Page 5 of The Christmas Yes List

Which became a sort of self-regulatory rule, just to be safe: Always be the last person to leave the office.

As I sat at my little desk in the middle of the giant room of empty computer screens and black security cameras, darkness stretched out across the windows. The office building opposite was black and lifeless but for one blinking Christmas tree in a corner. I typed slowly, my fingers lingering longer on the keys than usual, my attention frequently drawn to Mr. Cross’s closed office door. It was normal for him to stay until five thirty. Sometimes six. But never in all my years at Synon had he worked past seven. And right before Christmas?

Deepening my curiosity were the sounds of his random outbursts.

And, once, glass shattering.

What was going on in there?

I jumped up when I heard him call from inside. “Chloe! Come in here.”

“Yes, sir?” I said tentatively, cracking open the door so my face was respectably in view before entering. Just in case, you know, he didn’t mean it and was calling out random names. Or I’d heard my name by mistake. Or he meant some other Chloe who worked at Synon and was here at this forsaken hour.

(Okay, so maybe I’m not always logical. But logic doesn’t help me sleep at night. Following my ridiculous internal rules does.)

I entered the room. “Can I . . .” I hesitated, unable not to notice the broken glass on the carpet around me. “Can I help with something?”

“Shut the door.” Mr. Cross was leaning forward with his hands pushing up the wrinkles against his bald head. It reminded me of what I look like (minus the bald part) when I run into a migraine and I’m trying anything to get the piercing lights in my eyes to stop. Two patches of sweat circled the armpits of his shirt. The light of his desktop screen glowed over a slew of papers with rows and rows of numbers. One of the dozen frames nailed into the old wooden paneling behind him was crooked. On the ground, one lay broken.

He pulled himself up to look at me, the rims of his eyes the same bloodshot color as his shirt, which appeared to have been yanked out from beneath his belt some time ago. He waved impatiently at the door behind me.

Quickly, I shut it.

He resumed. “You’ve been a loyal employee to me for how long now? Nine years?”

“Seven next March.”

“Mm.” He nodded. “Feels like forever.” Then he reiterated, “Like we’ve been a team forever.”

A small, shrill zing zipped through my gut at the words, and I gave a little smile, then squatted down as I began to set the largest shards of glass on the back of the discarded frame. “It has been quite some time.”

The whole of my twenties so far, in fact.

“And you always just stay at the forefront of the workforce.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Working harder. Following directives. Not arguing. Not asking questions.”

It struck me that he seemed to be talking more to himself than to me, that he was working through some stream of thought, so I didn’t interrupt. I nodded. Picked up a few more shards.

“You’ve been the ideal employee,” he continued. “The . . . perfect . . . employee. The person I have always been able to come to in a pinch.”

I felt two spots of hot red flash on my cheeks. Pathetic as it was, this was more attention than I’d gotten in a long time. Throw in a crab dip, and you could’ve called it a first date. “It’s my pleasure, sir,” I said lightly.

“Well,” he said, and then there was a significant pause. “On that note.” Another significant pause. “I’ve been thinking.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“It’s time we move your cubicle up to something more . . . worthy of the kind of employee you are. Rich is gone. You take over his office starting tomorrow morning. Loyalty needs rewarding. And it’s high time we start you now.”

I jerked my head up. “You’re promoting me to assistant supervisor?”

For a funny little moment, Mr. Cross took in a sharp breath, as if the words promotion or assistant supervisor weren’t part of the original cards. As if somehow he had meant to keep me at my original pay, with my original title, and yet at the same time move me into the now-empty office of the former assistant supervisor Rich Lancaster.

Which wouldn’t make sense. At all. So . . . ?

To my relief, he clarified, “Ah yes. Yes. That’s exactly what I mean, Chloe. Commencing tomorrow, you will be moving up into the role of assistant supervisor. Because you deserve it. For your seven—”