How long had she been trying to reach me? A dozen possibilities raced through my head as I called her back, my heart in my throat and my palms clammy with sweat. Maybe the office was on fire, or I’d forgotten to send the Prada bag back to— “Stella. How nice to finally hear from you.” Her frosty greeting slithered down my spine like the cool skin of a reptile. “I’m so sorry. I put my phone on silent and just saw—” “I know where you were at. I saw you in the background of Raya’s Instagram Stories.” Despite her contempt for bloggers, Meredith followed their social media religiously. Something about competition and staying on top of trends. I seemed to be the only one who saw the irony in that. I swallowed hard. “Is something wrong? How can I help?”
Never mind that it was near midnight on a Saturday night. Work-life balance didn’t exist for junior magazine employees. “There was an issue with next week’s photoshoot, but we figured it out while you were partying,” Meredith said coolly. “We’ll discuss this on Monday. Be in my office at seven-thirty a.m. sharp.” The line went dead, as did any hope she would let the night’s
transgression slide. I had a sinking feeling that come eight o’clock on Monday morning, I would no longer have a job.
4
STELLA
“You’re fired.” Two words. Three syllables. I’d mentally prepared myself for them since Saturday night’s fiasco, but they still hit me like a punch in the gut. Breathe. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. It didn’t work. Oxygen couldn’t bypass the knot in my throat, and tiny pinpricks of black swam across my vision as I stared at Meredith’s seated figure. She sipped her coffee and paged through the latest Women’s Wear Daily like she hadn’t reduced my life to rubble in the space of ten seconds. “Meredith, if I—” “Don’t.” She raised a manicured hand, her expression bored. “I already know what you’re going to say, and it won’t change my mind. I’ve been watching you and your lack of enthusiasm for a while, Stella, and Saturday night was the last straw.” The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth from how hard I bit my tongue. Lack of enthusiasm? Lack of enthusiasm? I was the first person in and the last person out of the office. I did eighty percent of the work on shoots for a fraction of the credit. I never complained even when she threw the most outrageous requests at me, like getting Chanel to ship a limited-edition couture gown to us from Paris with less than twenty-four hours’ notice. If that was a lack of enthusiasm, I shuddered to think what she considered an appropriate level of dedication.
“Yes, I noticed,” Meredith said, mistaking my silence for agreement. “I admit, you have a good eye for style, but so do a thousand other girls who would kill to be in your position. You clearly don’t want to be here. I see it in your eyes every time I talk to you. Honestly, we shouldn’t have hired you in the first place. Your blog generates enough traffic to be considered a competitor, and our contract forbids our employees from engaging in competitive business practices. The only reason we didn’t fire you earlier was because your side job didn’t interfere with your work.”
Meredith took another sip of coffee. “On Saturday night, it did. You’ll receive an email and official termination paperwork by the end of the day.” Panic squeezed my lungs at the prospect of losing my job, but I also detected a kernel of something else. Anger. Meredith could make all the excuses she wanted, but we both know she’d been dying to fire me for years. She was part of the old guard who didn’t like the changes bloggers were bringing to the industry, and she took out her resentment on me. Maybe if you treated your employees better, I’d be more enthusiastic. Maybe if you weren’t so insecure, you’d see how my blog could help the magazine, not hurt it. On that note, you should check out the skin tone guide I posted last week because the color of your top does nothing for your complexion. The uncharacteristic slew of insults rushed to the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them before they spilled out and got me blacklisted in the industry. All I wanted was to work in fashion and be close to Maura. That was why I’d stayed in the city and got a job at D.C. Style despite my parents’ insistence that I find a job “more befitting an Alonso.” I gave up a lot of things for other people, but my dream wouldn’t be one of them…unless it was out of my hands, and I got fired. “I understand.” I forced a smile
that matched the vise wrapped around my chest in tightness. “Have your things cleared out by this afternoon,” Meredith added without looking up from her computer. “There are boxes waiting for you at your desk.” Humiliation washed over my skin as I exited her office and walked to my desk. Everyone knew I’d been fired. Some of them shot me pitying glances; others didn’t hide their smirks. But none of their reactions compared to what my family’s would be once I told them what happened. They already disapproved of me “wasting” my Thayer University degree on a fashion career. If they found out I’d been fired… My hands shook before I caught myself and steadied them.
I refused to give my coworkers the joy of seeing me sweat as I picked up my boxes and swept out of the office with as much dignity as I could muster. Everything will be fine. Everything is fine. My Uber ride home was a blur. I couldn’t stop picturing my parents’ faces when they find out what happened. The disappointment, judgment, and, worse, the silent I told you so’s that would undoubtedly make up half our conversation. I told you working at a fashion magazine isn’t sustainable. I told you to stop spending so much time on your blog. It’s a hobby, not a job. I told you to do something more meaningful with your degree. Become an environmental lawyer like your mom, or at least work for a respectable newspaper. And that was only one consequence of my firing. I hadn’t even thought about the impact on my finances or my ability to find another job. Pressure ballooned in my chest, but I managed to make it back to my apartment before I collapsed. The cardboard boxes containing my office desk items landed next to me with a thud as I sank onto the living room floor and closed my eyes. Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
Everything is fine. The silent mantra succeeded in calming my shallow breaths. It wasn’t the end of the world. People got fired every day, and I still had money coming in from my blog and brand collaborations. Plus, I could sell some of my wardrobe for extra cash. The money I’d receive from that would be pitiful, even for designer items, but it was better than nothing. Worst came to worst, I could agree to some high-paying partnerships I’d turned down in the past. I refused to collaborate with brands whose products I didn’t genuinely love, which drove Brady nuts because I was so picky about the clothes I wore and the products I used. It significantly hindered my earning potential, but I would rather earn less and be genuine than shill something I didn’t believe in for a quick check. Of course, that’d been when I had a full-time salary to supplement my side business. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. Everything is— The familiar sound of my ringtone dragged me out of my thoughts before I slipped too far down my spiral. I forced my eyes open and checked the screen. Brady. I was tempted to let it go to voicemail, but maybe he had an update on one of my pending collaborations. I would agree to anything paid right now.