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“You really believe that?” he asks, staring off into the distance.

“I really believe that,” I affirm.

He sighs and glances at me before he jumps to his feet. “I wish I did too.”

47

Erin

Present

I’m not sure who I am right now.

I’m not the girl I was a month ago, or even a week ago.

I’m another girl, one who’s only visiting. I wish it were possible for her to stay, but I don’t see how she could.

I wake happy and float into the office. The minute I can escape, I’m heading to Brendan’s, my clothes shed within seconds of climbing his stairs. We do not discuss what we’re doing and all the ways it’s wrong. We don’t talk about the future. We are, like he said, in the bubble. It is temporary, a mistake that was made and one we will somehow need to correct, but until that bubble pops, I’ve decided to enjoy it as if these are my very last days on Earth.

The only thing it doesn’t make better is my illustrious boss, Timothy.

“I came by your desk yesterday afternoon,” he says, leaning into my cubicle on Wednesday, staring me down the way a parent might a misbehaving child.

“Oh?”

“And you weren’t here,” he adds.

I don’t know what his problem is, but I’m done jumping when he says jump for a shitty salary and no chance of promotion.

“Yes, I kind of figured that part out.”

“Is there a reason you’re suddenly leaving early?”

“I’m not leaving early, Timothy. Our hours here are 8 to 4:30.”

“That’s the minimum requirement, Erin. And as one of the senior employees here, I thought you understood that more was expected of you.”

Senior in what way? I long to ask. I don’t have a better office or better pay or better leave. If the only benefit to being a senior employee is longer hours and higher expectations, I have a few suggestions for what he can do with the honor.

“Anyway,” he continues, “the chancellor wants to see mock-ups of the entire branding campaign tomorrow at three, including the new stuff he asked for.”

I very nearly laugh. But then, this is Timothy, who’s never made a joke in his life and therefore must be serious. What he’s asking is impossible. He wants copy for a 10-page promotional brochure, a four-page magazine article, and four recruitment pieces—and then he wants a designer to have them all laid out—within 24 hours.

“That’s impossible. We don’t even have copy yet.”

“I didn’t come here for a status report, Erin. I came here to tell you my expectations. And all of those items had better be on my desk by 2:30.”

I watch his retreating back, and I imagine quitting. I imagine showing up tomorrow at 2:30, empty-handed aside from my resignation letter, and saying, “Here’s your campaign, asshole.” It’s the kind of thing that works for other people—I guarantee Harper could do it and somehow wind up floating out of here on wings of glory, moving a week later into a far better job.

But I’m not Harper. My arc has never gone the way of a Lifetime movie with its inevitable triumph. Which means I will not be seeing Brendan as planned, nor experiencing everything else he detailed in the filthy text he sent this morning. That fact alone makes me hate this job more fervently than anything else that’s happened here over the past four years.

I call Brendan and explain that I can’t come over because I will instead be crafting 20 pages of starry-eyed prose about the glories of ECU.

“You sure about that?” he asks. “I’m making fajitas.”

I groan in dismay. “Oh my God. You know that’s my favorite. But I doubt I’ll even have time to eat.”

“Just come over,” he says, sighing. “Bring your laptop. You can work while I cook.”