“Hi, Joa, how can I help you today?” Sheila answers.
“Is that division coordinator position still available? The one in Chicago?” I ask, unable to hide the breathlessness in my voice. My chest caves with each lungful of peppermint-and-poinsettia-tinged office air, and my stomach twists in the tightest of knots.
The way I look at it, I have two options: I can stay here like a doormat, working beneath the man who knows every freckle of my body like the back of his hand—or I can go home to Illinois with my dignity intact, spend more time with my family, watch my nieces grow up in person and not via FaceTime, and attempt to convince myself the past eleven months were nothing more than a bad decision never to be repeated again.
“Yes, Joa, it is. Are you inter—” she begins to ask.
“—I’ll take it. I can do an internal transfer, right?”
She pauses. Reed knocks on the door again and I glance toward the door without thinking. The outline of his broad shoulders and perfect head of hair makes a shadow against the interior blinds, a sight that mere hours ago would’ve sent a flutter to my middle and a half-bitten smile to my lips. I’ve run my fingers through that thick, sandy-blond mane more times than I can count, but what I wouldn’t give to have a good handful in my fist right now …
“Yes, you can. I’ll email you the transfer paperwork right now. Your supervisor will have to sign off. Do you know when you’d like to start?” she asks.
My supervisor.
Ha.
“Immediately.” I sit straighter, reaching for my calculator and punching in numbers, rough calculations of what this move is going to cost me. The number on the screen isn’t pretty, but it’s a small price to pay if it keeps me from working under him.
“Will do.” Sheila chuckles.
I don’t.
She wasn’t there this morning in the conference room when the entire team gathered for coffee and bagels and the official announcement of who was going to be the new President of Acquisitions for Genesis Financial Securities … a job for which I was born to do … a job for which I was told by several people above me was already mine. Unofficially. More or less.
In fact, everyone in the LA office was so convinced I was a shoo-in that only one other person put in for it: a twenty-three-year-old iPhone-addicted former intern who couldn’t make coffee unless it came from a Keurig pod or the Starbucks around the corner.
No. Sheila wasn’t there when company president Elliot Grosvenor announced in front of all thirty-eight of us that the new head honcho of my department was Reed “Benedict Arnold” York—the man who’d been keeping my bed warm for the past eleven months. The man with whom I’d spent sultry weekends in Napa Valley, sleepless nights in St. Thomas, and sensual summer afternoons in Malibu, hooking up in rooms with sea salt air and ocean views, bonded by our mutual abhorrence for one another while opting not to question our bizarre sexual chemistry. The man who just this morning handed me a little square package wrapped in shiny silver paper with a navy satin bow on top as he said “Merry Christmas” with the strangest look on his face.
I thought it was odd that he’d give me—essentially his fuck buddy—a beautifully wrapped gift, and at first I laughed, thinking it was a joke. But the phone rang, he got called away, and I told him I’d see him at the meeting as he left.
God, I’m an idiot. I really am.
“Joa, please.” Reed pushes his voice through my door. He hasn’t budged, and knowing him, he probably won’t until I give him some kind of response.
Eleven seconds was all it took to destroy everything we had. To break every unspoken promise he ever made to me. Sure. We weren’t dating. But we were exclusive. And he knew how badly I wanted that promotion, how many late nights I’d put in to impress Grosvenor, how many extra projects I’d taken on in an attempt to get noticed. I’d worked more than twice as hard as every other asshole in our department, and Reed was well aware.
“Joa, are you still there?” Sheila asks.
“Yes. Sorry.” I clear my calculator and push it to the side of my desk, next to the salted caramel hot cocoa I’d made before the meeting which has since cooled to a tepid room temperature.
The horn section of a Michael Bublé Christmas song blares through the built-in speakers in the ceiling, giving me a quick startle.
“All right, dear. I just sent you the paperwork. We’ll have to get a couple sign offs before we can talk official dates, but given that this is a lateral transfer, I don’t see why there would be any hiccups. We should be able to get you out there, no problem,” she says before waiting a beat. “But I have to ask … is everything okay? This is so … out of the blue.”
Sheila is sweet to ask, but everyone knows HR’s true allegiance is to the company, not the employee. I’m sure the root of her question is based on sniffing out any potential lawsuits or liabilities.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie. It isn’t fine, but it will be as soon as I bid these palm trees adieu. “Just wanting a change of scenery.”
“You know, I grew up in Ohio. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back to the snow. Those Midwest winters can be downright brutal.” She laughs and sighs at the same time, one of those people who find hilarity in the most mundane of thoughts. “Though you can’t beat a white Christmas. Now those I miss.”
I refresh my email and double click on her attachment. An embedded, animated “seasons greetings” image complete with a dancing Santa is displayed at the bottom of the email.
“Printing now,” I say. “I’ll scan this to you in a few.”
I hang up with Sheila, my gaze skimming toward the door where Reed’s silhouette still remains. Swiping the papers off my printer, I reach for a logo-emblazoned pen from the logo-emblazoned mug on my desk. When I’m finished, my handwriting is shaky and messy, hardly legible, but my signature is unmistakably on the dotted line and that’s all that matters.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at him in the boardroom earlier, and the second the meeting was over, I barricaded myself in my office before he had a chance to come at me with some bullshit apology. But now I need to scan this transfer agreement, and that means I’m going to have to open that door and face the man who, just this morning, pulled me into a quiet office corner, pressed his minty mouth against mine, and whispered, “You’ve got this.” An hour later, he texted me to say, “Start thinking of how we’re going to celebrate … ;)”
I clear my throat, rise from my chair, and smooth my palm down the front of my pencil skirt. Can’t go over this. Can’t go around this. Have to go through this. Grabbing the small stack of papers, I tuck them under one arm and stride across the room to my door. My heart hammers in my ears as I pop the lock, and for a second or two, everything around me spins like I’m on a merry-go-round. If it weren’t for the searing and undeniably real tautness in my chest, I might be certain I’m having a nightmare.
Yanking the door open, I find myself blocked by Reed’s suited body filling the frame.
“Excuse me.” I don’t look at him. I look past him.
“Joa.” His voice is low, filled with a silent plea, like he wants me to go somewhere with him so we can talk, but what is there to say? What could he possibly say to undo what he’s just done?
“Excuse me,” I say again, harder.
He still won’t move. And to think, once upon a time, I found his gumption charming. Now I know he’s a self-serving, arrogant douche who only says and does things to get what he wants. That’s not charisma. That’s pure ego with a heaping side of self-interest.
Our eyes meet, but only out of habit, not choice.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his lips sealing when he’s finished speaking. I expected him to have a bevy of excuses and reasons lined up, but apparently the cat has his tongue. Maybe it’s better this way. Anything he could say right now wouldn’t mean a damn thing. It’d be a waste of perfectly good oxygen and precious time.
Lifting a brow and shrugging a shoulder, I hold his stare. “Okay.”
The overhead speakers play some peppy piano-jazz version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Such an ironic little soundtrack for this moment.
From the corner of my eye, I spot one of the admins stealing glimpses in our direction, peering out from the bedecked and bedazzled table top Christmas tree on her desk. I’m sure we’re going to be the hot topic with her lunch crew. Everyone knew we were screwing. We tried to hide it at first and then we got lazy, I suppose. All it took was Cara Saunders in Accounting catching Reed’s hand grazing my thigh under the table in a meeting last June and the cat was out of the bag, though no one seemed to care all that much since our extracurricular activities never got in the way of our ability to perform our jobs. It was a non-issue.
“Move.” I’m done being polite.
Finally, he steps aside, and I make my way to the scanner twenty feet away, fully aware of all the eyes and the heavy, curious stares anchoring me into the carpet. I select Sheila from the list of contacts programmed into the machine and press “scan.” Five seconds later, I remove the papers from the feeder tray and return to my office.
He’s gone.
And this time next week, I’ll be as well.
I refuse to stay here and work under Reed York, to be reminded day in and day out of the man who used my body, toyed with my heart, and stole my promotion right out from under me. He can have the stupid promotion, but he’ll never have these lips again. Though who do I think I’m kidding? Obviously, he doesn’t care and he never did. He’s as fake as LA is sunny. I’ve lived here just shy of a year, and the one thing I’ve gleaned so far is that everyone likes to have the appearance of success, the appearance of love, the appearance of wealth, the appearance of being a decent human being. Everyone here is adept at saying the right things at the right time, at moments when they count the most.
But at the end of the day, life here is one big soundstage, complete with carefully selected props and lines and facades.
I want real.
I miss real.
I’m going home.
Next, I buzz my admin.
“Yes, Ms. Jolivet?” Bree answers.
“Cancel my afternoon appointments. I’m taking the rest of the day,” I say, packing up my things and shutting down my computer as I mentally compile a moving checklist a mile long. “Actually, I’m taking the rest of the week.”
She’s quiet, almost as if she’s wondering whether or not to pry.
“Enjoy the holidays,” I tell her, eyeing the gift on the corner of my desk. “And thanks for everything.”
Shoving the shiny silver box with the satin ribbon off my desk, it drops into the waste paper basket with a heavy clunk. It’s the last thing I do before locking the door and getting the lights.
10
Reed
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
My shoes squish against the inch of standing water covering the rented apartment when I get home from Friar Parson’s Monday night. I’m assuming a pipe of some kind must have burst in the past few hours, but I’m not sticking around long enough to investigate.
I send a quick text to the owners through the website and throw my things in my bags before scanning through my phone for any other AirBnbs available in the area.
No Results Found.
Of course not. It’s the week of Christmas.
Forcing a hard breath through my nose, I pull up another site and search for a hotel, my stomach clenched and a blanket of dread washing over me.
I fucking hate hotels.
But not as much as I hate standing here in cold, wet socks and drenched shoes.
It’s slim pickings, but I manage to find a three-star chain option about half a mile from the office.
Grabbing my shit, I lock up and head to the lobby, ordering an Uber on my way.
Pam does a double-take Tuesday morning when I walk past the front desk. I don’t know her, but I’m willing to bet I know what she’s thinking: Reed looks like shit. And he’s an hour late.
The hotel mattress was hard and unsubstantial. The pillows were flat—one of them stained. I promptly called down for a new one, which wasn’t delivered for another thirty-seven minutes. And while I tossed and turned most of last night for reasons unrelated to my shitty sleeping accommodations, I woke with the promise of a hot shower.
Only it was lukewarm at best, with bursts of cold.
Typical three-star hotel.
“Good morning,” Pam says.
“Yes,” I say, heading back to the conference room.
“I have some messages for you,” she calls.
I return to her desk and she hands me two scribbled-on sticky notes.
“I didn’t think Grosvenor would be up this early,” I say, calculating the time difference.
“They were on my voicemail from last night,” she says.
“Hello, hello!” A woman in a black, white, and red Christmas sweater carrying a circular tin covered in snowmen bursts through the door. “I’m making my annual cookie run.”
A few people step out of their offices and Pam lifts the handset on her phone.
“Joa, your mom’s here,” she says. “Yes. Okay.”
The woman, who’s apparently Joa’s mother, whips out a stack of paper napkins from her purse and pops the lid off the tin. The sugary scent of Christmas cookies and candies and chocolate-dipped everythings fills the space around us, and people begin diving in like starved vultures.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.” The woman steps toward me with the same sparkling, baby blue eyes as her daughter and the same slow-and-gentle Liv Tyler cadence to her voice. “I’m Bevin. Joa’s mom. And you are?”
“Reed York,” I say. “I’m from LA. Just in town for a little while.”
“LA? Joa used to work out there. Did the two of you work together?” she asks.
I fight a smirk. Of course Joa wouldn’t mention me to her family. Can't say that I blame her.
“We did,” I say.
“And what is your role here?” she asks.
“Currently the CFO.” And probably not for much longer ...
“Mom.” Joa appears out of nowhere, placing her palm on Bevin’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you were coming by today.”
Bevin shrugs. “Your father has an optometrist appointment in the city so I figured I could run these around while he sits in the waiting room. Seemed like more fun than sitting around reading outdated issues of Redbook.”
“Oh my God. I’m going to gain ten pounds just looking at these.” Kennedy loads a napkin with a stack of treats. “And I’m not even mad about it.”
“Enjoy, sweetheart.” Bevin laughs before turning back to us. “So Reed tells me the two of you worked together in LA?”
The color drains from Joa’s face, as if she doesn’t trust that I kept my mouth shut about our history.
“Briefly,” I say. “Which is very unfortunate, because Joa was a priceless asset to our team. We definitely felt that loss.”
Joa looks away.
“Well, her father and I were just tickled when she said she wanted to move back home last year,” Bevin says. “I think my little adventurer just needed to get LA out of her system.”
Little adventurer.
That’s funny. I’d have described her the same way. Sexcation after sexcation, she was always up for whatever, never afraid to experience something new, never wanting to revisit the same place.
“You’re right, Mom,” Joa says, looking at me. “And it’s crazy how easy it was to get out of my system once I left.”
Touché.
“There’s just this toxicity about LA,” Joa says. “It’s so pretty on the outside, perfect weather, never a shortage of excitement … but when y
ou get to the heart of it, there’s nothing there.”
“You don’t know LA like I do then,” I say, brows meeting.
Two can play this game.
“Pretty sure I got to know LA pretty well while I was there.” She squints. “Some might even say too well.”
“Can you ever get to know a city too well?” I ask. “Surely you left some parts unchartered. You were barely there a year.”
“I saw enough to know I didn’t need to see the rest.”
Her mother studies us. I’m almost positive Joa forgot she was even standing there.
“I’m so sorry,” Bevin says, placing a hand on each of our arms. “I didn’t mean to incite such a debate.”
“It’s not a debate, Mom,” Joa says. “Some cities just aren’t meant for everyone. I’m sure he feels the same about Chicago.”
“I’m actually enjoying Chicago,” I say. “In fact, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here … in Chicago.”
Her eyes flash and she looks away. “Anyway.”
“Have either of you been to Nashville? It’s such a beautiful city.” Bevin flutters her lashes, her hand over her heart.
Joa and I share a flash of a mutual smile that disappears in half a second—but it’s something and I’ll take it.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I excuse myself from the conversation.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Yes, Mr. York? This is Connie at the front desk of the Quality Budget Hotel. We got your request for an upgraded king suite, however, I wanted to let you know that we will unfortunately be unable to accommodate the room change this week. We’re at full capacity,” the woman says.
My grip tightens. “Then can you get me a mattress that doesn’t feel like I’m sleeping on an ironing board?”
The woman laughs, like she thinks I’m kidding.
“I’m being serious,” I say under my breath before pinching the bridge of my nose. I can’t go another night sleeping like this, let alone another week—or longer depending on how long it takes for me to finish my audit.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says. “If you’d like, I can send a manager up to inspect your mattress?”
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