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JENN
Two weeks later,I am very, extremely, profoundly not fine. I’m scream-into-pillows, binge-watch-Virgin-River-while-crying, “this cake has espresso frosting so it counts as a breakfast food” not fine.
“Naïve,” I tell Millie, who is taking a big sip of coffee. “That’s what I was. Why—why—was I sure that work would take my side against such a lucrative client? Because it’s obviously the right thing to do? Since when doesthatmatter to them?”
“Assholes,” Millie says, with loyal ferocity.
“The asshole-iest,” I agree, shoveling another bite of cake into my mouth.
SNZ’s human resources called me the day after the Karl debacle and fired me—not, as they were very clear, because I refused to tolerate being groped and propositioned. Instead, they’d rolled out a list longer than a drugstore receipt, detailing their flimsy reasoning. Among my non-crimes:
Sent personal email to friend on company time, with link to a cat meme and the caption LOL.
Not stapling documents at the angle preferred by management.
And, my personal favorite:Argumentative.
For eight years, I have been intentionally, devotedly agreeable at work, so I pressed HR for details. They clarified the complaint came from me watercooler talk aboutDancing with the Stars. Yep—that’s right! I got fired for gently joking that my pick would beat a partner’s favorite on a reality dancing competition.
Oh, and apparently I’m a loud typer… From within my private office. It’s a charade, the whole thing.
This is why I’ve reconnected with a longtime friend: self-pity cake. Everyone thinks ice cream is the go-to for personal strife, and I don’t disagree… Because ice cream tastes great with cake. So, I gorged on ganache. I devoured Devil’s food. Now, we’re savoring a Savarin from the bakery around the corner.
“I think you have a legal case,” Millie says, with a sigh. “Especially after yesterday.”
Ah, yes. Yesterday. I proudly strutted into an interview for a potential new job. See, world? I can pick myself right back up. But when I arrived, they had just reached out to my references. Greg told them I was “aggressive and combative.” Me! Reliable, play-it-safe Jenn. No amount of explanation about Mr. Handsy Client makes me seem like anything but a liability.
“We’re not looking to wade into any #MeToo moments,” the woman said, with a nervous shudder.
I wasn’t looking to wade into his groping mitts either, but there’s no changing it now.
I press my face into a throw pillow on my couch and groan. “I don’t want to get wrapped up in legal fees and everything. I just want to move on.”
And yet, SNZ has peed in my pool of job opportunities. I’ve worked at there since I graduated college and, without a reference from them, I’m in real trouble. I have savings, but not for more than a couple months.
“Somehow, this will lead to an even better job,” Millie decides, confidently. “It has to. After that disgusting pig felt you up and your traitor boss fired you? Karma will come around. Therewillbe options.”
“Yeah,” I say. Because maybe, with enough certainty, I can manifest this into reality. “This path feels crappy, but it might lead to my dream job.”
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. I wince, seeing the number. “It’s my mother, the confidence-buster herself, sensing that I tried to engage in positive thinking.”
I click ignore. “She’s like a shark, sensing blood in the water. She can probably smell that I’m unemployed again. And eating carbs.”
I scrape the last bit of Chantilly cream off my plate for good measure. In the past few years, I’ve made a point of befriending my body. We’re in for the long haul, right? I might as well nurture some gratitude and treat her well. It’s a newer, healthier mindset—no thanks to my mother, who harps on every perceived flaw and additional pounds I’ve put on since college.
Because apparently maintaining the body of an under slept eighteen-year-old subsisting on coffee and grilled cheese is what we should all aspire to.
Isla is stirring, and Millie gently touches her nose. Then, looking up at me, “Come on our walk with us. It’ll be good to get some fresh air. Maybe stop for another coffee?”
She’s offered for the past few days, but I always pass. I’m trying to treat job-hunting like a full-time gig: keep steady hours with it, stay focused, log out at five.
“Tomorrow,” I tell Millie.
She gives me a pointed look. “I’m holding you to that.”
I hold the door open for her and Isla, but as she leaves, Blake exits the elevator, dressed like he’s stepped straight off a yacht, dock shoes and all.
“Blake, hey,” I pause, surprised to see him. He came to check on me? Maybe he’s not the over-coiffed asshole I thought. “What are you doing here? I mean, come on in,” I add, correcting myself.
