by Roxy Reid
I knock on Wade’s door, not really worried. Wade was always the mellowest of my brother’s friends.
Then I knock harder. And harder.
When he doesn’t say anything, I open the door to see Wade frowning at his computer, headphones on, fingers flying.
“Wade.”
He ignores me.
“Wade.”
A slight wrinkle in his forehead, but he doesn’t look up.
“WADE.”
He finally looks up, exasperated. “Stella. I think you misunderstood. You’re supposed to keep people from interrupting me. Not interrupt me yourself.”
“No, I’m supposed to help you do your job effectively. You’re late for your meeting.”
He goes back to his computer. “They’ll wait for me.”
“They shouldn’t have to.”
“It will give them something to bond over. They’ll be fine.”
“These aren’t entry level people! This is your leadership team! They’re probably good, if you hired them. Which means there’s probably other companies who want them. Companies whose leaders will show up on time.”
The look he gives me is downright cutting. “Stella, I appreciate your investment in this job. But you are not my manager. You are my secretary. And this isn’t a sleepover at your brother’s where you’re telling us the food will get cold. I’m willing to overlook this because it’s your first day, and you need this job.”
“But—”
“Shut the door on your way out.” And then he goes back to typing. Dismissing me.
He reminds me of every asshole lead guitarist I’ve ever known.
If he was a guitarist, I know what I’d do. I’d pull the plug on his amp. I’ve done it before. But Wade’s not a guitarist, he’s my boss, and maybe this is just what life in an office is like. Maybe this is what I have to put up with now that I’ve left the rock circuit.
My eyes fall on the cord running from his computer to the outlet under the window.
The part of me that wants to keep this job, turn over a new leaf, and prove my parents wrong says don’t do it.
But part of turning over a new leaf is finally being treated with some goddamn respect. And if Wade is this much of an ass now, I’m not going to last long anyway.
I walk over to the window.
“What are you—”
I reach down and grab the cord.
“No! Don’t you dare!” Wade bolts out of his chair and darts around his desk to me. “Do you know how many hours of work that could erase?”
“Well, they do say to save your work,” I say sweetly, and he lunges for the cord. “Oh look at that, you came to a stopping place! The conference room is down the hall and to your right.”
“Stella …”
I run my fingers up and down the cord. “Do you really want to play this game? Your concentration’s already been interrupted. Might as well go to that meeting. Because for some reason, there are people working in this building who still respect you. But I guess they’re not the secretary.”
Wade scowls at me, but I don’t back down.
I’ve lived through scarier things than a grown man throwing a temper tantrum.
We glare at each other.
“Fine,” Wade bites out. He goes back to his computer, hits something (probably save), and strides out of the room.
I follow, giving him a wide berth, but I still get there in time to see people looking up from their screens and notepads in stunned silence as Wade walks into the room.
I discreetly take my seat along the wall and flip to a fresh page in my notepad, ready to take notes.
Beverly gives me a small nod, like she’s impressed. Other people are giving me looks that range from wonder to it was nice knowing you.
But Wade doesn’t do the lead guitarist sulk I was expecting. Instead, he pulls himself together, and when he starts the meeting his expression is calm, interested, and happy to be there.
As he seamlessly jumps in, it’s clear that he’s good at what he does. The whole team comes alive, shifting from complaints to solutions. I can almost see why they’re willing to sit around and wait for him.
Almost.
Good thing he has me.
I look down at my notebook and smile. Maybe I can stick with Wade St. George after all.
3
Wade
By the end of the meeting I’m ready to pull my hair out. On the bright side, I have completely forgotten Stella is cute. It’s been entirely eclipsed by her ability to disrupt a meeting. She’s sitting against the back wall, not saying anything, so theoretically she should be unobtrusive. But everything I say is followed by a judgmental head tilt. A wrinkled nose. A skeptical “hmmm.”
Other people get enthusiastic nods, or supportive “mmhmm”s from Stella, but not me.
It’s possible, possible, that Stella had a point and I should schedule my time better, so I’m not coding when I should be attending meetings. But that doesn’t give her the right to veto everything that comes out of my mouth.
It’s my fucking company. And it’s her first day.
I’m so rattled, I bring the meeting to an end ten minutes early.
And regret it instantly, because Stella politely raises her hand and suggests that now might be a good time for anyone who’s waiting for an answer from me on a project to bring it up, since I’ve got ten minutes free.
All of my employees think that’s a great idea.
By the end of the meeting, I vow to never, ever, EVER hire someone I know again. If their resume can’t make it to the top of the pile on its own merit, they don’t belong in my conference room.
I have no idea how to solve the problem of Stella Harrington. If she was a regular employee, I’d pull her aside and have a talk with her about the virtues of professional neutrality in meetings. I’d have H.R. talk to her, if that didn’t work. I’d give her a chance to fix the problem.
But if she was a regular employee, she wouldn’t have threatened to unplug my damn computer.
No, this isn’t going to work. Although it is helpful to know I’ll get better applicants if I rename the position. I’ll have to thank Stella for that.
After I figure out a graceful, professional, effective way to get her to leave.
But, you know, in a way that doesn’t damage my friendship with Duke.
After the meeting, I stop by Stella’s desk. “Hey, Stella. I think we should talk.”
She has the grace to blush, and look at the ceiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Do you have lunch plans? I’d like to talk about your professional future.”
“Oh.” She wilts, then straightens her spine and raises her chin. “If you want to fire me, you might as well do it here so I am spared your odious company during my lunch.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Pro tip: make sure you’re actually getting fired before you call your boss odious. Grab your purse.”
I turn and head out to my car.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled at a small restaurant with white tablecloths, good sweet tea, and a delicious fried chicken sandwich, although Stella went with the salad for unknown reasons. A few older people in the corner give Stella’s pink hair a wide-eyed stare, but other than that, we have the place to ourselves.
“So,” I say. “What do you really want to do?”
Stella blinks, and gives me that razzle-dazzle smile again. “What do you mean? I’ve always wanted to work at a tech company.”
“Cut the crap. If you wanted to be in tech you would have moved out to California. Or held literally any other tech job, ever, in your whole life.”
She fiddles with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s ok not to love what you do,” she says. “Lots of people do a really good job at professions they don’t love.”
“Sure,” I agree, taking a bite of my sandwich. “But we drive each other up the wall.”
“You are firing me,” Stella says indignantly.
“No! No
, I’m not firing you. Jesus you’re paranoid.” I take a swig of my sweet tea. “I’m just thinking: I could help you figure out how to fit in at my company. You know, not threaten my computer, not undermine me at meetings, not conspire with my H.R. manager behind my back. Or I could help you figure out how to get where you actually want to be. I’m happy to do either. But I don’t think you’re the kind of woman who wants to break yourself to fit someone else’s mold.”
Stella snorts. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“Of course it is. Why would you want to be someone who’s willing to hurt yourself to fit somewhere you don’t want to be?”
Stella throws her napkin down on the table. “Damnit, St. George.”
“What?”
“Just when I decide I don’t care what you think, you go and say something like that.”
She cares what I think? I sit up a little straighter, unreasonably flattered.
Stella crosses her arms and studies me, like she’s making up her mind. Something about those sharp blue eyes and guarded mouth makes me want to lean across the table and say go ahead, take a chance.
But that’s not an option, so instead I say, “Come on. What do you really want to do?”
Stella avoids my eyes, picking at her salad. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”
Now it’s my turn to study her. “Stella Harrington. I think you’re lying.”
“I am not!”
I point one of my fries at her. “I think you know what you want to do. And I think you’re too chicken to say it.”
“I am not chicken!” she scoffs.
“Bawk, bawk, bawk, bawk.”
“What are you? Eight?”
“I’m not the one scared to say what I want to be when I grow up,” I say.
“Fine! I know what I want to do. I just don’t know how to get there.” She tosses her fork down and looks longingly at my fries. I slide them over to her.
“And what you want to do is …?” I trail off suggestively.
“I want to be a music teacher. For percussion. Everyone always cares about the guitar, piano, things that carry the melody. But a drum is a pulse. It’s the heartbeat. And the rhythms you use tell people if they should be relaxing, or swaying, or jumping up and down. It’s the thing that keeps everything else together. I love drumming, and I’m good at it. And I want to give other people the opportunity to have what it’s given me. Especially kids. So then they have that in their back pocket, when they have to face whatever life throws at them.”
Stella stops abruptly, like she’s said too much. She bites her lip, nervous. Then she jerks her chin up defiantly, like she expects me to contradict her, but she’s going to fight me anyway.
I hate that the world’s been shitty enough to her she assumes I’m going to be too. But I kind of love that her instinct is to stand her ground, and tell the world where it can put its limitations.
“That sounds like a good plan,” I say instead. “Much better than trying to care about your brother’s friend’s business.”
Stella relaxes and starts snacking on my fries. “You say that you like you own a random paperclip company. I saw your viral tech panel thing.”
I groan. Everyone saw that panel. Mostly because I tried to take my sweatshirt off around hour three of a long, intense panel discussion with the heads of various social media companies, in a room full of industry leaders and journalists.
Unfortunately, when I was trying to take my sweatshirt off, it caught on my shirt, and everyone at the conference plus everyone watching the live stream got an advertisement for my personal trainer. My abs were screenshotted. There was a slow-motion meme.
And suddenly the media was a lot less interested in my user metrics, and a lot more interested in my dating life.
“So what’s stopping you from teaching percussion?” I ask, trying to change the topic, and trying not to think about Stella Harrington looking at my abs.
“Most places either want you to be able to teach other instruments too, or they only want you for one class a week. And maybe eventually I could cobble enough work together that way, but in the meantime I need a full time job, and I don’t have any savings.”
“Hmm. Yeah. So that’s a challenge.”
“Well, there’s also the tiny, tiny detail, that I don’t have a teaching license. Or a degree in education. And all the people I’ve taught are various versions of wandering rock music types prone to substance abuse, so their recommendations are not exactly the glowing referrals I’m looking for.”
“Also a challenge,” I admit.
Stella laughs. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I shift uncomfortably, pretty sure she’s making fun of me. “Shut up.”
“No, I mean it. Everyone else I’ve said even half that to has told me to settle for a day job, and save up, and maybe one day I could go back to school and then once I’m certified, see what’s out there. But you just acknowledge it’s a challenge, and dive right in to the planning. This is why you’re so successful, isn’t it? It’s not just the tech genius thing. It’s the diving in, regardless of reason and good sense.”
“Why would it be good sense to pay a school money you can’t afford to give you experience, when you can get a job and have people pay you to get experience?” I ask, irritated.
She smiles, and it’s the good smile from before, the crooked one with the soft lips. “Well, when you put it like that …”
“First step is researching what places teach percussion in the area,” I say, working my way through the problem. “Probably set up an email news alert so you can keep up with the industry, and see when jobs are posted. Maybe do some informational interviews, so they get to know you and you can learn what they’re looking for.”
Stella’s staring at me, and I feel suddenly self-conscious. “What? Am I mansplaining?”
When did Stella Harrington gain the ability to make me feel self-conscious?
She shakes her head. “No. It’s just … are you only doing this because I’m Duke’s little sister?”
“What do you mean?”
Stella shrugs. “I get the feeling I could have said I wanted to be an astronaut, and you would have taken it in stride and started planning. Someone from accounting could say they wanted to switch to marketing, or vice versa, and you’d take a lunch hour to help them sketch out a career path.”
“Well, maybe not a whole lunch hour,” I admit, wondering where she’s going with this. It feels like a trap.
“You really think I can be a music teacher?” Stella blurts.
“Of course,” I say. “You think you can, and you have a better assessment of your abilities than I do. Are you done with my fries?” I ask.
Stella nods and slides me the plate, sniffling a little.
“Hey. What’s the matter?” I ask, alarmed. “Was it something I said?”
“Yes. You just,” she waves her hands, “assume I’m competent. Assume I know what I want. Assume that what I want is a good thing to want.”
“Hey.” I reach across the table and take her hand. Calloused from drumsticks, I now know.
Stella swallows, trying to steady her breathing. “No one’s done that with me for a long time. Not even Duke.”
I squeeze her hand. “I say this with love in my heart. Sometimes Duke is an idiot.”
Stella laughs, which is my signal to let go of her hand.
Still, I hold on just a second longer than I should before I make myself let go and check my watch. “We should get back to the office.” I signal our waiter.
Right before we’re about to walk back into work, I clear my throat. This is going to be awkward, but something she said is still bothering me. So I take a deep breath before I open the door for her.
“Stella. People should assume you’re competent, and smart enough to know what you want, and why you want it. If they don’t they’re dumbasses. And I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with dumbasses.”
&n
bsp; A smile blooms across her face, and for a moment it’s hard to look at anything else. “I promise I won’t unplug your computer, no matter how much of a lead-guitarist you’re being.”
I don’t entirely know what she means, but it seems like the Stella version of a truce.
4
Stella
I drop my purse on the floor of my empty apartment, and breathe a sigh of relief. I think I can actually do this. I think I can actually turn my life around.
When I left my apartment this morning—empty except my suitcase, one coffee mug, an old iron bed frame, and the mattress I used the last of my savings to buy—the stark bareness of it all felt like a reminder of everything I’d given up, and how far I had to climb.
Now, with a day of work under my belt, and Wade’s optimism running circles in my head, it feels more like a blank page. An empty stage. A place with room for possibility.
I throw my arms out and spin in a circle.
Even Wade is … well, not for me, obviously. Even if he wasn’t my new boss, the Wade St. Georges of the world don’t date women like me, unless it’s for the thrill of it. And I am done being someone’s thrill.
But still. The courtesy. And the way he listened like I was his equal. Well, okay, the way he listened like I was his equal after he aggressively ignored me and tried to scare me into leaving his office.
I used to demand people listen to me like that. But there’s only so many times people can ignore that demand before a part of you starts thinking maybe they’re right.
Having someone assume I’m worth listening to … it feeds something in me I didn’t know was starving.
Now all I have to do is figure out what the hell to wear until my next paycheck. There isn’t much crossover between a rocker’s wardrobe and a southern administrative assistant. Wade will be seeing a lot of this pencil skirt.
Luckily, I highly doubt he’s paying attention to my clothing.
I put my hands on my hips and survey the room. It may be empty, but it’s got tall, pre-war ceilings, hardwood floors, and clean white walls.
