1
escape later
MARLEY
I can’t understandhow I can pour so much into my career and still have nothing to show for it. Okay, maybe I’m being dramatic,per usual. But the numbers on my computer screen are impossible to ignore. They glare at me, bold and red. Numbers that would terrify anyone in my line of work.
They’re terrifying.
I push my hair back from my face and exhale slowly. Right now, I should be packing my Béis luggage for a trip that takes off in less than 24 hours. Instead, I’m stuck here at the office, knowing I can’t leave my business in this condition. If I want this trip to be anything close to relaxing, I need to have everything taken care of, because right now I’m on pins and needles.
I check the time on my watch. It’s still early. The sun is still hiding in the shadows, draping Savannah in that soft, hazy stillness it displays so well. In a few short hours, my staff will be arriving.
I lean back in my chair, taking advantage of the peace, my mind rolling back to the tremulous road that brought me here.How something that started as a dream in sixth grade has now become a reality at 32 years old. It was a rocky start, turned great, and I was on a high, but now I’m suddenly afraid that my dream may fade away and turn into nothing but a memory.
Modmagazine is my self-made baby. A lot of hours, stress, sleepless nights, and tears went into my journey, but it was all worth it.Modwas new, fresh, and on the verge of making itself a household name. The cultural women’s magazine had reached the top. Sitting on the shelves next toVogue,Essence, andCosmopolitan.
I land interviews with some of the best celebrities. I have the best photographers and journalists to help make this magazine great. But now it seems to be slowly dwindling. A brief moment suspended in the air before gravity slowly starts to pull it back down. And as nauseating as it is to have the mere thought of an epic fail linger in my mind, I am coming down too. I feel it in my heartstrings. A blue funk trying to take over my mind.
I try not to overthink, but I can’t help it; it’s what I do. Overthink. I’m an overthinker. A perfectionist. I fear failure. I over-analyze. It’s a blessing and a curse.
The sun finally makes its debut. My mind is still in overdrive as my team arrives, the office seeming to wake up with lights flickering on, one by one. As soon as they log in, they will see the mandatory meeting I’ve scheduled on the Teams calendar.
I check my watch again. 8:30. My assistant, Andy, knocks twice on my office door before she cracks it open and wobbles into my office, pregnant belly and all, to remind me of the meeting I’m almost too ashamed to have. Never have I ever walked into a meeting to tell my team that our numbers are sinking.
“Everyone is here, Ms. Jacobs. They’re waiting for you in the conference room.”
“On my way,” I smile tightly. I lock my computer screen. When I stand, my eyes drift to my wall calendar near my desk. Most of the days blurred together, boxed and color-coded.
Interviews.
Layouts.
Editorial meetings.
But tomorrow’s date is circled with a purple heart around the wordMaui,written in my bubbly handwriting. The week-long solo vacay I’d had my travel agent plan for me months before I realized my magazine would be in jeopardy. I stand there, my eyes narrowing at the hearts circling the numbers from January 3rd to January 10th. An overdue vacation in paradise surrounded by clear blue waters, while I spend most of my time reading books and taking naps in a cabana.
Yes. Much needed.
But not when my sales were going to shit.
I start to contemplate on my way to the conference room. Maybe I should stay. The magazine needs a strategy to get out of this hole. I can reschedule this trip for next month.
My wits and sanity think otherwise. A click in my brain. A kick in my ass.
No, girl. Go. You need this!
Right. Idoneed this. I will go. It’s not like the magazine will fail if I’m out for a week. What good will I be if I don’t rejuvenate my mind, body, and soul? I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders. I’m going to take my vacation, but work first. Escape later.
My staff is alreadymid-conversation when I step into the glass-wall conference room, voices overlapping in eager bursts.My true and trusted team. Over half of them have been with me since my magazine started as a digital publication, and before it went to print.
The chatter calms when I enter. All eyes on me. I’m dressed in my burgundy pencil skirt and matching blazer, balancing my third cup of caffeine for the day. It’s piping hot and full of dirty bean water that will give me the much-needed energy necessary to get me through this day. I set the mug down on a coaster at the head of the table where I stand.
“Good morning,” I smile, and 12 voices echo it back to me in unison.
My best friend, Willow, or Lo, as everyone calls her, sits to my right, beaming like a ray of sunshine. I’ve just promoted her to Executive Editor, and she is now working closely under me.
I’m proud of her. She has worked twice as hard for this position, not wanting to seem like she’s gotten it for the sake of being my best friend, but because she was truly and insanely talented, which she is. Through and through. No matter how much I tried to hand Lo the EE title, she wouldn’t take it. She wanted to finish school, come in at a level that made sense, and build her way up without anyone questioning how she got there.
