Page 48 of The Hard Launch

Jude sends the ball to precisely where she’s arriving and she kicks it hard, putting it right between a fountain and a potted tree. Judging from the celebration that results, those are the goal posts.

“You guys have an unfair advantage!” a QA engineer on the losing side yells, offending Trevor by pointing at Jude. Who makes it worse by shrugging theatrically.

“Any other sport, bro. Any other sport and I’d be kicking your ass,” Trevor tells him.

Jude laughs and puts him in a headlock as they walk, kissing him on the top of the head.

“He seems like he’s doing better,” an approving voice says beside me.

I turn and find Ella there. “You mean Jude?” I ask, like I wasn’t just noticing how the hair around his temples is damp with sweat, the same way it was a few minutes after I pulled him into my room last night.

Ella’s eyeing me with suspicion. “Yes, Lacey. My brother. The one I spent most of the ride here fretting about.”

She did do that. And I think we both know why.

“Edmund seemed really pleased with our work,” I tell her. “I’m sure that’s a relief.”

“Whatever it was, it makes me happy to see him happy,” she says. I refuse to react to the look she’s giving me.

All I can think is, me too. And that’s why I’m not going to tell him about my conversation with Edmund quite yet. I’ll be open and honest once we’re back home.

“Here’s the deal,” Jude says to the team after dinner and an abbreviated mindfulness session. “You all saw Edmund here today. He knows we’re close, he likes what we’re doing. The only thing left to do is to crank it out. So let’s do it, yeah? Video team, tell us how we can help.”

To stay on schedule, we have until five tomorrow to get to code complete. That gives us four days for test and fix, including the weekend. Then a soft launch on Monday, and nobody turns into a pumpkin.

Unless we burn out or find too many bugs or something simply can’t get dragged across the finish line. It happens, but like so many other things, it’s not helpful to think about.

Instead every person who can write code is trying to get the video platform done. Yes, this can sometimes cause more trouble than good, and Keith—whatever he’s doing wherever he is—would love to talk about why. But he’s not here, and the people who are have been paired together—one regular team member with one special guest programmer—and they’re grouped around the room, talking and typing.

Trevor, Ella, and I are sharing a sofa that Trevor found in a vacant meeting room and dragged here. We’re on call, essentially. Waiting to be useful. Ella’s nodding off, Trevor’s on YouTube. I’m imagining all of this happening on another project in the future, only without me. Or a similar room, where I’m surrounded by all new coworkers. What is it that I love about Lettercat?

I love my team. They make me laugh, they inspire me with their commitment and their drive. But this isn’t the same team I had when I started; people have moved on, and we’ve added new members without losing the spirit of the team. It’s possible this type of team exists elsewhere.

And I do love the product. I love The Colony and all the interesting and amazing work our customers do. I like that I get to make something that helps them be more successful, but also lets them connect with people. Their stories are being shared, and I’m a small part of that. There are thousands of products that fit that description.

I loved it here when I thought the CEO was a jerk who didn’t listen, who blocked all my ideas and hired his stupid friends. I know startups like that, I’ve worked at them before.

Jude can’t be the reason I love Lettercat.

Can he be the reason I leave it?

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

JUDE

On Saturday morning, I do three hours of work from home and then I waste a whole lot of time getting dressed in something that’s not jeans and a Lettercat shirt.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Ella asks me, knocking on my partly open door after I might have been swearing at the mirror.

I throw another shirt on the floor to join the trio already there. I’ve settled on a pair of blue shorts but nothing I own looks normal with them.

“I’m going to brunch with some friends,” I lie. “All my clothes are weird. Maybe that’s why I wear a company t-shirt every day.”

Ella comes in and sits cross-legged on the end of my bed in her pajamas. “Your clothes aren’t weird; you’re just having a wardrobe crisis.”

“Is this really a thing?” I ask her, looking at her face behind me in the mirror. Ella treats things she sees on TikTok like they’re hard science.

“I mean, you tell me: nothing’s comfortable, nothing looks right with anything else, you hate everything you own.”