Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32760 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 164(@200wpm)___ 131(@250wpm)___ 109(@300wpm)
He pulls out his keycard and swipes it, and the elevator doors open. I step in and turn around and look at him, feeling as though I’ve just experienced the greatest case of emotional whiplash in history.
He looks back at me, and I search his face for something–anything that would give away some information on what he’s thinking or feeling at this moment.
But there’s nothing.
“Good night, Rain.”
He swipes his card and the doors close.
“Good night, Marlon.”
3
RAIN
I wake up to sun blasting me in the eyes and the smell of coffee teasing my nostrils. I smile and stretch, but then instantly panic when I realize just why it is I’m smelling coffee.
“Holy shit!” I gasp as I sit up and grab my phone.
Nine forty-five. I was supposed to be at work at 8:00. Well, officially 8:00, but I always show up around 7:45 just to make sure Janelle has her latte when she arrives at 8:00. Then I have an extra ten minutes or so to make sure I can get anything else done that might need to be done before the day starts.
She’s going to kill me.
I see one missed call from the office, and a single text from her.
I open it.
Where are you?
It was sent at 8:01.
Janelle is not the kind of woman who would send a long chain of texts badgering me about getting to the office or asking me continuously why it is I’m not there yet. She feels it’s beneath her to do something like that, so a single text is all I get. And if I’m being honest, a single text from her is somehow more terrifying than a thousand from any other boss I’ve ever worked for.
I drop my phone and scramble for my clothes. I guess today will be a no-shower-ponytail day.
I grab my bag and my shoes and race into the kitchen where there’s still some coffee left in the machine. My roommate, Christine, must have made it before she went off to work. She and I are both so busy that we never end up seeing each other, and mostly end up communicating via text, notes, and who leaves who leftovers or coffee on the counter. But we both are on time with the rent, and neither of us throws crazy parties or trashes the place, so it’s worked out well for the last eight months.
I’m out the door in seven minutes and running for the subway. My normal routine would be to take my time, stop at the local coffee shop for an espresso and a muffin, then mentally prepare myself for a day of working for Janelle while I eat and drink on the train to work. But today is not a normal day.
Today I’m in high gear the whole way with a crappy homemade coffee in one hand, a protein bar that tastes like chalk in the other, my purse and my bag bouncing and bashing me in the back as I sprint through Manhattan.
I manage to just make my train and even find a seat next to a nice-looking old lady wearing a sea green cloche hat that some hipster from Brooklyn would love to thrift–this lady of course has probably had it for decades.
“I like your hat,” I tell her.
She looks at me and simply smiles, and I realize she has ear buds in and probably didn’t even hear what I just said.
High-tech grandma.
I’m so filled with anxiety that my hands are trembling as I step off the train at my work stop. And it’s definitely not the coffee. Whatever brew Christine made was insanely weak compared to the stuff I normally get. All I can think about is how things are going to go when I get upstairs and have to face an angrier than normal Janelle.
I have to stop myself from chewing the inside of my cheek on the elevator ride up. It doesn’t make it any easier that the entire time I’ve been racing across Manhattan, I’ve had this extra soreness between my legs thanks to Mr. Marlon from last night.
The elevator doors ding and open to the sea of bustling bodies. I catch the eye of one of the secretaries, a tablet in her arms, and I see a look of confusion come across her face as she sees me step past her.
She must be wondering either what I’m doing here so late, or how the news that I’ve been fired hasn’t gotten back to me.
Let’s hope it’s not the second one.
I make a beeline for Janelle’s office, which is in the very back, and step through the door to find her with Randy, one of our sample sewers, staring at a rack of clothing samples he’s brought up from downstairs.
Randy may only be forty-six, but he carries himself with the wisdom of an old sage or a wise grandpa you just always want to be around because he’s so warm and loveable.