Page 101 of Snapshot

“Fine by me.”

“Do you still want to go to the cafeteria?” Spencer asks, glancing at the number panel inside the nonmoving elevator.

“Yes,” I answer simply. “I just don’t know what floor it’s on.”

“Oh,” she says, laughing before hitting the number one. It lights up a bright red. “First floor. Second floor is the mail room and copy center.” She rolls her wrist. “Also known as my second home.” Spencer points to the number three on the elevator. “Marketing directors and a few meeting rooms. Fourth floor, more meeting and education rooms. Fifth through tenthare cubicles and customer service. Starting at eleven are the executive offices…which is where you are, of course.”

I blink at her. “I’m never going to remember all that.”

She smiles. “I’ll show you around later if you’d like?”

I touch the back of my hands underneath my eyes. “Does it look like I’ve been crying?”

Spencer holds out her hand, pausing just an inch away from my face. “May I?” I nod, and she immediately wipes under my right eye, cleaning up my makeup. “There you go. Good as new.”

“How old are you, Spencer?” I ask as we reach the first floor, the elevator doors pulling back apart. She smooths down her neat dress and then runs her hands over her braid. “Twenty-two…in six months.”

I raise a brow. “That was a weird way to say twenty-one.” I follow her lead as she crosses the main lobby heading toward the back of the building where all the delicious smells are coming from. I lift my nose and sniff twice like a drug dog that caught a whiff of the good stuff. There’s teriyaki somewhere in this building.

“I hate telling people I’m twenty-one. I know the impression that leaves. But I have great grades, I’ve never once been to work late, and I’m not some party girl. I’m engaged, actually.” She wiggles her left hand in the air, but it’s ringless.

“Are you missing something?” I ask.

“Oh, I meant it as a gesture. We’re still picking one out.” Her eyes drop down to her moving feet. “If I’m going to wear it forever, I just want it to be the right one.”

I’m picking up on a weird vibe, so I take my best guess. “There’s nothing shameful about humility. My dad proposed with a cheap ring, and then my parents upgraded when they could afford it. Married for over thirty years, now.” I smile at her.

“Oh, it’s not that. My fiancé actually has a great job. He’s a junior partner at a big law firm.”

“Ah, an older man.”

She shrugs. “A little. We just haven’t had time to really do any of the wedding stuff…or ring shop. He works nonstop.”

I nod. “I’m becoming quite familiar with the notion.”

We stop in front of the bustling cafeteria. I was expecting a little coffee shop and maybe a lunch line similar to my grade school. But this is unbelievable. It looks like the food court at the mall. There are about ten different cuisine options shoved into one corridor. My mouth is watering. All of my tastebuds are awoken…confused as all hell, but awake nonetheless.

“Spencer, I don’t even know where to start. This is like a food festival.”

She laughs. “The French bistro, you have to call ahead with your order, but everything else has short lines. What are you in the mood for?”

“Teriyaki,” I answer.

“Ah, Fuji Mountain,” she says, pointing to the back corner. “You can build your own hibachi. Come on.”

She holds out her elbow like a hook, a giant smile on her face. Well, here it is, folks. My first official friend in Miami. And she’s a chipper, twenty-one-year-old copy-coffee girl who reminds me so much of myself at twenty-one. Outside of the stable job and great grades, that is.

“Spencer, how about a fat raise and a new boss?” I ask, returning her smile. She blinks at me, looking dumbfounded. “Or would you prefer to stick with Casey?”

“Not even a little bit,” she musters out.

“Good. Then from now on, you work directly for me. My executive assistant.” I link my arm in hers. “Please don’t leave my side. Your job is to make sure I don’t do anything else stupid.”

After lunch with Spencer, I told her to go home early for the day. I spent the rest of the afternoon locked in my office, comforting myself with Dottie’s letters. There are so many different stories. Her letters read like a stream of consciousness, like she was narrating her life to Jacob so he could have a piece of her.

Every envelope containing a Polaroid is a treat. A little glimpse into memories almost lost. What would’ve happened if I never found this box? Who else would’ve been curious enough to open it? Would anyone else treasure the memories like I do?

One letter, in particular, eases the ache of my uncomfortable first day at Hessler Group and the obvious disapproval of the leadership team.

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