Time of My Life Page 2

  This is why, as I pass through the employee area and make my way to the other side of the building, my heart races, my hands shake, and my throat closes up. The stark white hallway to the conference room is empty, but apparently my brain thinks it’s a life-or-death situation.

  I stand there, staring at the shut door and trying to regain control of my body. They’re in there.

  One more calming breath, which does nothing to slow my racing heart, and then I’m in.

  “Hello. Sorry I’m late.” My voice only shakes a little.

  “That’s fine, Jane. Please, have a seat.” Stacey offers me a smile that I think is supposed to be comforting, but my heart is still pounding and a trickle of sweat slips down my side.

  I really hope I don’t get pit stains in the middle of all this.

  Mother’s voice whispers in my head. Be strong. Don’t screw this up. Stewarts never give up and we never fail. The same things she would say every time I had to do anything important, from a school performance to taking the SATs to applying for college. Like any failure of mine, big or small, would somehow tarnish her success.

  The team leaders are waiting for me in a circle of white pillows on the floor. Not bed pillows, but specially designed seating pillows. A custom-made glass table sits in front of them, low to the ground.

  “We’re ready when you are,” Blade says. Blade has dark hair and beady eyes and is about twenty-five, my age. I’m pretty sure his real name is John.

  I shuffle over to the pillow situated across from them and set my briefcase on the floor, plopping myself down too quickly, which causes my pants to hit the taut fabric of the pillow at just the right angle to make . . . a fart sound. That’s the only way to describe it.

  The ensuing silence is an oppressive presence in the room, smothering me in a vise-like grip.

  My hot face gets hotter. I clear my throat.

  Stacey smiles encouragingly. She’s the nicest one on the team, in her late thirties, with short brown hair and black rimmed glasses.

  Sitting on Blade’s right, Drew is completely stone-faced. He’s bald and never smiles and I’m pretty sure he’s actually a cyborg.

  Finally, Blade motions with a hand. “Being the focus of attention is something you’ll have to get used to for the position you want. It’s best to get started.”

  “Right.” I pull the papers from my case with shaky fingers.

  It’s a pitch for a twenty-second video ad for a lifestyle app. The app combines social media with restaurant recommendations and food reviews. It notifies you if a friend is eating within a certain radius by sending an alert. You can also read friends’ notes and reviews on various establishments. I’ve never really understood the need to brag about what you’re eating. And alerting people to where you are? Doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. What if you don’t want to be found? I guess that doesn’t matter. What matters is this is my job, and a new client has spent a boatload to have the video air in the middle of other videos for some up-and-coming YouTubers who have bajillions of viewers. So basically, we can’t screw this up.

  “Here are details and a cost analysis. And my idea for the, uh, video.” I clear my throat again and shuffle my paperwork.

  They take the pages from my trembling fingers. I breathe in slow and deep, trying to calm my heart rate. I’ve practiced this pitch a thousand times. I can do this.

  “It, um, it opens with a restaurant at night.” My voice is pitched too high and too loud. I stop, clear my throat and try to speak at a normal volume. “There’s a, uh, glowing ambiance, you know, soft lighting, it’s very warm and aesthetically pleasing. The camera follows a waiter moving around the restaurant, bringing people plates. Eventually he stops on a large group of friends. They’re laughing, enjoying the meal, barely noticing he’s there. And then the ad line comes up on the screen, I’m thinking a happy, bouncy, font that’s also readable, and it says, ‘Enjoy more of life with Splice.’ ”

  Stacey puts down her paper and gives me an encouraging smile to continue. The others are silent. Drew is frowning down at the paperwork and Blade seems to be staring somewhere off to the side but slightly down, like he’s pretending to look at it.

  “It’s short, but effective. The concept cuts down the ad time, which will save the client money, while still getting the point across as to the purpose of the app, and it’s more likely to keep viewers engaged.”

  Drew and Blade share a glance and then Drew speaks. “It’s fine, Jane, but it’s not quite there.”

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

  “It lacks emotion. In fact, a lot of the ideas you’ve proposed in the past have this same flaw. I know you’ve been given this feedback before. The best ads give some kind of emotional impact, or nostalgia, something that makes people relate and feel.”

  “I lack emotion?” My voice rises. This can’t be true. Emotion is making my entire body hot and cold. It’s why there are invisible ants crawling all over my skin. My mind is frozen, trying to take in what he’s saying but not quite absorbing the words. If this isn’t emotion, what is?

  Stacey winces. “It’s not that you lack emotion, personally. It’s that your ads lack emotion.”

  Blade shuffles the papers in his hands, not meeting my eyes. “And you don’t have enough experience and it shows.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “I’ve worked here for four years,” I mumble. I’m here all the time. I always stay late. I’ve never even taken a sick day.

  Meanwhile half the office calls in on Mondays to nurse their hangovers. But I complete all their grunt work, filing, and reports, without complaint. And this is what I get in return?

  Stacey says, “You’re a hard worker, Jane, but you aren’t good at explaining your ideas. They don’t come across in a clear manner. This job doesn’t come as easily to you as some of your peers and that’s not necessarily your fault.”

  Drew sighs. “What we’re saying here, Jane, is that even with the extra time on the job, you’re not producing as much usable content. Not enough to run your own team, barely enough to make it as a student marketer.”

  Prickly heat coats my skin. “I’ll work harder.”

  “It’s not that, it’s just . . . you don’t fit,” Blade says.

  And there it is. Something I’ve heard over and over. You’d think it would be less of a shock after a while, but it’s not. I don’t fit in anywhere. Not here, not with any type of friends group, not at work, not even with my family.

  Drew taps his pen against the glass table. “The truth is, Jane, this pitch was one last shot to see if you had anything to offer this company. And you don’t.”

  “Is this—are you . . . firing me?”

  “Yes.” Blade is abrupt.

  Stacey shoots him a dirty look and leans toward me. “You shouldn’t think of this as a door shutting. It’s a whole bunch of new doors ready to open. You need to find your niche. And this isn’t it, Jane. You’re too shy.”

  Her words don’t quite register through the roar of blood in my ears.

  Fired.

  I’m being fired.

  Everything dims, blackness infiltrating the edges of my vision. The walls of the room press in on me.

  In a daze, I shut my briefcase and snap it closed. Then I grab up the papers scattered all over the table, pressing them to my chest since I don’t want to take the time to stop and open my briefcase again. Pages crumple in my hands as I heave myself to my feet.

  Somehow, I make it out of the room, the door swinging closed behind me with an unsatisfying whisper of a click.

  I don’t say anything. Not goodbye. Not so long. Not you’re welcome for the hard work, assholes.

  Standing in the all-white hallway, I focus on my breathing. I crouch on the ground and open my briefcase, shoving the papers inside with numb hands before standing again.

  I need to get out of here before I have a full-blown panic attack.

  My gaze lifts, down the hall, toward the bullpen, wh
ere the other employees are working.

  I can’t face them. What if everyone knows? What if they’ve all talked about this? What if they all voted and unanimously decided to kick the antisocial loser off the island?

  Hannah will be happy.

  I have to pack up my desk, but I need a minute to pull myself together.

  Moving fast, I walk past the main sitting area with my head down, not making eye contact, and let out a sigh of relief when I reach the corridor to the bathroom.

  But before I make it to a place where I can lose my shit in peace, Mark is there.

  “Hey, Jane. Come with me.” He grabs my hand, tugging me to the door opposite the bathroom. The storage room. Somewhere we’ve fooled around before.

  Once inside the tiny space crammed with supplies and glowing with the faint red light from an old printer, he shuts the door. Then his mouth presses hard against mine. He fumbles with the hem of my blouse, yanking it out of my pants to run insistent fingers over my stomach.

  I’m not in the mood, a maelstrom of shock and nerves and everything else running through the stomach he’s currently caressing, but I don’t make any move to stop him. Besides, maybe this will help me relax, to think about something other than the fact that the job I’ve been working toward for the last four years ended in the space of a heartbeat.

  He tugs my pants down and lifts me against the wall. I try to lose myself in the act. He’s a good kisser. He’s attractive. Blond hair, blue eyes, straight teeth. I’m lucky he shows any interest in me at all.

  Plain Jane. Shy Jane. Jane who just got fired.

  I shove the thoughts away, trying to focus on the physical sensations instead of the emotions roiling through me, but it doesn’t quite last long enough for me to enjoy anything.

  He groans and shudders and exhales a hot breath against my neck.

  Well. I’m glad he’s feeling better.

  Something sharp jabs me in the side, a nail or something sticking out of the wall at my back. Great. Now there’s a tear in my shirt.

  He drops my legs and turns away.

  I grab my slacks from the floor, sliding them back on.

  It’s always like this with Mark, quick, brutal, and fevered.

  At first, it all seemed so romantic. Like he’s starved and desperate for me. Like he wants me. He needs me. Me. I’m important. A heady feeling for someone who’s never been in demand for anything or anyone.

  But in this moment, insight wedges open a crack in my mind, bringing a light so piercing that what it illuminates has to be true: a thought I’ve been missing, or more likely, avoiding. This isn’t a rush of lust, must-have-you-or-die kind of frenzy. It’s a more frantic and panicked and I-have-to-escape-this-right-now kind of frenzy.

  “How was that for a stress reliever?” He tosses me a smirk over his shoulder, disposing of the condom in a trash can in the corner.

  It was about as stress relieving as a root canal. “Great. Except my pitch didn’t go so great. They . . .” I swallow. I can’t even say it.

  But he speaks before I can shove the rest of the words out, pulling up his skinny distressed jeans and turning to face me. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Hey, Presley’s your friend. You think she’ll go out with me?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “Presley.”

  Blood rushes from my head to my toes, making me lightheaded. This cannot be happening. Is he really asking me about another woman after we . . . after we just—?

  “You two are friends, right? You’re like the only one she really talks to.”

  “Um—”

  He steps closer, crowding me against the wall in the cramped space. “I know she’s only worked here for a few months, but she seems to like you, so I just thought you might have some inside intel.”

  I’m frozen. My mouth is full of cotton. Say something. “Oh. Yeah. I mean, Presley is great. I, um, I, uh, didn’t know we were seeing other people.”

  “Who? Me and you?” His brows lift in surprise.

  “I-I thought we were like, casually dating or something?” It’s not an irrational assumption, is it? Considering he was just inside me?

  He chuckles and rubs my arms. It’s not a soothing motion. It makes my skin crawl.

  What am I doing? Have I really spent the last two months sleeping with him just because I have no other options?

  “Casual being the operative word there, sweetheart.”

  His smile is light, bemused. Like I’m a cute little bunny who’s being silly.

  When I don’t smile back, his lips droop. “Wait. You aren’t upset, right? We never said we were exclusive or anything. I mean, hell, Jane, we haven’t even hung out outside work.”

  “No. No. You-you’re right. It’s-it’s fine.” The stammer gives me away. It always does.

  And it’s not fine. My cheeks burn. Shame squirms under my skin. Why did I fall for his flirting and compliments and secret grins? I’m an idiot.

  “Good. I want us to be friends and I was thinking about asking Presley out. You’d be cool with that, right?”

  Swallowing past my tongue, which has suddenly swollen in my mouth, I manage to eke out an answer. “Yeah. That’s fine. Totally . . . fine. I have to—”

  I have to get out of here.

  I flee the room like it’s on fire, stalking across the hall to the bathroom, my vision crowding with black spots. Once in a stall, I sit and breathe. I have to force the air in and out slowly, counting, counting, counting until my heart evens out.

  It’s not like I’m in love with Mark or anything, I just thought . . . My jaw clenches. I saw what I wanted to see. I was so eager for someone to see me that I would have taken anyone that showed the slightest bit of interest.

  Bright side. There has to be a bright side.

  I’m still alive. I paid my rent for this month, so I have a few weeks until I have to worry about being homeless. And I guess I won’t have to worry about things being strained around Mark since I no longer have a job here.

  A wet giggle bursts out of me, an abrupt and braying noise, echoing in the tiled bathroom.

  A toilet flushes.

  Aaand, of course, I’m not alone in here.

  Why me?

  A few minutes later, I’m standing at my desk, eyes tracing over the contents scattered across the surface: sticky notes, highlighters, the pens lined up neatly next to where I normally set my laptop.

  I guess I came over to pack up my desk, but why? Nothing here is mine. I have no photos, no plants, no personal items. It all belongs to them.

  “How did it go?” Presley stops at the corner of my desk.

  “Fine.” An automatic response to everything in my life. It’s all fine. Even when it’s decidedly not fine. Just smile and keep going. That’s what I do.

  “You don’t look fine.”

  My head doesn’t quite shake. It tilts. “Yeah. I’m not.”

  “Oh no. Do you want to talk about it? We could take an early lunch.”

  Early lunch? I don’t have a lunch hour, not anymore. All day will be my lunch. I swallow down some strangled, hysterical laugh threatening to emerge like a drunk hyena.

  “No. I’ve got to go.” I lift my gaze.

  She’s always been kind to me. She’s never made snide comments when I stumble over my words or spout random things irrelevant to the current topic when my mind bounces away from me, and she’s offered to go to lunch at least once a week since she started.

  And now Mark wants to add her to his list of office hookups. And I can’t hate her. I’m not sure I actually care if Mark wants her, but I worry a little for her sake.

  “Thank you, Presley. For everything.”

  She shrugs. “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” There’s no point in telling her I’m not coming back. It’s not like anyone here, even Presley, would notice or care for more than a blip before moving on with their lives.

  Chapter Three

  Outside, it’s a dreary and grim foggy
morning in San Francisco.

  Karl. That’s what locals call the incessant fog that rolls in, especially prevalent in the June months. Karl even has his own Instagram account. I squint up into the gray haze.

  It’s perfect.

  I’m halfway down the block, fingering the tear in the side of my nicest blouse, wondering how I’m going to explain to my parents that I got fired, when footsteps slap the pavement behind me.

  “Hey, Jane. You okay?”

  I stop and turn around in the middle of the sidewalk, letting Alex catch up to me.

  This is a horrible time to have to talk like a normal person to my biggest male fantasy brought to life. This day is like every awful thing I thought would ever happen to me coming true. I always tried to tell myself it was the anxiety talking, but this time the anxiety was right.

  I’m doomed.

  “My shirt ripped,” I tell him. I’ve reverted to a toddler who’s got an owie and can only focus on one thing.

  He regards me, head tilted, eyes concerned.

  Now I’ll have to wear the blue shirt to job interviews, but it’s a little on the tight side and the button right in front of my boobs always pops open. I guess that’s one way to get a job. If I can even get another job. I guess I could apply to other marketing firms but it will mean starting all over again. How to explain my sudden departure from Blue Wave? I doubt they’ll give me a nice reference. On top of that, I’m terrible at interviews. I was lucky to get my job at Blue Wave.

  Lucky. Ha.

  “I might have a safety pin in the truck.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Just wait here a sec?”

  I nod. I have nowhere else to be.

  The air is heavy with moisture. I forgot to grab a jacket. My hand clenches on the handle of my briefcase. Random people pass me on the sidewalk. A couple holding hands. A man jogging. A group of teenagers laughing. Are they laughing at me? Probably. I’m standing on the sidewalk alone, out of it, clothing ripped. I can’t even imagine what I might look like right now.