by Cat Carmine
I consider her question. I hadn’t thought about it — he had always promised me I wouldn’t lose my job over this, but we had both neglected to factor Charlene into the equation. Obviously he could easily go above her head and give me my job back — or even if not that one, maybe there was somewhere else in the company he could put me. Charlene had threatened HR action, but Trent had to be above that, didn’t he?
I start to feel almost hopeful. Of course, this means having to actually suck it up and ask the man for my job back — and ignoring what I’d seen last night at the launch party.
I glance over at Ally. Even though she hasn’t said anything, I can see the way her forehead is already starting to crease with worry. She’s had so many obstacles already — I have to make sure my naivety isn’t one of them.
41
Trent
I look at my phone for the seven hundredth time in the last hour. Still no reply from Hannah.
I had called her a dozen times since last night, and messaged her a couple of times as well. I’d even thought about going over to her apartment, but I figured I would give her a chance to get her thoughts together. She would eventually understand that that kiss — if you could even call it that — had meant nothing. Less than nothing.
She has to.
I can’t even fathom the idea that Lara might come between us this way. It’s just wrong on so many levels. I won’t let it happen.
I glance one more time at my phone. Still nothing.
With a sigh, I decide to start going through my actual emails. I’ve only looked at Lovemail all morning. I haven’t even looked at the coverage from last night’s launch.
Then again, I haven’t exactly minded avoiding that. Part of me is dreading reading the reviews. I’m sure there will be at least a couple panning the new collection — Lara will surely be one of them, especially after I’d laid into her last night after Hannah had run off.
I throw my phone down on the desk and open up my work laptop. The first thing I notice is that I have an inordinate number of new emails. I mean, I always get a lot of email, and I know I’ve been avoiding it for almost twelve hours now but still — this seems excessive.
I quickly scan through them — tons of Google Alerts, which I was expecting after last night. But tons of emails from names I recognize — reporters I’ve dealt with, suppliers we deal with, even a shit ton of email from people within the company. A bunch from our HR head, from our legal counsel, from accounting.
I start clicking through the personal emails first. My stomach starts to sink as I read them — everyone keeps talking about a story, asking if it’s true, if I have any comment.
I switch from the personal emails to the Google Alerts, but there’s so much noise that I can’t find what I’m looking for.
Finally I just hop over to Google, type in Loft & Barn, and hit enter.
There it is, right at the top, in the news section.
“Loft & Barn Going Under?”
I start skimming the article.
“Last night, national home decor powerhouse Loft & Barn debuted their new fall collection and it would be a kindness to call the reception lukewarm. Designer and head creative Luke Whittaker’s usual stylistic flare is nowhere to be seen in the new collection. Instead, the pieces represent the worst of modern consumerism. They are cheap, uninspired, and lacking even the basic Swedish chic of Ikea products. To say they would be at home in a strip mall law office is to do a disservice to strip mall lawyers everywhere.
Inside sources say the company’s new direction is entirely the work of CEO Trent Whittaker, who has been pushing Loft & Barn to compete with mass producers and major market players like Wayfair and the aforementioned Ikea. But what this Whittaker brother has overlooked is the skill brought to the table by brother Luke. Where the company could have gone high-end, commanding higher prices and more prestige, if not a greater market share, the CEO has instead taken the company towards nose-diving prices and knock-off quality products.
Paired with the company’s recent decision to scale back retail operations, these moves signal a company desperate to avoid bankruptcy. Indeed, these same inside sources indicate that the company is also contemplating other expense-reduction measures, including potential lay-offs…”
It goes on like that, but my eyes cross and refuse to read anymore.
How in the fuck did they know all this? I had expected some critics to pan the collection — I knew it wasn’t great work but there were people out there who would like it. But to accuse me of forcing Luke’s hand … to mention the layoffs…
Someone had fed them this information. But nobody knew this much about our inner workings except me and Luke.
And Hannah, I realize with a start.
It’s been so long since I confided in a woman about my business concerns, that I’d almost forgotten about the things I’d said to her in confidence.
And the things she overheard, I remember, thinking back to the day we went out to Luke’s. She had heard us arguing that day. Me telling Luke to scale the collection back to something we could pump out in less time and for less money.
I flip back to the article and scroll up, looking for the byline. Panic is racing through me. I silently pray that it isn’t Kevin Hartley. Anyone but Kevin Hartley.
But there it is, in black and white: Article by Kevin Hartley.
The guy Hannah had been talking to last night at the launch.
I don’t want to believe it. Hannah had always seemed so sweet — I had thought she’d be the last person to do something like this. When Lara had done it to me, I’d been hurt — but not entirely shocked. Lara had always been a schemer, willing to do whatever she had to, to get ahead. Hannah just wasn’t like that.
Or at least she hadn’t seemed that way.
I think of the expression on her face when she saw Lara kiss me though, the hurt and betrayal that had been written so plainly across her features.
Maybe she had seen this as a way to get back at me.
I had to talk to her.
I click open the Lovemail app one more time, but unsurprisingly, I don’t have a response from her.
I think about calling her, but I know she won’t pick up. I have to force her to talk to me.
I push my chair back from my desk and stand up. The woman works twelve floors down from me… she’s just going to have to face me in person.
When I get to the eighteenth floor, I stride through it with purpose — until I realize I have no idea where Hannah sits.
I stop in front of the desk of a blonde girl whose cubicle nameplate says Sloane McAdam.
“Do you know where Hannah Cole sits?”
“Mr. Whittaker …” she stammers, glancing nervously around her. She licks her lips. “She sits right over there but …”
I glance over at the empty desk Sloane is pointing to. There’s no one sitting there, but I can tell right away that it’s Hannah’s desk — the yellow coffee mug with a ceramic bird on the handle, the collection of purple pens, even a picture of her and Ally pinned to the grey fabric of the cubicle wall.
“But what?” I snap.
“She isn’t here.”
“Where is she? Sick?” I feel my nerves start to jangle again. Is she really sick? Or just faking sick because she doesn’t want to admit what she’s done?
“Um…” Sloane is still looking around wildly. “Maybe you should talk to our boss. Charlene. She sits over there.”
“Fine.” I snap. I’m obviously getting nowhere with this girl. I walk past Hannah’s empty desk and over to Charlene’s office. Her face lights up when she sees me but it quickly flattens when she sees the expression on my face.
“Mr. Whittaker! What a pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“Hannah Cole.”
“Oh. Yes.” She smooths down her bleached blonde hair. She looks as if she’s steeling herself for something. Finally she takes a deep breath.
“Ms. Cole is no longer employed in this departm
ent. Regardless of her relationship with you, she has proven herself disloyal to this team. I can’t work with an employee I can’t trust, Mr. Whittaker. I hope you’ll honor my decision to dismiss her.”
Disloyal to the team… something turns and cracks inside of me. Maybe I had misread Hannah. Maybe she was more scheming than I’d given her credit for. I knew she and Charlene had butted heads before, but I only had Hannah’s side of the story.
And the hard truth was that someone had given Kevin Hartley that information. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Luke. Which only left Hannah.
“Thank you, Charlene.” I twist my tie once. “I will respect your decision. Have a good day.”
I leave the office. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I make my way back to the elevator. I hesitate just for a second at Hannah’s desk and then reach out and grab one of her purple pens, stuffing it in my jacket pocket. I look up and see Sloane staring at me, her blue eyes wide. I glare at her and she hastily turns back to her computer.
I make my way back to my office and slam the door, throwing the stupid purple pen down on my desk.
So this is how it ends … betrayed again, played as a fool.
I feel the edges of my heart, the ones that had just started to soften, harden once more.
42
Hannah
It takes me approximately fifty-two years to figure out what to wear to meet with Trent. It has to be professional, because I want him to take me seriously, but sexy enough that he’ll be a little more receptive. But not too sexy. Just a little sexy. Professional and sexy and cute and modest.
I go through my entire closet and decide this mythical perfect outfit simply doesn’t exist. I fling everything on the bed in disgust. Ally shows up at my bedroom door just as I get to the very back of the closet, to the things I haven’t touched in years. I pull out an old Halloween costume, a figure skating outfit I’d worn a few years ago. I hold it up in front of me.
“Professional and sexy?”
Ally shakes her head, fighting back a grin. “Too many feathers.”
“You’re probably right.” I toss it on the bed with the rest of my discarded choices.
Ally comes over to the bed and starts pawing the rejects.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, not looking up at me.
I hesitate, but then shrug. “Yeah. Very.” No point in lying to my sister.
We had decided that I would have to go to Trent. Ask for my job back, or at least a job. At this point I would take anything — give me a job in the mail room or something — as long as it gave me a paycheck while I searched for another job.
After everything that happened, I knew that one way or another I had to leave Loft & Barn — I just couldn’t afford to do it so abruptly.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope we could work out the rest of it too. I had read Trent’s Lovemail message a hundred times — his insistence that Lara had kissed him, that he’d been trying to push her away when I saw them. I want to believe him — I want it with all my heart. And I have this idea that if I just see him in person, maybe I’ll be able to get a better read on the situation.
Which is why I need the perfect outfit, one that’s professional but sexy but not too much or too little of either.
“What about this?” Ally asks, holding up a royal blue pencil skirt. I’d bought it on a whim one day but had never actually felt brave enough to wear it.
I take it from her and hold it against my hips. “This could work. What shirt?”
“Hmmm.” Ally keeps rummaging through the clothes that are heaped on the bed. She extracts something white and gauzy.
“How about this?”
“Brilliant.” It’s a white collared shirt (professional) but made of a sheer fabric (sexy.) I’ll wear it with a camisole (professional) with a plunging neckline (sexy.)
“You’re good at this,” I tell my sister, taking the blouse from her and holding it up with the skirt. I admire the effect in the mirror and yes, it’s perfect.
“Ha. Well, when you’re in this thing,” Ally says, smacking the chair with the heel of her hand, “You end up staring at people’s clothes a lot. Now, have you figured out what you’re going to say?”
I take a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’m hoping the words just come to me when I see him.”
“Just don’t go all loopy when you see him,” Ally warns. Her green eyes flash.
“Me? Loopy?” I bat my eyes at her and she cracks a smile.
“Come on, Hannah. This is serious.”
“I know it is.” Her words bring me crashing back down. I’ve been throwing all my worries into picking out the perfect outfit — mostly because if I let myself think about what I’m doing, I’m going to be a wreck.
The truth is, I’m scared to see him again. I’m scared that I won’t be able to believe him about Lara. I’m scared that I’m going to have to grovel for my job back. I’m scared that he won’t give it to me.
I have to try though.
And even though I’m terrified, a part of me can’t wait to see him. I had managed to get very attached to him over the past few weeks — months, if you count the time I knew him as Mister Bigshot — and the truth is, I just miss him. I miss his smile, the way he makes me laugh. And yes, the way he kisses me, the way he can make my toes curl, make me scream his name. I’ve never had that in my life before, and now I’m afraid it’s slipping out of my grasp.
I take the train down to the office. When I get there, I hesitate, hovering just outside the big glass doors. I look through them for a minute, worrying I’ll run into someone I know — Charlene or someone else from our team. Worrying that I’ll see him.
But the lobby is almost deserted and eventually I force myself to go in. The security guards merely wave me in when they see me — I guess no one told them that I got sacked.
I ride the elevator up to the thirtieth floor, and the entire ride it feels as if I’ve left my stomach in the lobby. I just get tenser and tenser as the elevator climbs. By the time the doors ping open on the thirtieth floor, I’ve pretty much decided to hit the ground floor button and go right back downstairs and out the door.
The only thing that stops me is that when I get to the thirtieth floor, there’s a crowd of people waiting to get on the elevator. They step aside to let me off and stare at me expectantly and I find my feet moving automatically, walking me right down the hall. My feet are clearly more confident than I am.
As I make my way towards Trent’s office, my heart thuds in my chest the entire time. When I get there I find Lottie sitting at her desk, typing away at a furious pace. She looks up when she sees me, although her fingers keep moving.
“Hello Hannah,” she says. Her tone is cool and my nerves get worse. Maybe this is a bad idea.
“Is Trent in?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, but it’s hesitant. “I don’t suppose you have an appointment?”
I’ve never needed an appointment to see him before, but I don’t say that. I just shake my head. “I was hoping he’d just have a few minutes?”
“One moment, please.”
Lottie picks up the phone and speaks so quietly into it that I can barely hear what she’s saying, even though I’m standing less than six feet away from her.
Finally, she sets the phone back in its cradle. “He’ll see you.”
“Thank you.” I breathe the words out in a sigh of relief. For a second there, I’d been genuinely afraid. He hadn’t called or messaged since yesterday morning, and I was worried that I’d made a mistake in not getting back to him earlier.
I walk through the first door and then down the hall towards his office. The door is closed and I knock lightly.
There’s no response and I’m just about to knock again when I hear a gruff, “Come in.”
I pull the door open slowly. He’s sitting behind his desk and right away, I’m hit with a wave of feelings. Worry, fear, lust, affection — you name it, it’s coursing through my chest right now.
>
The expression on his face looks just as complicated. His eyes narrow at me and I can’t read what’s written there.
“Hi,” I say softly. Tentatively. I step into his office and cross the floor towards his desk. He doesn’t get up or say anything at all so I slip into the guest chair across from him. This already isn’t going how I expected and now I swallow down a lump of anxiety that’s gathered in my throat.
“I got fired,” I blurt out.
Trent steeples his hands together, his eyes narrowing even further. “I heard.”
“You did?”
Somehow that surprises me. I would have thought I would have heard something from him if he already knew. Was he really just going to let Charlene fire me? For going out with him?
“I hear everything, Hannah. You should know that by now. I’m the CEO of this company and nothing here happens without my knowledge. I wish that was a lesson you could have learned earlier.”
His mouth is thin, but his voice is thick with barely suppressed rage.
It stuns me for a second.
“What are you talking about?” My mind is racing.
He shakes his head. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I honestly don’t, Trent. I came here to ask you for my job back.” The words feel even more humiliating now. He’s looking at me like I’m worse than the mud on the bottom of his shoe.
“What is going on?” I finally ask. I bite back the tears that threaten to fall.
“Kevin Hartley,” he says.
“Huh? Who?”
“From the launch. The journalist I saw you talking to.”
“What about him? I told you he just asked about my dress.”
“And you didn’t speak to him after that? Maybe after you thought you saw me kissing Lara?”
My mind is racing now. What in the world is he talking about? “No. I left the party right away, after … that happened.”
