Page 21 of Made for Mayhem

He attempted a sympathetic smile that only made me want to launch my coffee at his face. “A little of both. Fundraising and event planning is a small network, and everything is connected to our donors. Unfortunately, they have a lot of sway the more they spend. But I thought at least this way, you can file for unemployment, which I felt better about, considering your circumstances.”

My head jerked back. “My circumstances? What circumstances?”

Jerry’s gaze darted to the window as if an escape hatch would open there. “Well, you and Lauren…”

I gripped the chair’s armrest hard enough that the faux leather squeaked. “Me and Lauren, what?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed, a bead of sweat trickling off his forehead and down his temple. “You don’t know yet.”

“Oh, I know plenty about Lauren.” My voice was sharp and fast; my patience dangling by a thread. “I’m trying to connect the dots as to how you know my lint-licker of a roommate evicted me not even 10 minutes ago, insisting I be out by the end of the day.”

Jerry winced, dabbing a tissue along his brow. “Why did Donor Relations tell us since you two had a spat and you were moving out, it would be easier if we let you go too?”

“They WHAT?” My voice cracked up about three octaves, outrage detonating inside me like a firework.

“I’m so sorry,” Jerry whispered. “They said you can’t have run-ins with the Kingsleys, and you know how they’re connected to everything in Chicago. This is terrible, and I feel horrible.”

My mouth fell open. Words refused to form at first. Then they tumbled out in sharp little bursts. “So she’s kicking me out of my home”—one—“and asked Daddy to use that donor money to have me fired”—two—“So what’s number three?”

Jerry was turning green, looking like he might throw up on his desk. “I don’t follow.”

“Come on, Jer-Bear, complete the set. I collect catastrophes in trios.”

“You want more bad news?”

A laugh burst out that sounded more like a bark. “Don’t go soft on me now, Jerry. What’s next? Did my car get towed? Is the USDA banning cherry flavoring? Come on, rip off that Band-Aid for me, buddy.”

His face crumpled. “I really am sorry, Daisy. I’ll write you a shining letter of recommendation. We can use every connection I have to find you something else.”

I blew out a sharp breath, forcing myself not to flip his desk like a bad game of Monopoly. I knew where the blame belonged. Jerry was just the messenger. The knife in my back had Lauren’s fingerprints all over it.

I managed to keep it together long enough to shove my things into the cardboard box Jerry dug out of a supply closet. Walking down the hallway was a lesson in humility, balancing what had to be the most deranged assortment of belongings anyone had ever been fired with.

Front and center was a half-dead snake plant, slumped over like it, too, had given up on me. Wedged beside it, a stack of notebooks full of ideas that had never seen the light of day. Most embarrassing was a single black stiletto I’d been missing for over a year, discovered under the back of my desk like a crime scene clue to the inner workings of my neurodivergent brain. Too bad I’d already donated the other one.

A gallon-sized bag sat on top, full of envelopes addressed to Dizzy. Each one contained cute little stickers my niece loved to send me, knowing I, too, couldn’t resist the siren call of a good holographic cow wearing roller skates. Each one was too precious to me to use. Instead, they’d been sitting in my drawer for years because what if I came up with somewhere better to put it later?

This little chaos box was a perfect representation of my time here: a shiny, messy graveyard of dreams that didn’t fit anymore. Maybe they never had.

My coworkers’ heads popped up like meerkats when I walked by, pity painted all over their faces. I lifted my chin higher, praying no one would ask if I was okay—the answer was a resounding no, and I refused to cry in front of them.

As I reached the elevator, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The box wobbled as I tried to reach for it, and the heel nearly made a break for it down the hall, so I let the call go to voicemail.

By the time I got to the parking garage across the street I’d paid to store my car in, the weight of it all pressed down—not just being fired, but the years I’d wasted here.

I’d come to Chicago chasing a new adventure, thinking that living the big-city life was the change I needed. That it would be full of fun experiences and new friends and opportunities I couldn’t even imagine. That I’d be fine living on my own, not relying on my sister to fix all my many problems I usually created for myself.

Instead, the last three years were spent in a beige cubicle and hiding from a narcissistic roommate.

I blamed Huddy, my mystery man, for setting the bar too high. Every day after that first one here had been a little more of a letdown until I’d arrived at rock bottom with a box of junk I didn’t even care about.

I sniffed back the tears, refusing to let them fall, and crossed the parking lot to my old red Volkswagen Beetle.

My phone rang again as I pried open the trunk and wedged the box inside, shoving it against the usual chaos: a half-full trash bag of items to donate I’d been carting around for months, a pair of golf clubs from my three-week attempt at being sporty, and—of course—the other black stiletto.

“If this is my reward for such a shitty day, I. Will. Riot.”

The phone shrilled for the third time. I finally tugged it free, ready to give whoever kept calling a piece of my mind, but the screen displayed an unknown number from Colorado.