I visibly brighten up, intrigued. Molly seems relieved at the sight of it.
“Here’s the deal,” she says. “You know how your boss has been griping for months that accruals belong with Accounting?”
“Accruals do belong with Accounting,” I echo.
She fights an eye roll, clearly unimpressed with our interdepartmental warfare. “He got it approved through Change Management, which means you’ll have some free time to work with Bite the Hand.”
“Really?” I ask, in pure disbelief at my sudden change in luck. No more accruals and an opportunity to work for BTH?
“It’s not a new job or anything,” Molly jumps to add, and my bubble pops just a little. What she’s really saying is it’s not a raise or anything. “But Little Cooper is committed to servicing you in the best way that also services the company.”
I do my best to ignore the way she refers to LC as a sentient being. It’s weird.
Molly pauses. Leans forward. “And, Casey,” she murmurs, “don’t forget about your long-term goals we discussed in your last performance review.”
Molly, girl, I could never.
“If you help get this vertical ready to launch, you’ll be on track for that London transfer you’ve been considering.” Molly chuckles and reclines. “It’s a competitive office, but with that level of success under your belt, the transfer is all but guaranteed. You’d probably have your pick from a handful of jobs over there.”
My fingers unclasp, nail tips pressing into the wooden tabletop as my mind starts spinning. “The London office?” I might as well have said Narnia or Neverland for all the childlike wonder my voice betrays.
After all, it’s not like I’ve ever visited London in person—even though it’s where my mother was raised. To me, the whole concept of “abroad” is just a fairy tale. But I told Molly I was interested in a transfer because at twenty-four, I’m the same age now my mom was when she moved to the United States. And so the whole plan just seemed kind of … fated, or whatever.
Molly nods. “As early as next summer.”
My teeth pinch at my bottom lip while I process this information.
Yesterday, I would have jumped at this opportunity. And if I’m honest, I want a London transfer even more than I wanted that project manager job. But I’m scared wishing for London will turn out just like this did. What if, when it comes down to it, I’m told again I’m not good enough? That the beginning and end of my worth is only that I’m a girl who’s good with numbers?
But … the London office probably needs people like me, too. So maybe I can just … be who I am.
In London.
The more I think about it, the more I realize this whole situation is kind of perfect. Because this—moving there—would mean something to her, too. My mother. She would’ve been proud of this, I think.
“Okay,” I tell Molly, a fever of excitement already brewing like the first drips of coffee inside me. Little Cooper may have given the project manager position to someone else, but at least they’re making room for me, too.
I make myself a promise as Molly goes over the particulars. Visionary Wunderkind and all their entrepreneurial experience be damned. I’m the one who’s going to make this vertical shine like the fucking sun.
CHAPTER THREE
On the way to my cubicle, the vibration of my phone, buried deep inside my black Michael Kors tote （another sample sale find; one handle strap was cut clean through, but I superglued it back together）， announces a text. As I walk into the Hive—my affectionate nickname for the cubicles sitting outside our chief financial officer’s glass office—I’m thankful no one up here besides my own boss knows I interviewed for something else.
Fari, my work counterpart, looks up from her desktop as I stroll past. “Morning, Case.”
“Morning,” I reply as I settle into my swivel chair.
Fari is two years younger than me, Black, a three-months-ago Stanford grad, and originally from Seattle. We have the same job title, but since I’ve been with LC for two years longer, our boss likes to call me her mentor.
I’m pretty sure Fari hated me at first, which tracks, because my best friends have told me I don’t make great first impressions. In Fari’s defense, on her first day of work, I grilled her in what I can now see is a bizarre way about Washington’s native horticulture. It’s just that I’d never met anyone from Seattle before, and I’ve got this book from my stepdad where you try to collect a native flower from all fifty states and press them onto a page. Fari semireluctantly brought me a snowberry flower when she came back to New York after her mom’s birthday weekend, and I did all her accruals that month.
Two months later, we’re sort of friends now. She came around to the fact that I’m just really into plants.
“Guess what?” I say.
“What?”
I throw her a grin. “Molly and Don got accruals pushed to Accounting.”
Her mouth drops into a perfect O. “I almost feel bad for them,” she mutters.
“Almost,” I repeat.
“We paid our dues.” She nods to herself. “It’s their rightful turn to wrestle with accruals.”
My tote bag lands on my desk with a thunk, and when I pull out my phone, there’s a text from my roommate, Miriam. She threw Brijesh in the chat, too.
How’d it go?
I blow out a dramatic breath. Of course Brijesh already texted her that I was hearing back about the job this morning.
I made the B-team, I type back. They gave the job to someone else, but I get to do finance stuff for BTH. Consolation prize.
Miriam’s response comes through right away: dang, sorry. Better than the bench tho, right?
I tilt my head from side to side in consideration. Right, I send back.
We could just kill whoever got the job, Brijesh sends.
A laugh slips out of me, but I cover it with a cough. Fari gives me a weird look, but I brush off the question in her eyes and take a sip of my stale Diet Coke from yesterday.
My cubicle is a wreck, but what else is new? I keep myself together just fine—clean hair, fresh clothes, charged phone, enough sleep to get me through the day—but the caveat is everything around me remains in a constant state of chaos. Pink sticky notes litter my whiteboard. The trash can, which gets scooped only once a week （on Wednesdays） by the Facilities department, is already overflowing with take-out containers. Highlighters, notebooks, report printouts, and cups of various beverages blanket my desk—including a half-dredged coffee mug that says BITCH I MIGHT!
On the corkboard between our desks, Fari and I have erected a physical meme wall. Be strong, I whispered to my Wi-Fi signal is superimposed over the Wi-Fi logo with one bar. On a workplace translation guide: Per my last email = Can’t you fucking read? There’s even a picture of our CFO Tracy Garcia with a thought bubble coming out of her head: I dream of EBITDA <3. （Earnings Before Interest, Taxes, Depreciation, and Amortization. Duh.）
My gaze catches on the dusty, framed photo of me and Dad, shoved behind my double-monitor setup. In it, we’re lounging in beach chairs on the coast of the Florida Panhandle.
God, I really need to call him back.