Page 14 of Desserts for Stressed People

That’s a brilliant scene. I settle the pillow against the headboard and watch with a smile as the DeLorean comes out of the truck. When I grab the phone to tell him that’s another remarkable part, he’s already texted the same.

We continue, scene after scene. We talk about the movie, about the sequels, about dessert. That’s all, and yet it’s the most interesting conversation I’ve ever entertained. He tells me he makes a mean crème brûlée, and I’m increasingly convinced that he’s a baker, but I don’t ask. I keep the illusion going until I drift off with my phone tight in my fist, when it’s too late for me to fall asleep and too early to wake up.

And Shane’s at the very core of my thoughts.

Chapter4

A Series of Events

I move yetanother item from the “to-do” list to the “review” one on my board and sigh. Sometimes it feels that’s all project management is about—moving tasks from one spot to the other.

Glancing down at my white desk, I stare at a little stain of coffee. I fetch the cloth I keep in the second drawer and rub it until it’s spotless again. Only then, the irk in the back of my throat is gone and my heart feels at peace.

“Are you coming to lunch?” Kimberly asks as she strides past me, leaving a trail of flowery perfume.

“No, today’s a circus. I’ll eat something at my desk,” I say, pointing at my bag. If I take half an hour to eat lunch, I’ll have to stay half an hour late. Though I love my job, I’d rather eat a mouthful of wasps today.

“Okay, see you later.”

Her red hair and pink pantsuit disappear down the stairs and my gaze flies to the many glass walls in the office, covered in hand smudges and fingerprints. I’d love to pass my squeegee over them.

With a sigh, I grab what Emma calls my SSS, or Super Sad Salad. It’s my standard lunch, though I usually eat it in the cafeteria. While I munch on the first piece of lettuce, I move to the next task. I need to talk to the web developers about the landing page for the campaign, and that will not be a pleasant chat. Aside from the language barrier, they’re always late. And the editor has an ad copy ready for me to read through.

By the time I’m done with my SSS, I send the editor an email, then walk to the restroom. My heels click-clack on the marble floors, and I wave at my colleagues in their offices, also surrounded by glass walls.

Dirty glass, but I try to push the thought away.

On my way back to the office, Julia calls out my name. “Do you have a minute?” she asks, flipping her long dreads back.

I don’t, but she’s the director’s assistant and probably just being polite by asking. Whether or not I have that minute, she’ll just tell me what she needs and I’ll have to do it. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Billy wants to see you.”

Essentially-Billy, like he’s known around these parts, wants to see me, which probably means the clients complained we are two days past our deadline. With a pitiful squeeze of my shoulder, she walks away, and I follow her to the last office to the right. The only one that isn’t a glass box, because Billy likes his privacy.

When I knock on the wooden door, he waves me in. He’s on his phone, and as I take my place on the opposite side of his desk, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, she’s actually here right now. I’ll let you know.”

While he mumbles a series of “okays” on the phone, I notice the sweaty pit stains on his shirt and the dark green leaves of the plant on the side of his desk that are turning yellow. Pressing my lips tight, I breathe through my nose, trying to soothe the growing itch. I’ll mention the ficus to Julia on my way back.

Essentially-Billy ends the phone call and claps. “Phew. What a shitty day. How are you, Heav?”

I show him my best smile, but I hate it when he does that. My name is ridiculous, butHeavjust sounds like the verbhave, which is worse. “I’m fine. Lots of work to do.”

“Yes, that’s why I wanted to see you,” he says, fixing his tie. Since we started working together, he’s gained some weight, and his black hair is now salt and pepper, just like his beard. “I’ve spoken to the client, and they canceled the project.”

I take a few seconds to process his words, but they bounce from one side of my mind to the other, like they’re in a language I don’t understand. “What? We have been working on this project for months. We’re a week away from launching.”

He shakes his head. “They don’t have the money for it, or for anything else, really.Essentially, they’re closing.”

I’m so shocked, I can’t even enjoy the fact that he said the first of manyessentiallys. In five years of working here, this has never happened. “What now? We just...stop working on it?”

“Pretty much,” he confirms.

“Oh...” My eyes stick to his desk. I can’t say I hate the news, because this campaign was utterly boring, but I’ll also have to make a thousand different calls. “Will they pay everyone for their job? Freelancers and consultants?”

“Of course. You can submit their invoices.Essentially, get everyone to stop working on this as soon as possible.”

I wet my lips, trying to shake the shock off. “Okay. When will I be assigned to the next project?”

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