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“Wherever you can find adventure, do so.” - Bex
My nose immediately wrinkles as I bend over to sniff the ice cream tub in my hand. The date says it’s good, but the horrific smell coming out of it claims otherwise.
My assistant stares at me, his tweed suit in perfect condition, but the concern on his face is what causes me to abruptly stand up from where I’m leaning over the table in the break room.
“Does this smell funny to you?” I ask, sliding the ice cream tub across the table to where he’s sitting.
Detrick continues to stare at me for several long beats. “I’ll put on fifteen pounds if I so much as inhale near that. Get it away from me.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“You’re asking me to sniff ice cream like I’m some sort of bloodhound. The only ridiculous person here isyou.”
He’s probably right, but the stench of the offensive ice cream has ruined my sweet tooth moment. I snap the lid back on and stand to chuck the entire tub into the trash can for good riddance. “There, now neither of us will be tempted.”
Detrick snorts. He’s been my personal assistant since I started at Hastings Center six years ago. The man thrives off organizational skills that I severely lack and would die for. I got him a label maker last Christmas, and I’m not entirely sure it was him, but the kitchenette on our floor now has printed labels for every random item in this room and then some.
“What do you think this meeting is all about?” I ask as I collapse into one of the metal chairs surrounding our table.
“It’s probably another sexual harassment meeting.” Detrick rolls his coffee colored eyes. “You freak out at Harry Styles being in the buildingonceand now suddenly there’s a monthly meeting about proper workplace etiquette.”
“You’re forgetting the part where you asked him if you could have his babies in front of eight reporters who were recording live.” The cameras went insane flashing photos after that whole debacle. I thought my father, who runs Hastings Center, was going to have a heart attack when he found out.
“It’s probably to announce the winner of the award.”
I frown at Detrick’s dismissal tone over such a large part of our company image. “It’s nowhere close to being time to announce. It’s September. The announcement comes in December.” On Christmas to be precise. Yes, the person who wins usually knows in advance but not four months.
No, this has to be something else unrelated to the announcement of who the Hastings Humanitarian Award will be going to. Unlike the Nobel Peace Prize, this coveted award is strictly for American organizations that are compassionate and aiding the welfare of those in unfortunate circumstances through charitable actions. The winning organization founder is chosen every two years and given a two million dollar grant to continue their funding for supplies or research for their organization.
For the most part these are charities, brought to Hastings’ attention through previous winners or write-ins that people think deserve the consideration and award to further their work. No one is aware of their participation in the group of nominees until late fall, allowing them time to travel to New York to attend the Hastings Christmas Ball where the winner will be announced in front of everyone, even though the winner tends to be aware early November.
I’m not on the Hastings Humanitarian Award Committee though, so it’s doubtful that my father wants to speak to me about it. We rarely speak on a good day. It’s not like he hates me, he just doesn’t know how to be a parent.And that’s depressing.
“It’s something else,” I insist, trying to force down the clog in my throat at the mere acknowledgement that soon Dad and I will be in the same room.
“A promotion?” Detrick lifts his coffee mug to his lips. A flicker of hope shines in his eyes. “If you get a promotion, will you take me with you?”
“As if I could survive without your ability to plan every moment of my life.” It’s a sad but true fact. All of my calendars, appointments, date nights, grocery shopping,everythingis practically run by Detrick. Apparently when I first started, I mentioned I could keep my own calendar and was late to two meetings. After that he banned me from planning my own life.
God bless him for saving me from myself.
“I don’t think it’s a promotion either.” There’s a nagging feeling in the center of my chest telling me to run out the door and fake a health emergency after Detrick told me I had an appointment with Dad when I got into the office. Is Ebola still a thing? Maybe I have a tapeworm from the turkey sandwich I ate for breakfast after I sat down at my desk. I could make up something semi-believable, but I know Dad will still track me down if he’s hellbent on discussing whatever this is about.
Detrick pulls his arm up to his face in an obnoxious movement, tapping the face of his rose gold watch with one long finger. “Your time is up, Cinderella. Get your butt up to your father.”
My heart starts to pound as I feel sweat gather at the edge of my hairline. It’s going to melt the minimal amount of makeup I have on right off my face. Standing up, I glance towards the office beyond the kitchenette and envision the elevators suddenly coming to a stop. Surely an hour of inconvenience being trapped inside one would be enough of an adventure I could be sent home for the day.
I sigh as I dismiss the idea. My life can be summed up as waiting for the next shoe to drop. Normal people only have one shoe drop at a time. But me? Bexley Hastings, unluckiest person alive, has an infinite amount of shoes just dangling on the precipice.
Dragging my feet to the elevators, I watch with a forlorn look at the busybodies roaming about in the bullpen. People are practically shouting at one another while others type a mile a minute. Down here, we don’t deal with charity events often. We write speeches that inspire people to give to organizations, show thanks for attending, and rally political parties together. A fun fact? Politicians hardly ever write their own speeches. They pay English majors with too much time on their hands to do it. I’m the pinnacle political speech writer here in New York and surrounding states.
The elevator doors open, the sterile machine beckoning me deeper into its gray depths. It takes actual willpower to force my feet to behave and move forward.
This isn’t going to be the end of the world.
Sure, Dad and I have barely spoken in the sixteen years since I was twelve. We see each other a month whenever Nana Noel demands family dinner to try and bridge the peace. Somehow she still has hope in her little old heart that Dad will mend the bridge he broke, but I gave up on hope long ago. We are awkward strangers doing an awkward dance together and it isn’t going to change any time soon.
The elevator spits me out on the top floor. Whereas downstairs looks like a madhouse, up here is where the magic happens. Where the meetings with famous people occur who are interested in Hastings Center. There’s marble on the floor, gold on the ceilings, and beige paint that probably cost more than my rent. This place isn’t built for work, it’s built to draw in the ostentatious crowd.
