Page 10 of Go Back to December

I silently telegraph a whatthefuckishappeningrightnow distress message across the table to Lacy.

Calm down, she mouths.

“Baz is here representing the Leadership Planning Task Force,” Sibyl says.

A guest appearance, then. It’s a miracle they get any lawyering done, with all these collective navel-gazing ventures.

Baz opens his folder. His movements are stiff and controlled, bordering on self-conscious. Most people don’t bother looking up from their phones.

He takes a gander at the faces around the table, and when his evaluating gaze lands on me, he flinches. It’s slight, just a pull at his neck and a rapid blink, like he’s trying to reconcile conflicting images.

We’ve never met up here in his twenty-first-floor world, and he doesn’t like it a bit.

He clears his throat. “I’ll be direct.”

“Thank you for being so solicitous of our billable hours,” someone mutters.

Baz drums his fingers. “The leadership team met yesterday to review next year’s budget.”

“Given we’re the actual Finance Committee, we’re actually aware,” an arrogant Baby Money says.

The assaulting glare Baz throws her makes her actually choke on her actual tongue.

“What do you need from us?” Sibyl’s voice edges with impatience.

“The LT is directing all departments to propose revised budgets.”

The Money Honeys draw a collective gasp.

“How much of a reduction?” Someone demands.

“Twenty percent.”

More gasps and a few naughty words echo as Baz distributes a packet of papers. Lacy buries her attention in the handout, so she can’t explain what this means for the café. I try to get Sybil’s attention by stretching my neck like a frantic goose.

“What about Employee Services?” she asks. The department includes the café’s budget.

Baz’s eyes dart to me; he won’t stop tapping against the table. The possibility that he’s nervous sends frost down my spine.

After a cringe-worthy moment, he says, “The leadership has asked for a study on the café.”

“A study,” Sibyl repeats. The word is vague enough to sound almost approachable.

In the corporate world, it’s most certainly a death knell.

Steeling my spine, I wheel my plastic office chair closer to the table. “What exactly does a study of the café entail?”

The silence stretches well past awkward.

The cocky Money Honey, who is stupidly unafraid of Baz, says to me, “Perhaps you could give us all a moment while we discuss this internally.”

“Melody manages the actual café,” Baz rasps. “She is actually the one person who has to hear this.”

I’m so stunned he’s come to my defense, while simultaneously making me sound like a toddler relegated to time-out, that I blurt, “What is it?”

Baz can’t say whatever the terrible thing is.

Dooley flings a folder across the table. “They revised your operating budget while they conduct the study.”