Madelyn and James stand on either side of her, beaming at the hero who swooped in and saved the campaign. Now they’re going to the most expensive bar in the whole city when I can’t even afford a car home. While I sit on a grimy bus in a puddle of snow slush next to someone shouting their medical history into their phone, they’ll be ordering bottles of Veuve and enough small plates to last me a month. The thought alone makes my wallet hurt.
The three of them stare at me, waiting for my answer. I can’t bring myself to look at Madelyn after calling herelderlyin front of Brad and my team members. At this point, I have no idea how I’ll ever look at her again.
“My stomach.” I grimace, flattening my palm againstmy middle and twisting my expression into one that I hope looks like I’m nauseous and not about to have explosive diarrhea. “I’m not feeling so great,” I lie. “The tuna sandwich from that food cart might not have been a great idea.”
“Too bad,Hanns.” Stephanie tsk-tsks, her mouth sliding into an Oscar-winning frown. “Guess we’ll have to have a drink in your honor.”
“Great,” I say, faking a smile that wouldn’t get me a People’s Choice. “I’m gonna head home.”
Jade takes a deep breath as if about to try to convince me otherwise before she thinks better of it. Instead, she offers me a strained grin and heads to join the group, high-fiving Stephanie as they wait for the elevator.
I stand alone in the hallway, my shoulders slumped.
Fucking corner office. Fucking Stephanie.
Her name will be on it next week—thanks tomycampaign. And, no matter how much I want to, I can’t even hate her for it. Yeah, she’s a bitch, butIdid this.Istepped all over myself and called the owner of my company a boomer.Icrashed and burned.
See the door and open it.
How can I open the door when my own mistakes have locked it?
Three
The zipper on my coat broke two years ago, and every winter since, I’ve said I’ll teach myself to sew and replace it. Yet here I am, trudging through dirty snow along the Columbus Drive Bridge, wind ripping open the quilted down to curl its frosty fingers around my middle. With each step I take, a fresh surge of icy gray water squishes between my toes, soaking my socks and making my boots squeak like a rat.
I need new boots. I need a new coat.
I need a new job.
I adjust the strap of my giant purse on my shoulder and press my phone more firmly against my ear as I wrap myself back into my coat. “What you really need is a new life,” I grumble into the phone.
No one is on the other end of the call, but I read an article once (at least, I read the top half of it before the site required me to pay) that said women are less likely to be kidnapped and sold into human trafficking if they’reon the phone. And, while I would love for there to be a living, breathing human there to respond to me, there’s no one I can actually vent to. I’ve worked too many hours and rain checked too many times to keep up with the few friends I made in college.
“Why not call my sister?” I talk into my phone like someone will answer while completely ignoring the fact that I’m clearly the most embarrassingly desperate person in all of Chicago. “Hi, I’m Charlotte Thomas, attorney-at-law,” I say, absolutely nailing an impression of her whiskey-smooth tone in the opening line to her newest ad. “And your case is my cause. Call me and start your journey to victory.”
Unfortunately for me, the only calls Charlotte will fit into her perfect lawyer life over in Winnetka, the area’s wealthiest suburb, are from her skeezy, extremely guilty clients.
“Maybe if I rob a bank…” I mutter to no one. “I do need another job. I can never go back to Posh Pulse.”
My phone responds by vibrating against my cheek, and I hold it out in front of me as I approach the bus stop, a wave of hope momentarily warming my stiff fingers.
Mom:You have a date!
Mom:His name is Ernest. He’s 5’2” and still lives at home.
Mom:But really, Hannah. You have to start somewhere.
“I have a boyfriend!” I shout. A woman waiting at the same stop turns her back to me as I approach, angrily smashing my thumbs against my phone in a response mymom will interpret as passive-aggressive no matter my actual tone.
The bus arrives right on time, grinding to a stop near a pile of snow, and I wait for everyone to file in and out before trudging up the stairs, scanning my pass, and sagging into the nearest empty window seat.
“How did I screw up my life so badly?” I whisper to my reflection in the fingerprint-smudged glass. This time, I can’t stop the tears, and they wash salty warm down my cheeks.
“No, Hannah, stop it.” I clear my throat and sniff, wiping my nose with my wet coat sleeve. “Don’t talk to yourself like that. Don’t sit here and cry.” I take a deep breath and pull my shoulders back, letting my exhale fog the window like cleansing smoke. “You haven’t messed up your life. The pitch was just a small setback,” I say to the dark brown eyes blinking back at me from above freckle-smudged cheeks. “See the door and open it.”
Doubt slides into the silence that stretches between me and my reflection, scratching at the scab that’s barely formed over my wounded pride. “Okay, sure,” I continue, feeling like I need to defend myself against the unasked questions my anxiety threatens to barrage me with. “Maybe that wasn’tthe door. There will be another door. A bigger, better door. A door that doesn’t leave you talking to yourself on a bus like you’re possessed.”
The bus slows, maneuvering to its next stop, and my gaze flicks up to the street signs.
