Dear Technocorers,
It’s been a rough couple of months. Hopefully, the goody bags on your desk go a little way to smooth things over. I want to address some of your concerns from the retreat.
Leadership Doesn’t Listen: That is simply not true. In fact, I’m listening all the time. Sometimes leadership makes decisions you don’t understand, because your suggestions just aren’t plausible given what I know about the company.
You Feel Expendable: I value everyone here. However, if we can transition the president of the United States in three months, we can survive without any one team member. That includes upper management, like me.
Dylan retched. This was a list of ten, and there was no way the points that followed could possibly get worse than what she was reading. She’d practically drafted the email for him. All he had to do was read it over and send out things like We have formed a committee on employee satisfaction and upper-management listening sessions. Glancing out of the skinny window by her office door, Dylan made eye contact with Helen, a data specialist from the second floor with a countenance like Uncle Sam’s. She had interviewed her during the fact-finding process and remembered her as generally kind. But not today. From what she saw on the other side of that glass, Dylan truly understood the expression death stare.
Turning back to the email, she began scanning for the cause of the killer gaze. Somewhere toward point eight, she found it:
By now, many of you have met our office consultant, Dylan Delacroix, who has encouraged me to share my vision and expand my leadership style . . .
“What the hell!” Dylan yelped at the screen. Jumping up, she darted over to the tiny roll-down shade, gesturing vaguely to her dress and mouthing, “Change clothes” at Helen before pulling on the balled metal cable.
The shade banged against the window ledge, and she pushed her hands into her hair, pulling hard enough that it looked like she was playing the face-lift game with herself. As the skin on her forehead stretched, she reminded herself to breathe. When that failed, she doubled over, hands on her knees, to count the little circles on the carpet. Anything to take her mind off the sound of blood pounding in her ears and the clutching spasm at her midsection. Suppressing the urge to vomit, Dylan slowly righted herself. Leaning on the door, she closed her eyes.
“You are okay. This doesn’t have to end your career. You just have to get through—” Her eyes snapped open as the phone rang, cutting off her personal pep talk. Compressing a horror-film-worthy scream into a minor squeak, Dylan peered at the caller ID.
Still not Tim. She sank into her chair, her hand hesitating over the receiver, watching the red light flash its danger warning. If she didn’t answer soon, Jared would go nuclear and start alternating between calling her cell and desk line until he reached her.
It was the third ring. She was either going to answer it or let the emotional blitzkrieg begin. Steeling herself, she picked up the phone. “This is Dylan.”
“Dylan. What the hell is going on over there?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Don’t play with me, damn it.”
“Jared, I’m not playing with you. It was one piece of bad press.”
A copycat of Darth Vader breathed into the line. “One piece? Fuck the press. What do you call the documents you sent me?”
“A perfectly good starting place. There was no way—”
“I knew you couldn’t handle this job. You don’t have what it takes to make it to the next level at Kaplan,” Jared cut in, his tone forcing visions of him foaming at the mouth into her head. Dylan felt the oxygen being sucked out of her lungs, replaced by something much more painful. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I think you’re wrong. My work hasn’t hurt share prices at all. Moreover, if you were here, you’d see that people are feeling—”
“Share prices? Is that your measure of success? God, you are an idiot.”
“Given our focus on quarterly earnings, I believe that yes, in fact, share prices are the primary metric for determining success, with good press a distant second. The paperwork you asked for is almost a non sequitur,” Dylan said, her voice shaky. She knew correcting Jared wouldn’t help, but after the morning she’d had, she wasn’t about to be berated for the only thing she had done correctly in the last forty-eight hours.
Jared sputtered, “You know what? Get packed. Someone as stupid as you are has no business at Kaplan. Or anywhere, really.”
Dylan felt the pit of her insides drop to the floor. She had been dreading this since she’d walked through Technocore’s doors. A small voice in the back of her head nudged her to say something. To stand up for herself. The worst had finally come. It wasn’t like he could fire her twice. Taking a deep breath, she said, “There is no need for name-calling.”
“When someone makes as many bad decisions as you do, yes, there is.”
“Fine, fire me. It isn’t like you have done any of the work.”
Jared let out a strangled squawk. “Do yourself a favor. Go find a cardboard box and put your stuff in it before security escorts you out.”
With that, Jared hung up, leaving her in blessed, office-lighting-bathed silence. Her mind began to cloud over with the weight of the last few hours. She’d figured Jared might finally fire her once the staff-appreciation fallout started in earnest. But Deep and Brandt? They were so out of nowhere that they’d left a hollow feeling running through her chest. And that hole was starting to hurt. Like, really hurt.
Come to think of it, her head hurt too. Could she breathe? She was pretty sure she could breathe. As she stood up, the pain in her chest shot up the place in her back where she had hoped steel would be, forcing her to double over, hands splayed across the desk.
“Am I having a heart attack?” she asked the window shade, belatedly realizing that since it was drawn, no one would see her collapse, so no one would find her. Then it would be days before Tim wondered why he hadn’t seen her, and eventually her body would be discovered by the socially inept sweat-suit-material-loving geek who’d gotten her fired and caused the heart attack in the first place.
She checked again. Yes, she was still breathing, albeit in a labored, extremely sweaty way. In between clipped inhalations, she took stock of her symptoms. She’d seen a special on heart attacks. It was for women over sixty, but some of that had to apply to younger women, didn’t it? Okay, she was sweaty, but not flu sweaty; this was nervous sweaty. Difficulty breathing, check. Chest pain? She stopped, trying to sort through all the signals she was receiving from her body. No chest pain. No pain in her jaw or back either.
“Probably not a heart attack,” she whispered, still doubled over. Slowly, she processed the information, counting to ten as she tried to regulate her hiccuped breaths.
“Panic attack,” she said to no one, finally sorting her own diagnosis. “I need air, now.”
Dylan snatched her keys and coat up into her arms. HR could box up her stuff. Throwing her office door open, she bolted toward the elevator. Jamming the button with her thumb, she jumped in as soon as the silver doors opened. Taking another truncated breath, she repeatedly pressed the close-door button, praying the doors sensed her urgency.
“Come on,” she mumbled under her breath.
“Dylan?” Steve’s voice startled her from the corner of the elevator. Adjusting his glasses, he added, “I have been meaning to stop by your office. It’s not like you to miss a meeting.”
“Meeting?” She froze, feeling the sweat on her back grind to a halt. Had Jared already managed to get ahold of Steve? She blinked at Steve and said nothing, marveling at the speed of Jared’s retribution.
“With the guy from Crescent. Mike . . . uh . . .” He squinched his eyes shut and snapped his fingers, searching for Mike’s last name.
“Robinson,” Dylan croaked. Something was off. She had texted Mike, so why hadn’t he told Steve she wasn’t going to make it? Fumbling for her phone in her purse, Dylan felt her chest start to tighten a
gain.
“That’s him. We thought you were coming.” Luckily, Steve didn’t require an excuse, because the only other words that came to her mind had four letters and were not polite to use with the man who would sign her termination paperwork in a few hours. “Anyway, nice guy. Interesting idea. I have a few questions.”
Her fingers brushed the hard coating of her phone case, and Dylan seized it, quickly looking down at the face-ID sensor and scrolling through her list of unread texts. Finding Mike’s name, she made a sound that could have doubled for a special effect, prompting Steve to look hard at her. “Are you okay?”
“Yup. Great.” Her voice cracked. It was psychologically impossible for her to be further from great at this moment. There, in all its unsent glory, was her text telling Mike she couldn’t make it, complete with the typo she’d never fixed before Lois had interrupted her. Just above the unsent text were the three messages Mike had sent her checking in on her whereabouts. Dylan could feel the bile and coffee in her stomach start to claw their way up her throat, visions of being sick all over Steve swimming in front of her eyes. Luckily, the elevator doors began to slide open. A few more inches and she was free.
“You look pale. Are you sure you’re well?” Steve asked again, concern wrinkling his nose.
“Totally sure.” The doors were finally open wide enough for her to turn sideways and squeeze through. Glancing back at Steve, she added, “Forgot something in the car.”
She sprinted through the lobby and pressed the car key’s unlock button as soon as she felt the drizzle hit her face. Throwing her bag on the passenger seat, she slammed the door before she let a scream rip through her. Gulping in cool car air, Dylan gripped the sides of the seat as if it were her only hold on reality. The windows began to fog up with her body heat, and the panic started to subside. With its disappearance came the feeling of physical illness.
Mike wasn’t meant to be a casualty in all this. She envisioned him showing up for the meeting, jittery with enthusiasm, all good natured with warm smiles. He’d probably sat in the stupid lobby waiting for her, sure she would stroll in any moment, his confidence dripping to the floor with each passing minute. Eventually realizing he’d be taking the meeting alone. She was supposed to be by his side. It was such a small ask, and she had told so many big lies to make him ask it.
Dylan’s eyes were burning. Tilting her head back, she pressed the heels of her hands into them. She wasn’t going to cry about any of this. Not Technocore or Kaplan or Mike. As she opened her eyes again, her heart squeezed. She had to call him and apologize or at least try to explain herself.
Dylan didn’t turn on the car, hoping the chill would keep the nerves at bay. Biting down hard on her lip, she found his number, closing her eyes briefly as she hit the little green call button. After two rings, she began hoping she could leave a voice mail. Maybe he was in a meeting and she wouldn’t have to—
“Hello.”
“Hi, Mike.” She paused, feeling the disappointment that came with an unwanted answered phone call. “It’s Dylan.”
“Hey.” The reticence in his voice stung. “What happened to you yesterday?”
Dylan’s heart dropped a few inches toward the snakes twisting in her stomach.
“I’m so sorry. Tim came up with this whole appreciation scheme, and of course it was doomed, and then I tried to text you, but I got interrupted and I forgot to hit send—which I know sounds bad. Then Tim kept me busy all day, and . . . yeah.” Dylan let her insufficient, rambling explanation die off.
“So you couldn’t call?”
“No.” Dylan shook her head, trying to organize her thoughts, remorse threading through her. “I mean, yes.”
“It’s fine. It was just awkward. He had no idea why I was there.” Mike’s tone was so different from Jared’s. There was no screaming or threats. He was quiet, as if he was leaving space for her to say something that would make it make sense. The softness implied a reset button Dylan couldn’t find.
“I was so involved I lost track of”—Dylan squirmed in her chair, looking for an emotional loophole—“literally everything.”
“It’s just . . .” Mike paused, and Dylan could almost see him rubbing the back of his head, his mouth quirking uncomfortably, as if searching for the right words caused him physical pain. “It just struck me as odd. Then our admin started calling other people on the list, and most of them had no idea who you were; they hadn’t even heard of Crescent.” The color drained from her face, leaving an empty gray to stare at her from the rearview mirror. Static appeared where her brain function should have been, the last of Mike’s sentence coming through as though muffled. “Do you know any of those people? Or did you just make the names up?”
The sound that cracked out of the back of her throat was supposed to be the word I, but the vowel never materialized. Mike paused again, allowing more time for her gurgle to turn into a sentence.
Clearing her throat, she said, “I can explain.”
“Okay.”
“My friends helped me.” The fog over her brain seemed to thicken as her lungs tightened. Dylan turned her focus just outside the car windshield, homing in on the little blue badge scanner near the front entrance to the office, and started again. “I thought I’d have time for them to make introductions, before everything went haywire. But I didn’t. I messed up. Big-time, and I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”
“Why wouldn’t you mention that? I rearranged our biggest fundraiser betting on this.” A wave of genuine hurt washed over Mike’s words, halting as he tried to process the deception. “The event is two weeks away. There are actual children’s developmental opportunities at stake. You could have been honest with me about it. My job. My coworkers’ jobs. Why do this?”
Dylan’s heart collapsed as he pushed aside her apology. She could almost feel the weight of his lost trust seeping into her, scanning through the scattered bits of reason and trying to create a coherent story line for her.
She struggled to apologize to Mike again, feeling unable to find the phrase she needed. “I don’t have a good reason. I wanted to help you, but I got in over my head everywhere else. Honestly. That’s it. That’s the truth. I’m sorry.”
“Help me out here. I’m trying to understand what went wrong. Did I do something?”
Frustration took root in her chest and began creeping its way down her spine, numbing her senses as it went. She didn’t know how to explain her life. Couldn’t he just accept I’m sorry without needing a PhD’s worth of understanding around her mistake? I’m sorry was literally all she had left to give, and he just couldn’t accept it. She snapped, “Were you listening? You didn’t do anything. It wasn’t even about you.”
Mike drew in a sharp breath. Dylan imagined the tension pulling across his shoulders as she listened to him exhale. “You are right. I’m sorry I phrased it that way. What I want to ask is how can I—”
“No.” The word slammed against her brain so hard it felt like she hadn’t even thought it before it came out of her mouth.
Dylan was done with being manipulated. First, Nicolas with the thinly disguised threats that were supposedly in her own best interest. Next, Tim with the incessant need for cleanup on aisle stupid. Then Jared, shouting outsize demands.
Whatever nice-guy mental jujitsu Mike was capable of, Dylan was not in the mood. She’d messed up, and she’d admitted that. The last thing she needed was another person making her feel bad. There was no possible way that he was sincerely being nicer than she deserved. Not with their family history. This was just another ding in her fantastically shitty trip back to the hellhole that was her hometown.
“I got in over my head, in every possible way,” Dylan snapped. “I had to let something drop. Actually, I let everything drop. You were just the by-product of my own personal hurricane.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Did he have to apologize? Dylan seethed, her thoughts moving through her unfilter
ed. Ignoring the roiling in her stomach, she plowed on, her voice rising half an octave.
“I hold it together and follow the rules and be reliable. All those rules and all that order—what did it get me? A cyclone client and a bitch-ass boss.” Dylan slapped her hand against the steering wheel. “Worse, I break a few small rules, and I get a one-night stand who is too nice for his own good but can’t accept an apology without some long-winded explanation, which I don’t have, by the way. Oh yeah! And a floodlight in my decrepit ruin of a childhood bedroom window.”
The silence on the other end of the line felt like Mike was working on a mental Rubik’s Cube. He exhaled heavily. “Okay, let’s deal with those one at a time.” His tone was like that of a man talking to a child having a meltdown in the grocery store. Extreme frustration wrapped in a soothing balm. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to be honest with me. Where is this coming from?”
“It isn’t coming from anywhere. It is me. I’m a disaster. Just as destructive and dysfunctional as the rest of my family.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Then you’re an optimistic fool.” She laughed, the sound hollow. Clenching her jaw, she said, “I can’t with you.”
“I’m trying here, but I’ve got a mess on my hands at work.” Mike’s tone was clipped. Taking a deep breath, she prepared a retort, but this was his breaking point, and he did not leave her the room to continue. “I’m expending massive amounts of energy trying to reason with you right now, and I don’t think it’s getting anywhere. It sounds like you have some things you need to work out.” Mike paused, and Dylan could hear him pacing his office, attempting to regain composure. “Independently.”
“Fine.” She felt her eyes sting and rubbed them with her free hand. She just needed to get through this conversation; then she could go home and crawl into bed for a year and forget everything.
The Checklist Page 27
