by K. K. Allen
Over the past two and a half years, the production suite has become my secret getaway, but not just because it’s somewhere to decompress. Richland has a hard time admitting that he needs the help. He’s too proud, and if he had to do it all on his own to save the company a few dollars, he totally would.
I’ve been around long enough to see the proposals go from his desk to Sandra’s, requesting additional help. He’s yet to gain a production assistant, always forced to negotiate with outside resources to get the work done.
Whether it’s hair, makeup, fittings, gofer duties, stand-ins, or inventory of some kind, I always find a way to show up when Richland needs me in the studio. If it weren’t for this, I’d be completely lost.
I’ve just reapplied Nancy’s lip sauce—my term of endearment for lip gloss—and am returning to my station when the door to the studio bursts open, revealing a heated Sandra.
Everything is silent and still except for Sandra and the pending explosion on her face.
Shit.
“Richland, do you mind if I borrow your assistant?”
Richland nods his head. “Of course. We’re almost done here anyway.”
Traitor.
I shiver with fear as I follow Sandra out the door.
“Thanks, Monica,” Nancy calls as I’m slipping out the door behind Sandra.
I give Nancy a wave that I hope comes off as casual—even though I’m feeling anything but. In all my time at BelleCurve, I have never experienced the wrath of Sandra Spencer. I know she can be a lioness when she wants to be, but never did I expect that I would find myself the victim of her ire. Well, I guess I suspected it after she gave me that look earlier. But then I got distracted with Richland and completely forgot … which is precisely the problem.
Inside the executive suite, Sandra leads me to her corner office. With large windows, Tiffany blue walls, and simple but elegant décor, I’m struck by how true to Sandra this office is. Classy but kind. Rich but modest. Feminine but neutral. Smart but daring. She’s an impressive woman with a lot to show for it. The opposite of what I’ve become over the last few months.
I’ve only been in here a handful of times, mostly to drop off flowers from her husband because he still treats her like they just got married—eight years later. It’s sweet, and I’d love to be the kind of girl who snaps a photo and hashtags it #RelationshipGoals, but that’s not where my mind goes.
I’m not suspicious of all men, just the ones that try to get close to me. So, when I think of a man sending me flowers, I see red flags. I see exit signs and getaway cars. I don’t see grand gestures and proclamations of love that will last an eternity because our souls are entwined.
Sandra takes a seat behind her desk and gestures to the chair across from her.
Sitting slowly, I sink into the plush fabric, careful not to get too comfortable. I watch Sandra expectantly, wondering if now is a good time to start praying again. I wasn’t born into a religious family, but we attended a non-denominational church on occasion. At first, my parents wanted to instill values in Maggie and me. We were a perfect family, dressed in our Sunday best for years.
Until life got too busy and church became an inconvenience. A conversation piece at nice dinners. A way to keep up appearances. Because that’s what our family started to become near the end of my parent’s marriage. Not so much for my sister and me. We believed in the lie. It was my parents who could have won Oscars for their realistic displays of love and affection.
When my dad started going on week-long job hunts, I prayed for his safety. When week-long job hunts extended for a month at a time, I prayed that the next time he came home, he would stay. Two years later, when the last extended job hunt became permanent, I stopped praying. I stopped believing.
If prayer did anything for me then, it gave me peace in the moment. Filled me with hope and allowed me to take it one day at a time. Today, staring back at my stern boss, I might need a little bit of that hope.
Sandra leans back in her chair, hands interlocked in front of her as she taps her thumbs together. “Care to explain why my guests had to wait to be greeted this afternoon?”
Man, not even an icebreaker. Okay. There’s no way out of this. “I’m sorry, I was running errands during lunch and lost track of time—”
“Personal errands?”
“For production. Richland had a busy day…” She shakes her head from side to side without a word, and I swallow hard. “I don’t think they waited long.”
“They were ten minutes early. You were five minutes late. Try again.”
I bow my head. “I’m sorry.”
Sandra sighs. “Monica,” she says sternly, “nothing has changed here. When a client walks through that door, they should be greeted. It’s why you were hired. This has been happening a lot lately, and I’ve let it slide because everyone here loves you. But something needs to change.”
I widen my eyes, feeling a squeeze in my chest. Total panic sets in. Oh my God; she’s going to fire me. Time to start begging. “I promise, I won’t let it happen again.”
She tilts her head, eyes softening. “I wasn’t surprised to find you with Richland just now. And I know he’s grateful for your help, but that doesn’t mean you can abandon your post whenever you want. This isn’t the first time. You’ve become disengaged, and I’ve tried making sense of it. I’ve even tried waiting it out. Nothing seems to be working. There’s only one solution.”
Her eyes harden as she stares back at me, confirming my worst fears. “You have a responsibility here, and you failed. I’m afraid I need to let you go.”
Dread weighs me down like an anchor in a bottomless sea of my own making. I’ve never seen her be so fierce and cutthroat. After two and a half years. I’m out—and now what? That means no more Chloe, no Richland, no catering leftovers, no promo events. Suddenly, my stomach feels like a heavy bucket of slosh.
“No, Sandra,” I choke. “Please don’t let me go. I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry. It gets lonely when no one comes to the front, so I help Rich out. He’s so grateful for it. The amount of money I’ve saved this company on wardrobe, hair, and makeup should mean something.”
“It does.” She nods in agreement. “So you admit it; you don’t love your job anymore.”
I can’t argue with her, even if it is to save my job. “I’ve just been confused lately about what I want to do with the rest of my life. I love BelleCurve and everyone here, but I know I can be of value doing other things. But I’ll stop. Message received loud and clear. I can’t lose this job.”
“Well, that brings us to the next part of this meeting.”
There’s more? I gasp for air. For hope.
“Remind me: you’re how close to getting your degree?”
“I have my associate, but I took a break to decide what I want to focus on.” Why is she asking me this, and how does this have any relevance to my job? Or ex-job? Shit.
“And have you decided if you want to go back to school?”
I nod. “I want to. I just haven’t picked an area of concentration.” I sigh. “I thought working here would guide me a lot quicker than it has.”
Sandra tilts her head to study me. “Really, Monica? You have no clue what it is you want to pursue?”
I shrug. “Something creative, obviously. Video production, maybe, but I don’t necessarily want to do what Richland does. I’ve thought about going to beauty school, but I think what I love about BelleCurve is having the versatility to do it all.”
“Sounds like you have some big decisions to make.”
This ball in my throat intensifies. I can’t believe I’ve just been fired. “I-I guess.” Not that I can afford school if I lose my job without picking up a student loan I’ll be married to for the rest of my life. Ugh. It’s times like these I wish I could cry. I’ve only ever cried over one person—one heartbreak. It shattered me, and nothing else has felt significant enough to shed tears over since.
“Wh
at if I told you I’m willing to make you a deal?”
My entire mood shifts. “Really? I can keep my job?”
She shakes her head. “No, we’ve already been working on your replacement. She starts at the end of the month.”
My heart sinks in my chest. “Oh.” I blink as I process her words. “You’ve already been working on my replacement?”
Her face is so stony that I’m having trouble recognizing the woman who hired me on a whim. If I’m being honest, I got the job out of sheer luck. I walked in at the same moment the previous office manager told Sandra she was pregnant and quit on the spot, leaving her in an awful predicament during her busiest season. When I handed her my resume with only an associate degree and some volunteer hours at fashion events, she looked beyond it all and threw her arms around me, and that was the start of something special.
“Yes. But Monica, I’m willing to create a new position for you.”
I freeze.
“I hear Richland is looking for a full-time PA,” she continues.” Someone to assist him with shoots, create production schedules, and maybe do some budget forecasting and vendor negotiations.” She winks at me.
“Wh-what?”
“Sweetie, look. I don’t want to lose you. You’ve been here for almost three years, and until recently you’ve been an all-star employee. You’re extremely hardworking when you’re motivated. Everyone here loves you. I just think you’re ready for a change—and maybe a little nudge in the right direction.”
She eyes me closely. “We have a close relationship with the Art Institute of Seattle. There are tons of options for someone like you. I’d like to put you on a scholarship program. We’ll pay for fifty percent of your schooling if you can manage to put in thirty hours a week and keep your grades above a three point five GPA. We won’t be able to boost your salary, but I think the offer is more than fair. What do you say?”
I’m stunned. Not sure what to say, except— “Why would you do this for me?”
“I’m calling it an investment. I like you, Monica. So does Richland.” She reaches into her desk and pulls out a colorful pamphlet with the Art Institute logo printed on it. “Here,” she says as she hands it to me. Take some time to look this over. Visit the school. Think hard about your future. You’ll have to register by the end of March to get in for summer quarter. Do we have a deal?”
“Thank you. Yes! Oh my God, yes!” I want to get up and skip to the door, but I need to clarify something first. “So I didn’t get fired?” I wring my hands up in front of me, bracing myself. “I just want to be clear.”
She laughs. “You did. I fired you, and then I rehired you. Congratulations. We’ll just tell HR you were promoted. They wouldn’t appreciate the extra paperwork.”
A freaking promotion?
I beam back at her. “Thank you, Sandra.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll need you to train the new hire. Her name is Jessa Young. She’s a freshman. Single mom. Attending school online. She’s hungry for work and her passion is client services and organization, so at least I know she won’t abandon her job post anytime soon.”
I ignore her subtle insults. “I’ll be happy to train her.”
And it’s a done deal. We hug, because we’re both huggers, and then I head to my desk to start gathering my things. I’m more than ready for this transition. I’ll deal with the other massive task of choosing a degree program later. One step at a time.
“You got fired and hired on the same day? By Sandra?” Gavin’s entire body shakes with laughter. “That is classic.”
I give him a friendly shove, but he’s still too caught up in the humor of it all to notice.
It’s thirty minutes before game time, and the room is already buzzing with a fierce energy I can only attribute to football. It’s Super Bowl Sunday, and I’m afraid of what will happen if Seattle loses.
I probably shouldn’t say that out loud, considering I was almost kicked out when I showed up at Gavin’s Bonney Lake home wearing my pink sweats and not a single article of Seattle gear. I know there are some hardcore fans here, but damn. I’m not used to being booed by a houseful of drunk men.
Chloe, being the awesome friend that she is, rushed me away to change into one of the many jerseys Gavin bought her. I don’t even know why he bothers. Chloe has never been the biggest sports fan. She’s a good girlfriend, though, and she looks hot in a jersey. Apparently, I’m jumping on the bandwagon now too.
So yeah, I’m wearing a Zachary Ryan number four jersey. I’m cool with it. At least the guys won’t give me shit, and Chloe and I are twinsies for the day. Can’t complain about that. We’re both on the shorter side, curvy, and fit. Our physical differences mainly lie in our faces. I like to call Chloe a timeless beauty. With big, light blue eyes and the soft curves of her cheekbones, Chloe arrests you at first glance. And Gavin completely surrendered.
“It’s actually a promotion,” I shoot back at Gavin, hoping to finally shut him up.
“She even got an office,” Chloe brags. “And a scholarship to the Art Institute.”
Gavin jaw falls open. “You got a free ride?”
“Fifty percent,” I correct him.
“Damn, Monica. You know, that’s actually a smart move on Sandra’s part. She owns your ass now.”
I shrug. “Fine with me. And Richland’s thrilled. He’s been trying to get a PA for years.”
“Well, congrats.” Gavin grabs his sandwich from the coffee table and grins down at us, already over the conversation. “Game time!” he announces.” You two need drinks.”
Chloe tucks her feet under her butt and curls into me. “We’ll grab something in a bit.”
He leans down and kisses her. She pulls him in for more and I roll my eyes, lifting myself from the couch. That’s way too close for comfort, even for me. “That’s my cue. Time to break out the tequila.”
“Ooh! I’m coming!” Jazz calls from the other side of the room.
Jazz is Chloe’s best friend from junior high. She’s a brash one, but funny. We’ve bonded over our love for Chloe and our passion for snack foods. While she’s more of a chip lover, my cravings gravitate toward sweeter items. But food sisters all the same.
“Why can’t Gavin have any hot friends?” I pout as I reach for the knife and cutting board.
“Uh, Gavin has plenty of hot friends,” Jazz corrects me, and I know she’s talking about her new husband, Marco.
“I mean single ones, obviously.”
“What about Blaine?” Jazz perks up.
Chloe chooses that moment to walk in and gasps. “Oh my God. Blaine! Do you like him?”
“Wouldn’t they be cute together?”
I shake my head, but it’s too late. They’re yammering on, already planning the wedding.
“Hey!” I raise my voice to silence them. “Blaine’s not my type, okay?”
“Hot and single isn’t your type?” Jazz challenges.
Chloe wraps an arm around my shoulder and grins. “More like, relationship material isn’t her type.”
I booty-bump Chloe away and return to the cutting of the limes, something much more interesting than this conversation. “Shut it and grab the tequila.”
Jazz does the pouring and Chloe grabs the salt. “Now that we’re talking about it,” Jazz starts, “I’ve never seen you with a guy.”
“I haven’t dated anyone in a while.” I shrug, darting a sly look at Chloe, who blushes. Chloe’s fully aware of the casual fling I had with Gavin, and she’s cool with it—as far as I know. We don’t discuss it, ever … because then it would be weird.
“You went out with someone recently,” Chloe says, eyebrows raised. I know she’s trying to pivot the conversation away from Gavin. But just the thought of Zach brings a pout to my lips.
“Six months ago,” I remind her. “Anyway, it’s not a big deal. We don’t need to talk about my relationship status, thank you very much. I’m perfectly happy with tequi
la and cheese dip over here. They happen to make me very happy.” I bite into a chip and roll my eyes in mock ecstasy, making the girls laugh.
Chloe’s laughter is quickly replaced by a sympathetic look. She’s the only one who knows the details of my night with Zach, and she’s smart enough to put the topic to rest. All is much safer when we start talking about her California trip.
We toss back our shots, grab a bag of chips, and head to the living room. Everyone’s in animated discussion as they stand around the giant television. The game is about to start. Jazz jumps excitedly and joins Marco, who stands beside Justin and Phoebe, another couple Chloe and Gavin know from school.
I might be the only outsider here, but I don’t feel like one. Everyone treats me as if I graduated right along with them.
Chloe sticks next to me during the game. No matter how much she loves Gavin, she can’t seem to force herself to learn football enough to get excited about it. One would think since my dad played pro football, I should automatically be obsessed with the game too, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
My eyes flicker to the screen just as Zach’s face appears. The announcers go over his record-breaking season stats, but my senses only focus on the things I remember: his touch, his kiss, the electricity coursing through my body as he whispered in my ear. And now all I see is that damn ocean staring back at me, so deep and wide I could drown happily, never needing an ounce of air again.
My entire body becomes a current of energy as I remember that smile that felt as if it was reserved just for me. That unshaven jaw my fingers couldn’t stop touching as he kissed every inch of my neck. And those hands as they held me, strong enough to crush an opponent but gentle as they caressed my sensitive skin.
A shiver breaks out over all the places he once touched … until I remember the photo of Meredith cozied up to Zach and bury my face in my hands.
As I try to banish the image from my mind, I feel Chloe press her arm into mine. “You okay there, Mon?”
I give her the best smile I can muster. Every bit of my expression is filled with regret. “Yeah. Go Seattle!” I cheer with a sarcastic pump of my fist.
