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CHAPTER 3
Day 2 Thursday 8/2
ELLIE: Hey, are there stalls in the men’s bathroom? If not, “Eric” might have to take breaks to run down to the coffee shop on the corner.
JACK: Probably? I have my own bathroom. Executive privilege, you know. You could always check with your buddy, Rictor.
P.S. Are you seriously texting me about pee breaks right now?
When this is over, you’re going to OWE me. BIGLY.
ELLIE: Some of us have small bladders, Holt. And this is a key part of the Preparation for Possible Obstacles Phase of any journalistic mission.
P.S. Rictor is not my buddy. And you’re going to owe ME bigly after I’ve added valuable perspective to your worldview.
P.P.S. I may or may not be peeing as I text this.
JACK: Too much information, Seyfried.
ELLIE: You’re the one who wanted to be kept in the loop on every aspect of my probe. Just holding up my end of the bargain.
JACK: I appreciate your integrity, and I’m sure we’ll find a way to accommodate your small bladder. You should be more worried about having the man cred to walk into the men’s room in the first place.
It’s not too late to back out.
ELLIE: I refuse to back out before I’ve even begun. Stop freaking out. I’ve got this, Jack. I promise.
JACK: Right… If you have any more burning bathroom questions, feel free to text me. I’ll be up wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
ELLIE: Will do. Night, night, worrywart.
JACK: Good night, Eleanor. May you sleep well and have manly dreams.
ELLIE: You, too, boss man. ;-)
JACK: Oh, and Ellie? Be careful tomorrow, okay? For both our sakes.
CHAPTER 4
Ellie
Day 3 Friday 8/3
Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.
It’s one of my father’s favorite sayings, one I heard over and over again growing up. Like the time I begged for a pixie haircut (disaster). Or when I fought for a place on the track team then decided I hated running, jumping over hurdles, and just about everything track-flavored except hanging out with my friends on the way to the meets.
And then there was the Harvard Business School disaster, landing that coveted spot only to realize finance and I went together like peas and caramel corn.
Dad refused to let me quit track, and my regret didn’t magically restore the twenty inches of hair I’d hacked off, but I did transfer from the business school to the journalism program halfway through my first year of grad school. I wasn’t raised to be a quitter, but I can pivot when I need to.
Like when my sanity depends on it.
I could pivot right now, stay hidden at the back of the elevator, and ride it back down to the first floor where my roadkill-scented mustache and I can exit onto Vesey Street and disappear into the suited throng swarming the financial sector in search of coffee, bagels, and a place to smoke a pre-work cigarette.
No one would know I chickened out.
Well, no one except Jack, and he thinks I’m ridiculous anyway, so no journalist street cred lost there.
