by Malone, Q.
He sighed and slid a glance to Derrick. “Then I’m sorry. You leave me no choice. You’re fired.”
A hazy buzzing sound filled her ears as her father’s mouth moved. Disbelief weakened her knees and shock numbed her. So. Not. Happening. Her inner fixer took over from her brain because clearly her grey matter was on vacation.
Sure, she’d deviated a little from the original presentation, but not enough to warrant his firing her. Derrick’s fast and loose presentation would have had their eyes glazing over.
Her father’s voice was tight and low and sounded like gravel being put through a grinder. “We’re trying to move Trudeaux forward. The kinds of clients and presentations we want to do will bring us to the next level. Derrick is right. Since you refuse to keep up, you no longer belong at Trudeaux.”
She would not cry. “I gave a good presentation.” Even as the weak words spilled out, she wondered why she’d bothered. That was it? That was her big flare of rebellion? No wonder her father treated her like Carrot Top’s ugly twin sister. She couldn’t even rebel properly.
Papa Dearest’s eye did the twitch-and-jive routine again. “Good presentation? It would have been great if Derrick or Tamara had done it. They both have the vision. We’ve been preparing for months.” His voice rose by increments.
Tears stung her eyes. This wasn’t real. It was a dream. Absolutely. Was. Not. Happening. “I just gave you the presentation of my life. You can’t just fire me.”
When her father spoke again, only the barest hint of his New Orleans accent tinted his baritone. “Jaya, it’s done. You’re too invested. Too stuck in your ways. Like Derrick was saying, we need to move forward.” He cleared his throat, looking momentarily uncomfortable. “This is business, Jaya. I expect you not to be so childish as to skip your sister’s wedding in two weeks. We are still a family.”
Fuck. Family her ass. This was real? Like they were really telling her to pack up her Weitzman’s and bounce? Then expected her at the bloody wedding? Waves of failure and dread braided themselves into a nausea cocktail. She could feel the tension in her neck as if someone was squeezing it tight.
Throat burning from lack of oxygen, she stared at her father. Without a word, he got up from his desk, thin frame moving with a fluidity and grace that belied his age. He left the office with a soft click of his door, Jaya felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. Her father had abandoned her.
Derrick spoke and at first Jaya couldn’t hear him for the muffled silencer of dread cocooning her. Through the hazy fog of bitter anger and hazy fear, she noticed his mouth moving. The sound coming in slow and lazy increments, as if it didn’t matter what else he had to say to her.
“Jaya? Jaya, are you listening?”
She blinked up at him, the urge to strike him so strong she could feel her hand twitch of its own volition. Oh, God. She could see the headlines in the Union Tribune. “Angry Black Woman Shoves Ex-Fiancé Through Thirty Story Window.” She forced a breath.
Derrick spoke again. His voice tight and in control. “I’ll have security pack your things and a messenger deliver them to your apartment before week’s end.”
Suddenly too exhausted to breathe, she stood on wobbly legs. “Congratulations. You got what you wanted. Are you happy now?”
“You know I don’t like seeing your father unhappy. You did this to yourself.” He sniffed. “You could have turned this train around any time you liked. You chose to be an adversary.”
Before she exited the office, she turned back to glare at him. “You must really hate me.” She shrugged. “That’s okay because the feeling is mutual.”
Jaya managed to hold off the tears until she was down the hall, but then her resolve crumbled and hot wetness streaked down her cheeks. Come on girl. Suck it up. Or at least wait ‘til the elevator. Getting fired was so not at the top of her “Things To Do Before Hitting Thirty” list. The last thing she needed was to run into her sister or her father before she could get out of the building.
Never let them see you cry. But her stupid tear ducts revolted. She punched the elevator button and wrapped her arms around her ribs in an effort to hold herself together. The chime of the elevator made her wince with its cheery tinkle. The tears on revolt swam into her field of vision like soldiers through a barricade, temporarily blinding her. She forced her leaden legs onto the elevator desperate to get out of the building.
She swiped at the freefalling tears and walked into a wall of muscle.
