Page 4 of I Saw You First

“You’re not allowed to smoke in the office.” Barbara’s tone is somehow both snooty and exasperated.

Kim ignores her. “Future vacation pay and a severance benefit? Is this hush money? Are you trying to buy her silence?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do! Ryan inappropriately propositioned Abbey and threatened her job if she didn’t perform a sexual act!” Kim’s practically yelling. “And you’re paying her to keep her mouth shut about it and calling it a voluntary resignation.”

“Please lower your voice!” Barbara turns toward me again. “I’m not trying to buy your silence, Abbey. If you feel the need to file a formal complaint against Ryan, you can make an appointment with our attorney. I can tell you, however, that these… situations… are very rarely resolved in favor of the… complainant.”

“Complainant?” Kim echoes, still at full volume. “What is this, The People’s Court?”

Barbara sighs and hands me an envelope, my name and address peeking out through the crinkly clear plastic window. Kim snatches it from me. She tears the flap and pulls out the two checks. She glances at the top one, then flips to the second and stuffs them back in.

“Holy shit.” She hands me the envelope. “A severance benefit? This is half her salary! How many times have you had to do this since Ryan started?”

Barbara purses her lips and gives a small shake of her head, then hands me a clipboard and a pen. “This document is a separation notice, which details your dates of employment, starting and ending wage, reason for separation, that sort of thing. It also states that you’ve received your final paycheck.”

“Don’t sign anything!” Kim cries. “Is this a nondisclosure? And does it also say in fine print that the signee won’t sue? She’s not signing. Abbey, you’re not signing. Give me that thing.” I don’t even look at the document before I hand it to her.

Then Kim whirls on Barbara. “How do you sleep at night, covering up for that reprobate and Slick Dick?”

“Keep your voice down,” Barbara hisses. Then, so quietly I can barely hear her, she says, “I’ve worked here for twenty years. I’m this close to retirement. My husband has MS. He hasn’t worked for three years. I need the insurance. I do what I’m told, Kim, and you’d be well-advised to do the same.”

“You need the insurance, so you cover for these pigs?” Kim shakes her head in disgust. “So much for solidarity.”

I blink away tears that threaten to fall, but they’re not for myself. They’re for Barbara, who really is a nice person, and her husband, who I didn’t know had MS. And maybe a little bit for myself.

I take the checks out of the envelope. Kim wasn’t kidding. The “severance benefit” is half my salary. The pit monster growls. This feels… gross. Wrong.

“I’ll help you clean out your desk, Abbey,” Barbara says.

“Like hell you will,” Kim snarls. “I’ll do it.”

Tamsa’s at a weekly staff meeting, along with everyone else on this side of the building. No one can see my humiliation, my shame. I pack up my boombox, my Counting Crows and Soundgarden CDs, my thesaurus, my much-loved, dog-eared copy of Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style.

Before I know it, I’m sitting alone in my car, staring at the business card Kim gave me with her home phone number written on the back. “Call me if you need anything,” she said, “and when you’re ready to take that slimebag down, I’m here for you.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. I can’t believe this happened.

I pick up the checks.

I think about my current bank balance, and the fact that I’m now unemployed, and the bills waiting for me on the scratched, wobbly kitchen table my roommate Brianna found at a garage sale. I love living with Brianna, and my heart will break if I have to move back in with my parents.

I look at my paycheck, and then the second check. A shiver creeps across my skin when I focus on the dollar amount. Severance benefit. Hush money. Buying her silence.

I fold the check in half, then again, and again, until it’s a small, fat square, and I tuck it in the ashtray.

I don’t know how much time passes before I’m able to put my keys in the ignition. The engine roars to life and so does the CD player—“Waterloo” by ABBA from the Muriel’s Wedding soundtrack, depressing as hell despite the upbeat, catchy melody.

Guess I’ve met my own defeat. I slam the ashtray shut.

The drive home passes in a flash. It’s not even noon, yet the day already feels three days long. Because Brianna worked the early shift at the preschool today, she’s in the kitchen putting away groceries when I get home.

“Holy moly!” she cries when I step through the door. She’s shorter than me, slender yet muscular, with a deep tan and light brown hair that’s almost always in a ponytail. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I… I don’t work at TC Weekly anymore.” I try out the words for the first time.

Bri’s big brown eyes go wide. “What happened?”