Her dark-brown eyes shift, and now, with the door clicked shut, her irritation melts into fire. “Sit,” she mutters.
I do, my pulse cracking against my ribs.
She crosses her arms and leans against the table. “I get the sense that you’re not the problem here.”
That startles me enough to look up.
“She’s been skating on thin ice since she started. She was hired by the CEO, who has some questionable views on work ethics. Her interpersonal conduct is… concerning. Maybe we can help each other.”
I let out a harsh laugh. “How would we be able to help each other?”
She doesn’t smile. “I heard enough to know she’s been harassing someone. Our employees’ social media presence must be impeccable.”
Cold satisfaction curls low in my gut. “What do I need to do?”
She tilts her head, red lips curling into an uneven smile that flashes her teeth. “Send me everything. I’ll loop in HR. And…” She lowers her voice. “I take harassment claims seriously here. Especially when they involve targeted content. We are in marketing, after all.”
My breath leaves me in one controlled exhale. “And there’ll be consequences for her? Not just a slap on the wrist?”
The woman taps her red acrylic nails on the glass tables.
“I just—” I exhale. “What do you get from this?”
She stands and smooths her blazer, then checks her impeccable nail polish. “Well, I enjoy a clean work environment and a good side of karma served cold.”
She straightens. “Find my email on the company website. I will handle it.”
“And your name is?”
“Carmen Camacho, Associate Creative Director. Lovely to meet you.”
I nod, throat tight. For the first time in months, I feel solid ground beneath me.
“Thank you,” I say.
Carmen gives a small, approving nod. “Don’t thank me yet.”
By the endof the day, I’m wiped but still unwilling to face the emptiness of my apartment. I’d give anything to trip over her shoes in the hallway again or find her sweaters draped over the back of the couch. I swear I’d never bitch about the mess or give her grief for not folding her clothes. I’d just revel in every stray thing she left behind—my apartment and chest whole again.
So instead of going home, I’m staring into a pint of cheap beer at the dive bar around the corner, looking for answers on the foam to decide if this is the right thing to do. The counter’s sticky from spilled alcohol. My watch clunks against the wood every time I shift my wrist. The stool wobbles if I lean too far back.
The door to my right swings open with a chime, and a gust of cold air whooshes in. To my surprise, Julian steps through in scrubs and a jacket, hair sticking up in every direction. The shadows under his eyes are deeper than I’ve ever seen them. He doesn’t look like Robyn’s suave best friend. He looks wrecked.
His gaze lands on me and his eyebrows rise, but he still walks over and drops onto the stool beside mine.
“What are you doing in Bucktown?” I ask, knowing his apartment’s closer to where Robyn’s is—closer to the hospital they work at. Robyn’s was. Worked at.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Tried to meet someone. Couldn’t get a hold of her.”
“Another girl best friend?”
He scoffs and signals the bartender for the same beer I have. “I wish.”
“Tessa’s boss is unhappy with her. She’s apparently a bitch at work too.”
“You’re surprised because …?”
“I’m thinking?—”
