by Sienna Blake
Michael's arm swung out and he hit the button to resume the function of the elevator. The doors parted and he stepped back from me, leaving me sagging against the wall. I watched him straighten his tie, card his fingers through his hair, and dust his lapels like I'd gotten him dirty. He cleared his throat as he again faced forward toward the building lobby and the glare of afternoon sun.
He didn't look at me as he said, once again in control of his cold, business-like tone, "If you have concerns about your termination, I suggest you bring them up with HR, Ms Miller."
With that he stepped out of the elevator and stalked across the empty lobby. I watched him till the doors slid closed. Then I sank shakily to the floor.
Finally alone, I balled my fists, buried my face between my legs, and screamed.
Abbi
I didn't think it was possible for job searching to be any more horrible, but it turned out that adding a ten-year-old PC and a bad internet connection to the mix somehow managed that seemingly impossible feat. Because finding yourself unqualified for yet another position is definitely worse when you have to wait two minutes for a page to load to find that out. Because uploading a resume and cover letter and letters of recommendation for a fucking minimum wage fast food job can most certainly be more miserable when that upload fails because the internet cut out in the middle of it. Because getting rejection emails from a lagging computer only raises your hopes as you wait, making it all the more painful to read that devil word: "unfortunately".
I'd been job searching for so long that not even smacking the side of the malfunctioning monitor relieved my tension and frustration. The stack of overdue bills in the top drawer of the desk didn't help either.
Even with my job as a personal assistant at Levi, Levi, & Burke, it had been a struggle to make ends meet. There was Zara's private school tuition that cost more than the rent on the apartment. There was the rent on the apartment that cost more than I could really afford. But it was in a good neighbourhood with safe parks and nice libraries and community resources for Zara. There was the measly amount that Sandra accepted from me each week for looking after my daughter. She insisted she wouldn't take a penny more and as much as I felt she deserved more, I simply didn't have a penny more. And those were just the big-ticket items before even factoring in groceries and clothes and gas and the car payment and utilities and dentist appointments and school field trips and…
I found myself hyperventilating as the internet page loaded on another poor-paying, inflexible, gruelling job that I was still somehow unqualified for despite years of experience just because I didn't have a college degree. My head fell back and my arms slipped limply to my sides, and I stared up at the blank, white ceiling.
This was Michael's fault. If he hadn't shown up out of the blue, I would be at my desk at Levi, Levi, & Burke earning a steady paycheque instead of at home in my pyjamas covered in orange Cheetos dust, burning through my laughable savings. If he hadn't appeared like a ghost from my dreams there on the sidewalk at the airport, I would be thinking about Zara's homework or Zara's winter uniforms or whether Zara needed new shoes or could make the ones she had last another season. Instead I was thinking about him. Him. Him.
I growled in frustration and carded my fingers through my greasy hair I hadn't bothered to wash in four days, seeing as finding a new job took precedence over hygiene for the moment. I sighed and squeezed my eyes shut.
I hated him. I hated what he did to me, to my family. I hated whatever cold, nearly unrecognisable monster he'd become. But mostly I hated that I couldn't stop thinking about him. I hated that I couldn't stop replaying the moment his chest brushed against mine in the tight, hot space of the elevator, our hearts racing each other to destruction. I hated that a part of me, knowing that he was still in the city—my city—wanted to see him again, in a busy crowd maybe, just a glimpse. One more glimpse.
My fingers shook as I clenched my temples. I laughed darkly.
I was like a goddamn junkie. For some reason Michael was a drug to me. He'd been a drug all those years ago, but I'd been cut off, forced to suffer through withdrawal, alone. But I'd just gotten another taste, and fuck, did it taste good. I breathed in deeply as I remembered his eyes locked on mine, filled with anger and frustration and desire. Just like mine.
I wanted one more hit. I longed for it, needed it. Just one more little hit. And I'd be good after that. I lied the lie of any good addict. And just like any good addict, I believed it.
I opened my eyes and reality hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water: the job search, the red-stamped bills, the pink slip from Levi, Levi, & Burke. Frustration welled up inside my chest and with a desperate, hopeless cry I lunged for the computer and shook it with clenched, gritted teeth. I was moments from losing control entirely and ripping it straight from the wall when the front door to the apartment opened and Sandra came in, followed quickly by Zara.
I dropped the computer, whipped around to cover the mess I'd made, and plastered on a smile. I closed off my complicated emotions like closing a closet door. I slammed it shut, bolted the lock, and boarded it up with two-by-fours and heavy-duty nails.
"Hey there!" I said, leaning in a way that I hoped looked casual against the edge of the desk and smiling. "You're home."
"I'm going to make a snack before homework," Zara said, crossing the living room with her usual determined gait.
"Great, honey," I replied, smiling, still smiling.
I waited till Zara's back was turned to me, as she busied herself with her snack in the kitchen, to make sure that she wouldn't see me before letting my smile slip like a tiny crack in the painful plaster mask. Sandra crossed the living room toward me and craned her neck over my shoulder to spy the desk I'd been hiding.
"How you doing, Abbi?" Sandra asked, scanning me with watchful eyes as I allowed myself to sag slightly against the desk.
"Great," I lied, eyeing Zara who was within earshot in the kitchen. "Just great."
Sandra noticed where my attention was and moved closer, lowering her voice. "Really, girl?" she whispered. "You can tell me what's what."
I tugged up the smile as I faced my friend. It was a struggle to do, like getting that last stubborn corner of a fitted sheet on. My lips felt tight, drawn a little too tensely.
"I'm totally fine," I insisted. "I've got a lot of really great job leads. Yeah, some really good ones."
Sandra remained mute, but her eyes narrowed, which communicated more than was necessary.
I huffed in frustration and rolled my eyes. "What?"
Sandra let me stew, just staring at me silently the way she knew would always break me down.
"Sandra, what?"
"You know I'm your best friend, right?"
I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes," I admitted grumpily, like a child.
Sandra rested a hand on my shoulder. "Don't think I didn't see your face when we first came through that door," she said.
Panic welled in my chest and my eyes widened at Sandra. "Did Zara see?" I asked in a desperate hush.
Sandra's eyes were sympathetic. The longer it took her to speak, the faster my heart beat. What if Zara saw? What if she knew I didn’t have it all together? What if she suspected that I was one laggy computer and one distant fling away from breaking down?
"I don't think Zara saw anything," Sandra finally said.
I exhaled shakily. Then frowned when she bit her lip hesitantly.
"What?" I asked, not entirely sure that I wanted to hear whatever it was my friend was thinking.
"It's just that…" Sandra sighed. "It's just that, Abbi, would that really be so terrible?"
I eyed her like she'd just gone insane. "Yes," I answered, more sure of it than anything else in the world. "Yes, it would really be so terrible."
Sandra didn't know about what happened at the airport. She didn't know what happened with my job, despite her best attempts at interrogating the answer out of me. She didn't know about Michael. I told Sandra almost
everything, but this had to stay with me. Because I was going to kill his memory. I was. Somehow, I was.
"I know you want to keep Zara safe from whatever it is that's going on—"
"Nothing's going on," I interrupted.
Sandra waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I know, nothing's going on," she said. "But this 'nothing' that's going on, I know you think the best thing to do is block Zara from it, but…"
My eyes searched Sandra's face as she ducked her eyes.
"But?" I pushed.
"But it's affecting her," Sandra finally said. "It is."
A flare of red-hot anger boiled up in my chest and I pushed past my friend, saying, "Sorry, you're wrong."
I didn't look back at her as I went into the kitchen where Zara was sitting at the table with hummus and vegetables.
"Hey, baby," I said, kissing the top of her head. "How was school?"
"Fine," Zara said before crunching into a carrot stick.
I heard the echo of my words in my child's voice, but so what? That's how ninety-nine percent of kids said their day went. It meant nothing. And it most certainly did not prove Sandra right.
I slipped into the chair next to her and brushed her hair from her face, tucking it gently behind one ear. Her attention was focused on a book about national parks in Utah. I was going to let her read, but Sandra's warning nagged at the back of the mind.
"Z, honey, you're alright, right?"
My daughter looked up from her book and her snack, and it was like looking into a mirror: lips drawn up just a little too tightly, cheeks straining, smile not quite reaching the eyes.
"I'm great."
She dropped her eyes, dropped her smile, and I saw the same sag of relief in her shoulders. I ran my hand over her hair once more.
"Good, baby," I whispered. "Good."
I pushed myself back from the table and went back into the living room.
Sandra was waiting for me, eyes searching my cloudy face. "Abbi, listen—"
"I've got to get back to it," I said and sat back down at the computer.
I told myself this was the best way to help Zara: earn money, provide a steady home, be responsible.
And I almost believed it.
Michael
"Next."
I had cut off the director of HR mid-sentence and she stopped to stare up at me. She was holding a clipboard with a stack of resumes, and she had been running me through the credentials of the first candidate they'd brought in as my replacement personal assistant.
"Mr O'Sullivan?"
I didn't bother glancing down at her. Her name was Becky or Patricia or something.
"I said, 'Next.'"
Becky or Patricia or something frowned. "I'm sorry?"
I nodded and jerked my head toward the lobby where a woman sat in a sharp navy-blue suit jacket and matching pencil skirt.
"She's not going to make the cut, so let's see the next one," I said, turning on my heel without another word and marching away back down the hallway as Becky—let's go with Becky—shook her head in confusion and hurried after me, the click-clack of her heels getting closer and closer.
"Sir?" she breathed, slightly out of breath as she caught up to my side. "Sir, Mr O'Sullivan, you didn't even meet her."
"Didn't need to."
I was typing an email on my Blackberry as I walked, and Becky's voice was growing more and more distracting.
"But sir, she graduated with honours from Denver University and received a masters from Boulder and—"
"Next."
"Sir, she comes with great recommendations from Terry Maxwell where she worked for five years and—"
"Next."
Becky rounded the corner with me toward my office.
"Mr O'Sullivan, with all due respect, I think you might feel differently if you just speak with her for a minute or two to—"
I whirled around to face Becky in the doorway to my office. "Listen, Becky—"
"It's Patty."
"Listen, Becky, that woman out there was chewing her nails like a beaver chews wood," I said. "I demand a lot from the people who work for me, and frankly I'm not quite sure Levi, Levi, & Burke is interested in a costly lawsuit when she has a nervous breakdown after a week. Do you?"
Becky was staring up at me with wide, startled eyes. I slipped the first resume from her clipboard, balled it up in my fist, and tossed it down the hallway behind her.
"So, like I said, next."
With that, I slammed the door shut in her face.
I gave Becky credit for being sharper than she and her triple D breasts looked, because for the next candidate she didn't let me go into the lobby to greet and instead brought him to a conference room she'd cleverly set up with food, and more importantly, my favourite kind of whiskey. Maybe I'd have to see what other secrets Becky had hidden later that night.
"So, Mr…Reeves," I said, twisting in boredom to and fro in the chair at the head of the massive sixteen-person conference table. "Your GPA at CSU was only a…3.82. Do you attribute that missing .18 points to laziness or general incompetence?"
Mr Reeves looked in panic toward Becky for some kind of assistance. She let her chin fall to her chest, suspecting where this was going.
Mr Reeves blushed, shifted in his chair uncomfortably, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Um, sir, well, many would consider a 3.82 to be a rather commendable grade point average."
I turned my distracted attention from the panoramic view of the snow-crested Rocky Mountains to lift my eyebrows in surprise at the man at the opposite side of the room.
"I see," I said. "So you're satisfied with mediocrity? Thank you very much for your time, Mr Reeves."
Becky assured me the next candidate was perfect, but I couldn't hear her over my disinterested yawn.
I could at least agree that the next candidate had a perfect butt. The ice clinked in my glass as I swirled my third whiskey and admired the view. I had asked the candidate to write out a mock schedule for my day on the electronic whiteboard at the opposite side of the room. Her voice droned on like an old A/C unit, but it was easy enough to block out with the way her tight pencil skirt moulded her perky ass.
"So, yeah," she said, turning around. "That's it, really. I think I can do a fantastic job for you, Mr O'Sullivan."
I nodded and bridged my fingers, elbows resting on the edge of the conference table.
"Hmm, not bad, Ms…"
"Hamilton."
"Not bad, Ms Hamilton," I said with a smile that made Becky perk up expectantly from where she had been slouching despondently. "But I see a few holes in the schedule that I'd like you to maximise."
Ms Hamilton looked over her shoulder at the very thorough schedule she'd written out.
"Okay, well…"
"At noon, for instance," I said.
Ms Hamilton turned around and placed her pen at the lunch slot.
"Sure, I guess we could fit in another meeting with—"
"Did I say noon?" I laughed in a friendly, light-hearted way. "Silly me, I meant ten."
Ms Hamilton stretched her arm a little higher and as she did so, the hem of her skirt rose a little higher as well.
Becky must have noticed as well, because her attention turned toward me and she narrowed her eyes in suspicion as Ms Hamilton blah blah-ed on, "I have a break here at 10:15, but if you—"
"Ms Hamilton," I interrupted. "To be honest, I see the most glaring issue at more like eight."
The girl glanced over her shoulder at me, uncertain. I nodded toward the board as I reached for the whiskey bottle again. Becky sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.
"Eight," I repeated. "Yeah, there you go."
I grinned as Ms Hamilton stretched up toward the top of the schedule, her skirt riding higher and higher on her full ass.
"Maybe we can even discuss scheduling something at 6 a.m.?" I asked.
"It's a little high up to reach," Ms Hamilton said with a nervous bit of laughter.
; My voice was dark and cold as I said, "Try."
Buzzkill Becky ruined everything before I could catch a peek of the bottom curve of the girl's ass when she shoved back her chair and moved between her and me.
"Thank you very much for your time, Ms Hamilton," Becky said, guiding the confused girl out of the room. "We'll be in touch soon."
"No, we won't," I grumbled over the lip of another whiskey.
When Becky returned, I smiled wickedly and asked, "So who's next?"
Becky gave a tired sigh and then flipped around her clipboard of resumes: it was empty.
"That was the last candidate, Mr O'Sullivan," she informed me.
I dismissed her with a bored wave of my hand. "I'm sure there is one qualified personal assistant in this city."
Becky's nails tapped along the plastic edge of her clipboard. "Maybe there is someone that you have in mind?" she asked.
My eyes shifted slowly toward her. "I'm sure there is one qualified director of HR in this city, Becky. Maybe you can find her and she can find me a halfway decent personal assistant."
I watched her face pale and she quickly lowered her chin. "I'll have some fresh candidates for you to meet tomorrow morning, sir."
I winked at her and spun my chair around to face the afternoon storm clouds rolling over the mountains. "I knew I could count on you."
She left, leaving me alone in the conference room with my whiskey and bad mood. How dare she imply that I was thinking of someone in particular? There were legitimate reasons to refuse each of these candidates. Even if that was absolute bullshit, which it wasn't, she needed to know her goddamn place. I was the conqueror taking over her king's castle.
I angrily snatched up the bottle of whiskey and shoved away the glass, now just a pesky, unnecessary middleman. The mouth of the bottle went straight to my lips and I welcomed the burn in my throat.
All I wanted was a personal assistant who could help me finish up this merger as soon as possible so I get back on a plane, get back to Dublin, and get back to my normal life as soon as possible. That was it. That was all I wanted. Why was that so hard to understand?