She gives me a relaxed, sad smile. 揧ou抮e a hard worker and a positive employee. You haven抰 even been here long enough for me to give you any kind of real appraisal beyond that, I抦 afraid. These things happen.?
I feel my eyeball twitch.
Why, yes, these things do happen on a craptacular day when the entire universe spins on its bitch axis.
揑t really is a budget cut. Nothing personal and no reflection at all on your impressive skills,?she drones on. 揧our last paycheck will be direct-deposited next week. I抳e paid you for today, but once you抳e packed up, you抮e free to leave.?
Lovely.
揑sn抰 there like, um, another job here I could take? Maybe a position that pays less??
Pity flashes in her eyes. So that抯 a hard no.
揥ith the business plan to lower operational costs, most of our personal assistant roles are being handled in the Philippines. If you抎 like, I抎 certainly be happy to keep your resume on棓
Nope.
Done.
Let her file this.
I scurry up from my chair and walk out without looking back, feeling like I抳e been slapped across the face. Really, though, it抯 par for the course in Sabrina Bristol抯 career world.
My first job was with a start-up firm. They went belly up when a big, bad G rolled out its own revolutionary app update, rendering their company obsolete a couple weeks after I started.
After that, I took a temp-to-hire position. The pay sucked, and they never kept any of the temps, so that was another dead end.
Purry Furniture & More seemed like an ideal fit. I mean, witchy black cats aside, I love animals.
Once you get past the idea that the entire job was marketing pet furniture, it was a pretty sweet starting place. Crap pay, sure, but it was supposed to be good experience, an open door, one more step up the ladder, dammit.
Three freaking months. That抯 not experience.
That抯 a radar blip, just enough time for a boss to decide you抮e disposable when a penny-pinching knucklehead decides to right-size you right out of a job.
I don抰 say anything to the few people milling around, avoiding me like I抦 carrying the plague. I just go clear out my desk.
There isn抰 much to remove, honestly.
A lonely picture of Paige and me at the Navy Pier on New Year抯 Eve. Another photo with my parents from Christmas a couple years ago.
My last designs are scattered across my desk, a set of grinning cartoon cats raving about how Meow-some the company抯 latest cat beds are. I never had time to pitch them properly, and I hope Jack the Rat hasn抰 seen them.
Contrary to what my supervisor thinks, not everyone can purr-fectly picture cat and doggy heaven like I did in these mock-ups. So I抦 swiping them for my portfolio before they claim dibs on the rights.
I throw the framed photographs in my purse, and when I don抰 find anything to put the prints in, I swipe a hot-pink bedazzled folder off an intern抯 desk. I throw a couple of dollars down to make up for taking her folder. I don抰 leave a note. I doubt she even knows my name.
All of my high quality, professional work gets crammed into pink bedazzle.
Don抰 get me wrong, I like pink. But I always pictured myself with a sleek black leather briefcase, not walking around like some high school art kid.
Ten minutes after my unceremonious departure, I抦 back in the elevator that ate my heel as my phone vibrates.
A guy I talk to on Tinder, Brad B., messages to ask if I抎 like to meet up at two p.m.
So maybe things are looking up?
He抯 cute from his picture, at least. Seems hardworking, says he抯 on track to be a partner at his accounting firm. He抯 cute and funny, and his self-deprecating messages lead me to believe he might be the last normal single guy left in Chicago.
Sure, Sweeter Grind okay? I text back.
It抎 better be. I抣l die without good coffee and a pastry today.
You抮e on, Brad sends.
Cool. This fluttery hope sails through me. Maybe Paige is right.
Even though I lost my job and my heel, maybe, just maybe, things can still turn around.
At precisely one forty-five, I plant my butt in a booth chair at my favorite coffee shop and wait for him to arrive. I scour the web for graphic design jobs梟ada梐ll the while glancing toward the door for Brad.
At two fifteen, I message to see where he is.
No answer.
At ten till three, the jackass still hasn抰 shown up, and I抦 feeling like a massive sucker.
What kind of pretty graphics could I make by layering Brad B.抯 smirky Tinder pic over a donkey?
I cock my head and ponder. If nothing else, it might be a fun way to blow off some steam.
To hell with Casper the not-so-friendly date ghost.
I need my Sweeter Grind fix and I抳e waited long enough, so I head for the counter.
揥hat can I get you??a chipper redhead with a ponytail asks.
My stomach snarls, famished because I haven抰 had anything all day. 揂 medium cinnamon latte and a cream cheese bear claw, please. Oh, and one of those Heart抯 Edge truffles, too.?
揈xcellent choice! That抣l be nine dollars and nineteen cents,?she says.
I wince trying to subtract nine dollars and nineteen cents from the last fifty bucks I had in my bank account this morning. Math was never my best subject, and about an hour ago, I抎 really been hoping Brad B. would show up like a gentleman and insist on buying my snack.
揂re you okay??The cashier studies my face for a second.
I look past her, my eyes flitting up to the large black-and-white photos behind the counter. They抮e all scenes from some idyllic little mountain town, a smiling family, a huge man with a scarred, handsome face licking chocolate off a spoon.
揓ust admiring the d閏or. I抦 fine,?I say, already tasting a month抯 worth of ramen noodles. I finally stick my debit card in the stupid machine. I really shouldn抰 be spending money on this, but I need the sugar and caffeine rush to get through the day I抦 having.
A couple minutes later, she hands me a paper sack holding my treats plus a hot cup of coffee. I breathe in the cinnamon steam.
Sweet nirvana.
Since I抦 off work in the middle of the afternoon, I might as well enjoy it. I decide to take my coffee to the park across the street. There抯 plenty to mull over besides jerks who don抰 show up for dates. Like what I抦 going to do now that I抦 jobless, for one.
The scenic park always calms me down.
Even more so at this time of year with the trees casting off their summer greenery for the kaleidoscope reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of autumn.
I tighten my grip around the warm cup in my hand, bracing against the crisp Chicago breeze as I head across the street. My favorite bench is empty, thank God. I plop down there with so much force the cinnamon latte splashes out of the sippy hole in the lid.
Smooth. Now my new sweater dress is stained.
I hate that I wasted a sip of my drink, too. I need to savor the flavor. It抣l be my last cinnamon latte before I抦 a working gal again.
My half of the rent is a thousand bucks a month. No idea how I抦 going to make that, and it抯 the cheapest place we could find in a decent area.
Paige pays more since her room is larger梟ot by much. But Paige has rich parents and zero student loans which means she has luxuries like savings.
I have debt that compounds daily and will only blow up faster if I don抰 find another job, pronto.
It抯 not just my rent I have to cover, either. My parents depend on me, too, whether they know it or not （hint: they don抰）。
Ugh. It抯 going to be tricky bulk buying Mom抯 books this month with no income.