by Lindsey Hart
Philippe
An hour after yet another epic meltdown, I have my office door shut and locked with the lights turned down low to try and help me relax. My phone is off—both my office phone and my cell. So far, the non-communication, privacy, low-light thing has yet to help. My muscles are still coiled so tight that I feel like I’m going to get a double Charley horse in both of my thighs. My stomach hurts—like an I need to puke kind of hurts. My head aches, and my chest also feels like I’ve tried out a new career in inhaling fire.
It might be preferable to this one. Maybe I should make an appointment. Talk to someone. Tell someone how I can’t sleep at night. About the dreams. About running this company that my dad created from nothing and turned into a multi-billion dollar success story. Tell someone about how hard this is for me, even after nearly four years. About how I still feel like an imposter because my dad died too soon and too young, and I miss him. I know I’m never going to be him. Ever.
Dad stopped working at the office years before he died. He ran things mostly from home and on the road because family always came first whenever it was possible. My dad was a freaking superhero. And I’m…not. I push myself, and I know what I’m doing. I went to an Ivy League school. So why do I always feel so lost? I delegate as much as possible, but then I feel ridiculous for doing it. For passing off work, even the small stuff. I know people think I’m entitled because I don’t book my own appointments or do my own reports. But I also I know it’s what other departments are for, and an assistant. Other execs have them. All of the execs here have an assistant. Plus, there are other departments like accounting, marketing, and HR for a reason.
I’m a shit leader. I know that about myself. I’m smart, but I don’t have the people skills my dad had. Also, I’m freaking tired. All. The. Time. I’m exhausted. The bone-deep kind of tired that never goes away. I never felt like that before Dad died. At first, I thought it was grief. Now I feel like it’s a part of me. I never had anxiety or panic attacks before. But now it’s getting worse.
In grade three, our class did choral speaking. There was this huge competition and, long story short, I peed my pants right there up on the stage because I was so nervous. I think even that would be preferable to the panic attacks and Sutton seeing them. I managed to keep them a secret until one afternoon, she walked into my office and found me under my desk. After that, I don’t know. It’s like she books everything for me. She knows all about my life. She freaking picks up my food and my dry cleaning. So, why not let her watch me have a meltdown too? At least she’s professional about it. I know she’d never tell anyone. She’s way too nice.
I haven’t been the best person lately. Okay, for like, four years. I’ve been a huge asshole. To everyone. I know that. I just wish I could stop. I want to get this under control. I just don’t know how. With medication? Are there other ways? Not just the panic attacks and the anxiety, but the not sleeping thing. The being a jerk thing. Although, if I could get rid of the other three, maybe the assholeness would take a break. It’s hard to be patient when you haven’t slept in a week.
I need help. I can’t keep putting this on my secretary.
My inbox pings as one email comes in, and I nearly leap out of my office chair. I see it’s from Sutton—the report I demanded. I think about leaving it, but I want to fire it off with the correction to the other execs from this morning’s meeting. I know it was missing a zero, and I could have fixed it myself, but no. I just had to be a jerk. Rub her mistake in. Even after she walked me through the sixth panic attack that she’s seen. Or is it the seventh? The eighth? I’ve lost count. Lost count of how many I’ve hidden from everyone. How many I’ve had on my own. How many Sutton has seen.
My neck feels like it could crack, and if it did, it would probably be a relief. The muscles there are bunched so tight, it’s feeding into the headache that’s settled behind my eyes. The bridge of my nose burns because I think about how disappointed my dad would be at my shit leadership, but I force a shaky inhale and blink fast.
It’s just the lack of sleep.
I download the file and open it. I blink. Then blink again. Faster. Not because my nose is still tingling, but because this isn’t the report I asked for. I exit out of the file and check the name of the attachment.
Diary Therapy Thingy.
Okay. I get that Sutton didn’t mean to send me this. Or maybe she did. Maybe it’s some kind of not-so-gentle nudge with a mockup project someone else wrote as an example of how I can get my ass back to normal. People say talking helps. Writing helps. Maybe it’s just Sutton being Sutton and being way too nice to me like she’s always been.
Her niceness, by the way, is annoying. It sets my teeth on edge because it reminds me of what a jerk hole I am and how utterly trash my general attitude is.
I read the message she sent in the body of her email. Here’s the report attached. Thanks, Sutton.
No mention of any mock diary or therapy or her calling someone to set up an appointment for me. Nothing. I’m pretty sure the report was supposed to be attached. Which means whatever I just received was sent in error.
Now I’m curious. My headache is fading into the background, and I click on the document, opening it up again.
After I scan the first few lines, I find my lips turning up into the first real smile I’ve had in a long time. God, this is good. Sutton was keeping some kind of electronic diary on her computer. Her work computer. I’m not that much of a tyrant that I don’t realize people are going to do some personal work on their work devices, and it’s okay with me as long as they’re doing their job, and Sutton has always done an amazing job. Not that I’ve ever told her. But yeah. She’s good. Really good. So no, I’m not mad that she’s keeping a journal on her work computer. She probably needs a way to destress from having to deal with me every single day.
Actually, the fact that she did is about to make my day, because the first few lines are pure gold.
Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,
Granny said I should start keeping a journal or whatever. She says it’s not only a good way to look back on the past and maybe learn a thing or two, but it’s also a good way to work out our feelings. She’s kept a diary for years. It was never my thing. I hate writing. It makes my hand hurt. But whatever. Granny has good advice, so I’m giving it a try. Don’t expect much, though. I’m just going to keep this going as a huge monologue. No dates. I don’t want dates. This isn’t about that. I don’t want it to be a record of everything I’ve done. That’s boring. I want it to be a place where I can work through thoughts. Maybe look back on it. I don’t know. I’d try meditating, but I don’t have the patience. I can’t sit still for five seconds. I can barely sit still to write this. Whatevs. I probably won’t be back.
Over and out,
A very reluctant, skeptical, doubtful, tired, and bored Sutton
I know I should stop reading. I should send this back with a promise that I didn’t read any of it and assure her everything is fine.
It’s what a good person would do.
I think we’ve already established that my goodness is dicey at best, and most people here would probably be the first to tell I put the evil into dEVIL. I can’t help it. I keep skimming along. By the fourth entry, I hit the real jackpot.
Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,
I hate my boss. Why? Why, you ask, am I capable of such burning, twisted, brutal emotions? I’m not. Not usually. But when the guy asks me to get him specific socks because the last ones I bought weren’t soft enough, what am I supposed to do? Also, who orders a gluten-free bagel and skinny soy, decaf latte? Doesn’t that DEFEAT the purpose of it all? I have been asked for both of these things. Repeatedly. And I have to go order them and stand in line and look like a huge dork when I pick them up. Other strange requests have included cauliflower pizza with vegan cheese (no, he’s not vegan. I know this because he made me order him chili with extra meat and extra spice—and FYI, I hope it burned coming out), a tuna sandwich wi
th avocado and sprouts (extra gross!), poutine with sardines on it (like seriously, WTF?), and some weird protein powder that cost $458 a can. I think the guy’s innards are going to rot out. Just because you’re rich, do you have to eat such gross things? Not that he never orders anything good. The times he does, though, I have a small confession to make. One time I licked some of the cheese on his pizza. It looked good, and I was starving. I just needed that little bit of extra grease to get me back to the office. Oh, and what’s up with the low-fat mayo? Like why even bother? I get regular mayo every single time. So far, he hasn’t noticed. Probably because it tastes AMAZING! Shouldn’t that be a tip-off, though? You’d really think so.
Signing off for today, end of rant,
Sutton
My cheeks hurt, and I realize I’ve been grinning the entire time. I keep reading, scanning through the entries, and picking out little bits and pieces about me here and there. I can’t help myself.
Philippe Wilson is the devil.
I guess it’s unanimous. It’s generally what everyone thinks about me.
Who eats pickled beets? I swear, this guy probably Dutch ovens his office when no one is around with all the gut rotting horrible foods he eats.
I think Philippe has a secret obsession with plants. Who else installs a jungle on the side of the office building just so he can have a leisurely stroll every single afternoon? #Mybosshumpsplants
Philippe’s mom calls and leaves really weird messages. Often with me. Doesn’t she know I don’t know how her son’s love life is going, and I’d never want to? Gag me. If he was the last man on earth…okay, I don’t know where I’m going with that. Just yeah. I’d rather let the species go extinct than reproduce firebreathing dragon evil grumpy boss babies with him. So no, I don’t actually know or care, who his girlfriend is. Side note—thank goodness he doesn’t make me order flowers or like panties or something for her. If she even exists. I highly doubt it, though. Who could put up with him if they had a choice? Even the hardiest gold digger wouldn’t go for that.
Why is Philippe’s name Philippe? Like, he’s seriously not French. Neither is his mom. I’ve heard her on the phone. I know his dad wasn’t either. So what the heck? Why not just plain old Phillip like every other normal person in the world??????
My boss thinks he’s so perfect that he can defy the laws of physics. If he shoved the ingredients for a cake up his ass, an entire, perfect, flawlessly-iced cake would come out of his mouth like a legitimate eighth wonder of the world. #Cakemiracles.
Today, Philippe made me order him new boxers. Christ. Have. Mercy. It’s a record new low. I’m tempted to get wool. Scratchy. Horrible. Wool. How would the old balls like that? Also a new low. Having to think about my boss’ junk. #SoFuckingGross.
Doesn’t Philippe know that by driving a vehicle which costs more than most people’s houses, he’s seriously rubbing our noses in it and everyone likes him even less than they already do? By the way, I think neon green is a gross color. How can he even drive that? Oh right, because he wants everyone to look at him and notice that he’s hot shit.
I’m pretty sure Philippe doesn’t have pets. He couldn’t manage to keep a cactus alive, and cactuses don’t die.
If my boss gives me another report on a Friday afternoon to have to him on Monday morning, I’m going to lose my shit.
Shit lost. Report demands just came in.
Got asked to book a trip to Hawaii for said evil boss. For a week. I know for a fact that the conference for work is only two days. Must be nice to be super freaking rich. Silver spoon much?
I’m pretty sure if Philippe breathed on me, his breath would smell like weird decaf skinny latte and poop. Just a thought.
I’m not a violent person, but sometimes, I’d like to run my boss over with his own car. Just kidding. Kind of.
Fuck my life. Seriously. I swear I’d rather clean a public toilet with my tongue than work for Philippe Wilson for another second.
Granny says the people who are hardest to love need it the most. Pretty sure this is unsolicited motivational poster-style advice and doesn’t apply to Philippe because he’s beyond redemption.
Okay, I know I’m hard on him, but—I saw something today that made me think that—uh—I’ve never talked about. I can’t even write it. I don’t know how I feel. Just…maybe I’ve been hard on my boss. I realize I’ve complained about him a lot. This diary thing is mostly just a venting place. But I don’t know. I feel kind of bad for him sometimes. He seems lonely. And sad. His mom called a few days ago and asked me to remind him to come and have supper with her. She said it was important. I know this is the day his dad died four years ago. I’ve never lost anyone close to me. But I imagine it sucks—a lot. I try to remember that and have mercy on him. No matter how bad he is. I’m normally a very nice, caring, sweet, and empathetic person. In fact, I’m too nice. Granny always says so. Uh, yeah. The natural empathy mixed with the fact that Philippe’s dad actually died is probably why I haven’t told him to suck it or jammed his hand into his paper shredder. Not that it would fit. But I’ve thought about it, in my worst moments. Don’t judge. We all have them.
The bridge of my nose is burning again. I’m done reading. Not that there isn’t more. There is, but the last paragraph slew me, and I feel like I’m on the verge of having a complete bawl fest here at my desk because I’m obviously extremely out of sorts and have been all day. I need to get this under control—all of it. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I know people say it all the time, but seriously.
Once upon a time, I wasn’t always such a ball bag.
True story.
I sit there at my desk, trying to get the scrambled bits of myself put back together. I feel very well like I’ve been shoved through a paper shredder. All of me. And that it actually worked. I guess maybe this is the bottom because suddenly, I have a burst of inspiration.
I reach for my office phone, switch it back on, and hit Sutton’s extension.
We clearly need to talk.
CHAPTER 3
Sutton
I know I’m done for.
Seriously. A person can’t send their boss a forty-page document that is basically just a really crazy long rant about them and then expect to keep their job.
Yeah. So not happening.
I’ve been sitting in my office since I realized I sent the wrong file, just waiting for the call to do the walk of shame. It finally came. The hour I had to wait for it felt like a true eternity. I should have used it to start packing up my desk, making sure Patti, my cactus, is safely secured and ready for transport. I should have wiped any other personal files off my computer and cleaned out the filing cabinet where I have a stash of candy hidden away. It’s my weakness, and at times, because of those candies, my office looks like it’s perpetually Halloween.
I slouched to Philippe’s office with my head hung low. This is the most humiliated I’ve ever been. Wait, correction. I’m pretty sure what I’m about to experience is going to be the most humiliating.
Right after I enter, I shut the door tightly behind me. No one needs to hear about this if they don’t already know about it. I wouldn’t put it past Philippe to get revenge by circulating my little bit of creative writing around the office. Defy me and die. It would be a good headline to his email. More like, write inappropriate things about me and get fired, but you know. The more drama, the better to make his point.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt without even looking up. I’ve developed a fixation with the industrial carpet at the moment. “Seriously. You have no idea. You were never supposed to read that. I only wrote it when I was extremely chezzed off. I really am a nice person. Truly. I’m ashamed of myself. I’ll resign. You don’t have to fire me. I’ve already brought my notice.” I hold up a hastily scribbled bit of paper I prepared right after Philippe called my office to demand my presence.
A slow clap is not what I expected. But it’s what I get. I snap my head up and find Philippe grinning at me. Holy poo pan
ts. I’ve never seen him smile before that I can remember, especially not like this. This is a two-ton megawatt type of grin, and it feels kind of like a kick straight to my lady bits. In a good way. I think. I don’t know. Because I’m seriously confused at the moment.
“I’m not going to fire you.” Philippe stands. God, he’s huge. I’m five-eight, and he towers over me, even at a distance.
“You’re not?” I squeak. It would be nice to be more dignified than a mouse at the moment, but hey. You know how the saying goes about rarely getting what we want? Yeah.
“No. I found your writing quite amusing.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.” His smile turns absolutely predatory.
My belly does something strange. It’s half fear, half something else going on in there. Something female. Something dark. Something wild. The same kind of something that did a little happy dance when I thought about Philippe tying me up with his tie. And no, I’ve never done that before, and no, I don’t think I’d be into it. Although…you never know. No. God no. What is wrong with my body? Why are my hormones so out of whack all of a sudden?
“I truly did. If I fired you, you should consider a career as a writer. I think you have real talent.”
It’s biting and sarcastic. I barely stifle a groan. “I really am sorry. It was unkind at best. I didn’t really mean it.”
“Yes, you did.”
I scrunch up the paper I’m holding. “No, I didn’t. I mean, I did. Kind of. But not like that. Not to hurt you.”
“We’ve known each other for a while. No?”
“Yes.”
“You have every reason to hate me.”
“I don’t hate anyone.”
“I make you order me socks. And underwear.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And you don’t hate me for it?”
“I disliked it, but hate, no. I only wrote all that stuff in the heat of anger.” For some stupid reason, I want to say in the heat of passion, but I’m glad the right word came out instead. “We’ve worked together for a long time. Please believe I never meant to hurt you. My grandma suggested I start journaling to work through stress and stuff. It seemed like a dumb idea. It was more of a satire than anything.”
