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“It couldn’t hurt,” I respond with another shrug. “He could tell him I’m wonderful and a brilliant designer and have impeccable taste and shit like that. Basically, just the facts, you know?”
“Just the facts, huh?”
“Yes. Just the facts,” I repeat. “Then, maybe, my bastard boss will pull that giant stick out of his tight, firm ass and stop throwing shade my way.”
She smirks. “His tight, firm ass?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay…” She pauses for a moment, and before she can continue, a soft, amused laugh escapes her pretty red lips.
“Stop laughing, you biotch.” I glare, and she raises both hands in the air.
“I swear, I’m not laughing at you, just at the situation,” she explains through another fucking laugh. “And I am truly hearing what you’re throwing down here, but there’s a pretty big hole in your plan…”
“And what’s that?”
“Trent Turner can’t be the only one to stop throwing shade.”
I scoff. “I don’t throw shade.”
She eyes me for a long moment, and I sigh.
“Ugh. Never mind. Forget it.”
Emory grins and wraps me up in a tight hug. “I promise, it’s all going to be okay. I’ve got your back, friend. Hell, I’ll always have your back, even in the moments you might not realize.”
My eyes narrow at the careful construction of her wording, but I decide to let it go and focus on the important shit.
Tomorrow is a fresh beginning—the first official day of my new job and a chance to open up new doors.
I’ll own a house again one day. I’ll be on my feet soon.
And life as I know it is going to be bigger and better than ever.
Greer
The very first day of my new job has arrived, and the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and some other shit that happy people notice is definitely going on just outside of my new apartment.
Normally, I would focus on the drunk guy puking against the building across the street, but not today. Today, I am a shimmering beacon of positivity.
My new apartment is still a bit of a mess with boxes and stuff scattered around, and I’ve had exactly zero opportunity to put my own little design touches throughout the massive space, but last night, I managed to sleep a solid six hours.
Sure, it’s two hours short of the recommended amount, but a miracle considering the circumstances.
This is a big day. A monumental day, in fact.
I have everything to prove.
Yeah, you also have everything to lose.
I shake off my inner-bitchy-subconscious and revert my focus back to positivity.
Today, you are a positive ray of sunshine, Greer.
A real beacon of light. So bright and shiny that if you lifted your skirt, your crotch could be used as a flipping flashlight.
I ignore the tightness in my chest and give myself one last final pep talk.
Today, you will be light and airy. Focused but breezy. Serious but ecstatic.
You are going to nail this first day so hard, it’ll be screaming your name by the time you get home tonight.
Quickly, I nab my keys from the counter, sling my blazer on over my blouse, and drop my cell phone into the outside pocket of my purse.
I heft it off the counter and nearly crumple under the weight of everything I’ve got inside, but you never know what you’re going to need on the first day of work for a new company.
I have my sketch pad, pencils, fabric samples, previous blueprints, furniture catalogs for my favorite designers, lighting brochures, and one tiny bag of cashews—just to give me something to chew on if the nerves turn my stomach.
I considered packing a change of clothes, a drink, lunch, and maybe a Toyota Supra, but the limits of my shoulder strength are finite, even if the bounds of what my anxiety about the first day has pushed me to are not.
I take one last peek in the mirror to assess my appearance.
Sharp black skirt, smart white blouse—that I actually ironed—panty hose, and a black blazer with gold buttons make up my ensemble, and my eye makeup is light but striking.
It’s exactly what I wrote down when I woke up at two a.m., dreaming about my outfit, and even if I hate it, it’s all I have time for.
I take a deep breath, grip the knob of my front door, and prepare myself to face the music.
“Here goes nothing.”
My door squeaks a little as I open it to step outside, and I make a mental note to apply some WD-40 to the hinges when I get home.
The manic part of me wants to do it now, but the realistic part of me knows I don’t have time.
That’s the kind of shit that’s always making me late, and there is absolutely no room to be tardy today.
No, I think with a sardonic shake of my head. Your new boss already dislikes you enough.
