If all men could be more like Don, less like Robert and Dougie, I think our world would be a marginally better place.
A while later, Gus comes up to me and says, “By the way.” He’s got a number two pencil tucked behind one ear and ink on the collar of his shirt. “Alex told me about your idea. Holiday-triggered fast fashion? That was good stuff. If you have other ideas, about anything at all, don’t hesitate to email me. Seriously.” He stares at me, waiting for my affirmation. I think he’s trying to make it clear that even though he didn’t choose me for Alex’s job, it doesn’t mean he thinks I’m not valuable.
“Um.” I blink three times, thrown out of the moment as I recall that conversation on the subway with Alex last month. You’re doing it again. Acting like you’re not an inspiration for people. “Yeah, um, okay.”
“Cool,” Gus says, tossing his empty flute in the trash. “Sorry he’s not here, by the way. Think he had a family thing. His dad just got back from Australia.”
“Oh. That’s fine,” I say. But the floor slides out from under me, and I feel more unsteady than I have since I was young. My insides twist into a mangled, broken thing.
Alex knew what day I was leaving. He’s clearly made up his mind on what he wants to do.
Gus’s forehead scrunches. I can see the thought forming behind his eyes. He’s wondering why I look so upset all of a sudden. Drawing conclusions.
“You should look into featuring Revenant,” I blurt.
Gus cocks his head. “Revenant?”
“Yeah, it’s a clothing brand. The CEO is named Josephine Davis, and she’s, um, doing some pretty cool stuff with capsule wardrobes, and negative carbon footprints, and exposing greenwashing, and stuff.” My vomit-spiel ends in a wince.
“Okay,” Gus says. “Revenant? I will.”
He turns for the door, but his easy expression melts off his face at the glare Saanvi is shooting him. He shrinks under her stare. “I am going back to my desk right now to work on that thing I promised you—”
“Thursday, Gus. You promised it would be ready last Thursday.”
Gus winces and steps sideways toward the door. “To my office, right now, working on that write-up and that write-up alone. Swear!”
He scurries off. Saanvi crosses her arms, staring after him with a soft smirk on her face. “Creatives,” she says.
I shrug like, What can ya do?
Saanvi steps closer. “I got wind through Amanda, who got wind through Instagram, that you and your cohost spent the holidays together. Our account got tagged in a photo of you and Alex taking shots at some Nashville honky-tonk.”
The color drains from my cheeks, which makes Saanvi laugh. She observes me, tilting her head. “Tell me, Casey. Did I orchestrate that?”
“Partially.”
“Hmm. That’s cute. Inadvisable but cute.”
“It’s not…” I shake my head. “We’re not … together, anymore.”
Saanvi looks unconvinced, but with a quick glance around, she seems to realize Alex isn’t here. “Regardless. Your YouTube contract is terminated due to the fact that I say so.”
“Right,” I say. “Makes sense.”
* * *
After the party, I stop by Tracy’s office to clear the air. She’s pacing in Vince Camuto kitten heels, one hand pressing her phone to her ear and the other gesturing wildly. I watch her for a minute—the nonstop hustle—until she sees me outside her glass walls and mutters something, then hangs up the phone.
Now that my initial emotions have quelled, I’ve admitted to myself that Tracy wouldn’t have gotten where she is if she didn’t have a cutthroat side to her. She used me—but in the end, she owned it, and even though I can’t put her on a pedestal anymore, she’s more human to me than ever before. And I’m still rooting for her.
She opens the door and gives me a weary smile.
“What will you do next?” I ask softly.
Tracy pulls the door open wider, beckoning me inside. “I was just on the phone with Harold Cooper’s wife, begging her to call for a vote of no confidence in Mr. Dawson. Besides that? There’s not much I can do. I have no proof of anything, no evidence of wrongdoing or ill intent I’d be able to pin to Robert or Dougie’s sleeve.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, meaning it. Guilt slithers through my veins like a cold shot of espresso. “I just … can’t help you more than I already have.”
Her eyes turn pitying. “What did I tell you all those years ago about that unnecessary apologizing, Casey?” She steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what Alex did, what exactly you’re protecting him from. But I do know you tried your best to break a pattern of complicity. That’s something to be proud of.”
“I’m still keeping secrets,” I whisper.
“Because you love him.” She smiles softly.
“He’s with Robert now, today,” I tell her. “I think it’s too late.”
Tracy sighs. “Then it’s too late.”
To stop myself from crying, I redirect. “You didn’t seem at all surprised when Don said it should have been me that got Alex’s job. Did you know I applied for that?”
Tracy nods. “Of course I knew one of my own was looking around.”
I nod. “Did you put me up for the travel cost manager position?” I ask.
After a beat, she admits, “Of course I did.”
I nod again and breathe out, “Thank you,” accompanied by half a sob. “For pulling me up the ladder.”
* * *
“You know the CEO of CycleBar just got divorced?” Benny says. He picks up my pencil holder, upturns it, and shakes out a unicorn-shaped eraser he proceeds to glare at. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated on her whereabouts in proximity to our COO.”
“You better,” I say, dumping an entire drawer full of paperwork into the recycling bin.
“Casey,” Fari says, her tone stressed. “I really don’t know if I have room for all these plants—”
“Ohmigodfine.” Benny grabs the heartleaf philodendron and the monstera and storms back to his desk.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything!” I call after him.
“Don’t say I never gave you anything!” he shouts back.
* * *
My tote bag of meager office belongings comes with me to my HR exit interview. It’s boring and stupid, but Molly is nice and not boring or stupid, so I answer all her questions even though they are basically the same question rephrased every time.
On my way out, I run into Dougie Dawson.
He’s walking in the opposite direction and nods once before his eyes catch mine in recognition. His face is still purple, and his belly is still round. We both slow, watching each other from half a foot away.
“You,” he says. “The finance girl.”
“Hello, Mr. Dawson. Casey Maitland, yes.”
“You’re friendly with Alex Harrison.” His eyes cloud with bitter resentment he’s so clearly incapable of keeping at bay. “Be careful with that family, girl. Robert Harrison is the sneakiest son of a bitch New York City ever saw. His son is no different.”