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I type out a reply to Tarquin and send him the forecast he requested. Then I call up my to-do list and check off “Send forecasts to T.” A round of applause bursts forth from my computer.
Every time it does that, no matter how grumpy, or stressed, or tired I am, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s a reminder I’ve achieved something and that no matter how out of my depth I sometimes secretly feel in this new role, I’m making progress one bit at a time.
But it also tears at my soul.
Elliot’s never been up here and pointed to my new shelves and given me a hard time for all the paper planners. He’s never perched on this desk and teased me and made me laugh. He’s never congratulated me on the job.
I don’t even know whether he knows I have it. I haven’t communicated with him in any way since I limped out of the woods, my heart doing its best to crawl out of my chest and sprint back to him.
But with the determination of an ant carrying a leaf one hundred times its size, I kept it all in until I’d made it to Max’s car where George greeted me with his warm, welcoming smile. That’s when I cracked. Instead of opening the front door and sitting next to George, I threw myself into the back and dissolved into a ball of sobs, my foot throbbing.
George leaned between the seats, fatherly concern etched on his face. “What on earth’s happened, Charlotte? What do you need? What can I do?”
I managed to blurt out one word. “Tissues.” I knew Max kept a supply in the center console because I’d ordered them.
George thrust a handful at me, as if the more tissues I had the quicker I’d feel better.
“But what’s wrong, Charlotte? It looks like something terrible’s happened?”
It took a minute, but I eventually managed to slow the sobs, blow my nose, and construct an actual sentence. “I’m so sorry, George. I’m just having a terrible day. And I hurt my foot.” I kicked off my shoes and rested the afflicted foot on the console.
He sucked in a breath. “That looks nasty. I guess that’s why Max called me to take you home.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s why.” Much better than the real reason.
“Well, you lie back there. I’ll let you rest. But holler if you need anything.” He scrolled his phone. “I’ll put these rainforest noises on for you. My daughter got them to help me sleep. You might find it soothing.”
I don’t know how long I lay there, tears rolling onto the buttery leather seat, trying to focus on the sounds of dripping water, chirping birds, and humming insects. It felt like I was a kid again, nodding off in the back seat as my dad drove us around. Then suddenly the car stopped, and George was telling me I was home.
But that feels like forever ago now.
I ignore the fresh pings on my computer and rise from my cream-colored leather desk chair and lean on the windowsill.
If I’ve taken this first giant step on the road to the career I’ve always wanted, if senior management and executives are now talking to me as their equal, why am I not skipping around this little office? Why am I staring at shadows on a brick wall and feeling hollow?
My dad and my brothers were happy for me when I told them about the promotion. Dan even made this month’s breakfast extra special by picking a fancy Japanese restaurant because it had just won a prize for its matcha. But even knowing they’re all proud still leaves me empty.
This is ridiculous. I need to get a grip and focus on making the acquisition of Joyntz the most successful takeover Harvest Enterprises has ever executed, and implementing my own ideas to grow the company. This could make my career. And all without me having to find a new job at a company that’d be prepared to buy out my tuition debt, or take on a second job to buy it out myself.
I just need to shake myself out of whatever this is.
Maybe if I go for a walk around the block, stretch my legs, get some air, I can pull myself together. Then I’ll come back and work on my strategic plan document for Joyntz with fresh gusto.
I grab my water bottle and head out. As I make my way toward the elevators, I’m aware my shoulders are droopier than usual and a little hunched forward. I pull them back and straighten my spine. I should be floating on air, an endless smile on my face, not slouching along the hallway.
I step into the—thankfully empty— elevator. Excellent. Definitely not in the mood for small talk.
The doors reopen sooner than I expect. I’ve stopped just two floors down. The ground level button isn’t lit, so I must not have pressed it. Guess I’d pressed Elliot’s floor by mistake.
Good God. It’s been a month since I walked away from him at the wedding. Four whole weeks of telling myself my decision was for the best. And yet my brain’s completely ignored me and sent me right into his path.
My heart races as my body flushes with heat and I pound the ground floor button to get out of here as quickly as possible to avoid any chance of bumping into him. That would do nothing to help me pull myself out of this funk.
The doors don’t seem to want to close. They’re taking an age to get around to it or having a damn good think about whether they can be bothered with that whole closing thing they’re supposed to do, or something, but they won’t shut.
I continue to batter the button and they jerk into action, slowly sliding toward each other.
As the space between them closes, something snaps in my head, and I thrust my arm into the remaining gap. The doors come to a sudden stop, then reverse their path.
