As if to make my point, Fritter noses a partially eaten sandwich, bloated in a dingy rain puddle. “Leave it,” I tell him, and of course he does. But this wouldn’t be a problem in Grovemont, where the sidewalks are perfect and the dogs mostly run free in their own backyards anyway.
Fritter and I weave back to our building. I can tell he’s hungry for dinner because he barely pauses to sniff anything on the way. When we walk into the apartment, I dry his wet paws with the towel I store for him in a basket by the door. I grab the bag of kibble from under the sink and set up his food and water bowls in the kitchen. He’s munching happily when Ian walks in.
“Hey, babe.” He leans down to kiss me, then lights up when he sees Fritter. “Hey, buddy! You hanging with us tonight?”
Ian squats down to give him a scratch. I expect Fritter to ignore him because usually nothing can get between him and a meal. But he stops chewing and looks up. He pulls away slightly, so he can sniff Ian’s hand, then he sniffs further up Ian’s arm and moves frantically to his leg. He repeats the same frenzied investigation on the other side. “Whoa, bud,” Ian says, ruffling the top of Fritter’s head.
“That’s weird. Did you sit on an extra gross bus seat or something?” I remember that Ian didn’t ride his bike today since rain was in the forecast.
“No idea,” he says, extracting an open bottle of wine from the fridge and pouring us both a glass. Fritter returns to his chomping. “How was work?”
“Oh, fine, nothing too exciting,” I say, trying to think of some detail to layer in that’ll make the lie more believable. “Actually, onecool thing did happen. We had a follow-up call this afternoon with the team at Mythos Group—you know, the company that owns The Bexley?—and they couldn’t stop raving about all the press that came from the party. Jordana’s pretty sure they’re going to sign a monthly retainer.”
Jordana.
Shit.
I never called her back.
“That’s incredible. Congrats!” Ian clinks his glass against mine. “See? Maybe you’ll get promoted again, and then we’ll be able to buy an even nicer house than Curt and Jack’s.”
Or maybe I’ll lose my job and we’ll be prisoners here forever.
I take a generous swallow of my wine, heat rising through me like mercury in a thermometer.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m sure it’ll all work out just like it’s supposed to.”
16
One week to go. Every second counts. And here I am, wasting far too fucking many of them trying to figure out what someone is supposed to wear to save their career.
I flip through the hangers on my side of the ridiculously small bedroom closet. More than half my stuff is in a storage unit across town. Whenever I get to unpack it, maybe it’ll all feel new again.
I think this leopard sheath dress could work. It’s only from Ann Taylor, but it’s probably the most stylish office outfit that I own, and Jordana loves an animal print. I’ll pair it with a black blazer.
When I emerge from the bedroom, Ian is on the couch, still in his gym shorts and the same goddamn UVA Law sweatshirt that he wears after working out almost every single day. Fritter is curled up next to him. “Wow,” Ian says, eyes skimming over me. “Big day?”
“Kind of. We have a lunch at the Viceroy, to meet the new chef there, and try some of the menu he’s planning to roll out later this month.”
That was a real thing I had on my calendar for Monday, but I saw in Outlook that Jordana took me off the meeting and added Beth in my place. Wonder what excuse they gave for my absence. Wonder if anyone missed me.
“Your job is so sweet,” Ian says, his gaze hovering at my chest. “You know, I’d love to get you out of that dress later.”
The lump of fury in my gut stretches out like some feral creature. Yep, that’s what I do in a nutshell. All parties and food and fun for me, while Ian toils away saving Mother Earth. Never mind that I manage most of our life. I dig my nails into my palms and try to focus on how adorable Fritter looks when he’s asleep. A tiny puff of air escapes his lips, displacing a piece of fringe on the throw blanket beneath him.
“Sure, babe,” I say, checking my watch, blood pressure spiking. “Natalie should be coming by to get Fritter in a couple hours. I really need to get going.”
Ian stands up to hug me goodbye. He squeezes my ass as he does, and his boner jabs me through the front of his gym shorts. I think I can hear my vagina vacuum-sealing itself shut.
“Okay!” I force a laugh and push him away. “I really have to run!”
I bend down to kiss Fritter on the top of his head and rush out the door.
When the elevator opens on Buzz’s floor, I don’t hesitate or stop to think. I propel myself forward, through the entrance to our suite, past the fishbowl conference room and the mostly empty workstations, past my office, then Taylor’s—her red waves jostling as she does a double-take—directly to the all-glass corner kingdom occupied by Jordana.
Her chair is turned away from the closed door so that she faces out the window. Even so, the way she’s motioning tells me she’s on the phone. But I can’t just wait out here like a little kid who got sent to the principal’s office. I need her to see me as confident and capable—mostly, as indispensable.
I knock on the glass.
