Page 2 of She Was Made for Me

“Nothing,” Deb says quickly. “You’re an amazing assistant, and I don’t want to lose you at all, but last week the board announced huge budget cuts to all departments, which means no more unnecessary spending.”

A disbelieving huff escapes me at her words. I’ve worked at this company for four years, giving them everything, only to be described as ‘unnecessary.’

Ouch.

“I can’t believe this,” I retort. “So all the assistants are just… gone?”

Deb grimaces again, this time not meeting my eyes. “Not exactly. Departments have to share assistants, going forward.”

I watch her awkwardly twist her coffee cup back and forth on her desk, shame washing over me as the meaning behind her words becomes clear.

“Right,” I mutter. “And I didn’t make the cut.”

Deb forces her gaze to mine. “Please don’t think of it like that. I fought hard for you, Vi. You deserve this job more than anyone. Hell, they should have promoted you to assistant project manager years ago, but…” She shakes her head. “You know what this industry is like. It’s a boy’s club, and Scott has more pull with the board than I do, so—”

“I get it,” I say, rubbing my face. I really wish I wasn’t having this conversation with the imprint of Deb’s office carpet on my cheek. I must look so unprofessional.

“I’m sorry. If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be going anywhere.”

I nod stiffly, untouched by her words. I get thatshedoesn’t want to let me go—she’s always been good to me—but it just goes to show how fickle this industry is, that this company doesn’t value me at all.

I swallow back the acidic taste in my mouth, woodenly rising to collect my stuff from the floor again, then stalk to my tiny desk in the corner of Deb’s office, trying to ignore the burning sensation behind my eyes as I gather my things with shaking hands.

Don’t cry. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

It’s not only the humiliation of not being chosen to stay; it’s the fear gnawing in the pit of my stomach at knowing I have to go home, in the middle of the day, to an empty apartment. My job is—well,was—my life. It was my sense of purpose, my guiding star, my reason for getting out of bed in the morning. Without that, I don’t know who I am.

Despite being at the company for years, it only takes me five minutes to pack up my desk. Deb tries to give me a lengthy goodbye, telling me how much she’s valued me, how much she’ll miss me, but I make my excuses to leave. Each word from her mouth only twists the knife.

I don’t say goodbye to anyone else as I flee the building, the sting of humiliation threatening to send tears spilling at the slightest nudge. The air is cool as the elevator lets me out into the parking garage, my arms cradling a box of items from my desk. It’s not much; notebooks, pens, stapler, photo frame with a picture of me and my parents at my graduation, and a sad little succulent that has been on the brink of death for six months.

It’ll most definitely die now. I’m sure of it.

I dump the box into the trunk of my car and slink around to the driver’s side. As soon as the door is closed, I drop my forehead onto the steering wheel and let out a low “ughhhhhhh.”

I’m twenty-five and unemployed. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

* * *

By the timeI arrive home, I’m fuming. How dare this company just dispose of me asunnecessary spending, like I haven’t given them some of the best years of my life?

I storm into my apartment, throwing the box of desk supplies onto the kitchen counter and slamming the door closed behind me. The sun is a bright glare streaking in through the open blinds, and as I reach for the cord to close them, I have to shield my eyes. I’m not used to being home at this time of day—I’m usually up to my elbows in emails or fetching coffee from the in-house barista in the lobby of our building. I lose track of time when I’m at work, buzzing from the energy of a busy office, high on the constant stream of incoming tasks that keep me on my toes all day. By the time I leave the building, most nights the sky is a bruised purple. On a really productive day, it’s pitch black.

But this morning it was a brilliant blue, and I hated every minute of the drive home. I hated seeing my neighbors trimming their roses, the power-walkers returning from their daily route to do God knows what all day. Why aren’t these people atwork?

I live in this Silicon Valley neighborhood only because it’s close to the office, not because I love it. I feel a familiar pang of longing for home, one I’ve gotten used to tuning out in the years I’ve been away from New York.If I was at work, I think bitterly,I’d be too busy to think about this.

I gaze around my apartment—a place I’ve seen so many times before, but never stopped to reallynotice. The walls are painted an unassuming beige, and the sofa is a charcoal three-seater that came with the place. All the furniture did. I’ve never given it a lot of thought, because I don’t spend much time here. But now…

Unease snakes through me at the knowledge that I have nothing planned for the rest of… well, however long it takes me to find another job. I can’t remember the last time I had an expanse of free time, stretching out before me like a vast horizon. Some people might be delighted at the prospect, but not me.

In fact, I feel vaguely ill.

I drop onto the sofa and reach for my laptop, desperate to dosomething. I’ll start by getting my resume out there. As an assistant I made plenty of contacts, so I have no shortage of people to reach out to. The sooner I get started, the better. I should have done this months ago. No—Deb was right—yearsago.

My role as Deb’s assistant was only supposed to be for six months, maybe a year at a stretch. I’d taken the job on the assumption that they’d promote me as soon as I’d proven myself, and Deb told me at every available opportunity how valuable she thought I was, that she wanted to promote me as soon as she could. It’s not her fault I’ve ended up here. It’s mine. When the one-year mark rolled around, I should have actively started looking for new roles. I should have realized that, despite Deb’s best intentions, a promotion wasn’t going to fall into my lap, no matter how much initiative I showed, no matter how many late nights I worked.

My fingers hover over the keys as I consider my options. I don’t want to apply for another assistant job. I’m a qualified project manager, and it’s time I get the job I deserve. It won’t be as easy as getting into another assistant role, but I need to fight for this. I’m sick of not utilizing my talents.

---