I say, trying to keep my voice light.

  The date doesn’t register with either of them.

  “Good for them,” Alex pipes in obliviously.

  “Tell them where, Hols,” Thomas says, and I swear his eyes are sparkling. “Tell them.”

  I sigh. “The Luxemore.”

  “The Luxemore,” Thomas echoes, his smile so wide his face looks as if it could split in two.

  “Wait, that’s your wedding venue,” Bree says.

  “Was,” I pipe in. “Was my wedding venue.”

  “Right,” she says.

  “And wait, June eighth . . . the wedding was on the ninth,” Quinn says.

  “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner,” Thomas says, slamming his hand on the table.

  “Wait, Holly, your dad is getting married the day before your wedding was supposed to be . . . and at the same place?” Alex asks, confusion on his face.

  I swallow. I had considered this would be weird, but then the practical side of me took over. There’s a venue and a date—why not use it? Seeing my friends’ response to it, though, I’m thinking I may have had a lapse in judgment. That seems to be my theme right now. I’m a super-judgment-lapser.

  I decide I’m going to stand my ground, as ridiculous as it is. I sit a little taller in my seat. “They wouldn’t give us the deposit back, and so my dad asked, and I thought it made sense.”

  “That’s weird, Hols,” Bree says and everyone nods. Well, everyone but Thomas, who’s loving every minute of this. I give him my best side-eye glare. He’s such an A-word. Obviously this would have come out eventually. But on my terms, not his.

  “OMG,” she says, her eyebrows lifted, her green eyes wide. “Did you send out Save the Dates? Because if you did, you should send out announcements that say ‘we regret to inform you that Holly Murphy will not be marrying Nathan Jones, but we’re pleased to tell you Holly’s dad will be getting married instead.’”