Page 13 of Return Billionaire to Sender

“No,” she whispers, clutching her briefcase, blinking some more. “Oh my god, Noelle, am I going to do this?”

“Yes!” I practically scream.

“Yes!” She reaches out and grabs my hand. “Because, why not?”

“Right?” I say.

“I could leave this whole nightmare behind,” she says.

I stand up and point to the lobby button. “This could be your next stop.”

“Let me see if there’s stillroom.” She pulls out her phone and calls her friend and tells her she’s thinking about going along. I’m trembling with excitement for her. Because her job sounds like it seriously sucks. Her friend’s squealing—I can hear it through the phone.

She hangs up and tells me that her friend is gonna make some calls. There’s still a need for teachers and there might even be empty seats on her connecting flight to Amsterdam. The friend is checking.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck in this elevator with a letter carrier and you’re telling me to quit my job.”

“Why can’t a letter carrier tell you to quit your job?” I ask.

Her phone rings. It’s her friend, and it sounds like good news. “Okay, then, I’m in.”

She puts away her phone. “Oh my god, I’m gonna do it. I am—I’m just doing it.”

“Yay!” I say.

“And I’m going to quit with no notice. I’m just going to walk out and never look back as punishment for them sending me on the jerk missions.”

“Are you sure you shouldn’t let them know?” I try.

“No,” she says gleefully. “Let them figure it out when I don’t show up.”

Inwardly I wince—I’m a total rule follower; I would never dream of walking off a job without giving some kind of notice.

We’re stuck for a good twenty minutes more. In that time she looks up a storage unit place and calls some people to help get her stuff into storage. The overseas-English-teacher people are working on an expedited visa.

The engineers tell us they’re finishing up.

She turns to me.“Thank you. I’m like, happy again.”

“You’re welcome. But you made the plan. You’re taking the leap.”

“But you gave me the push.” She digs a business card out of her briefcase and hands it to me. “That email address won’t work as soon as they figure out I’m AWOL, but the mobile’s good. If you ever need anything, you got it. If you ever go to Estonia, you have a place to crash, sister.”

“Send me a postcard,” I say. I grab a scrap of paper and write down my home address and phone number.

“Cool beans.” She takes it.

Finally, the car lurches to the next floor and the doors open. We get out into the cool air. It’s the fifth floor, and guys with toolboxes and phones are waiting. They apologize profusely. One hands us waters. Another does some work on the button panel.

We’re supposed to get into the other elevator to continue on to the sixth floor, but Stella informs them that she’s going to the lobby.

I hug her and wish her luck.

Talking to Stella was a perfect diversion, but ten minutes later I’m back to reality, getting out alone on the sixth floor with my bogus delivery. I head for the front desk, grateful that there’s no sign of Janice or Anya.

Like everything in this place, the front desk is sleek and polished and possibly made of black marble. The two men and one woman perched behind it are intent on their work.

“You got this,” I say to myself, pressing my bag to my belly. If Stella can drop everything and go to Estonia, I can pretend Malcolm Blackberg’s personal signature is required on a delivery.

---