Page 11 of Unconventionally, Elle
"You know," Rachel said as she finished the letter, "I really love the part about 'exploring new opportunities.' Even though I know you're super pissed, I wouldn't know it by the letter. Way to stay classy, Elle." She lifted her wineglass to the screen and gave me a virtual cheers. Turned out, even with my sizzling rage and copious amounts of red wine, I had written a solid two weeks' notice--professional and straight to the point.
"Tomorrow I'm going to turn it in to Mr. Landry. I just want to get it over with. I can't eat or sleep, and I feel like pure shit," I said after swirling my malbec. "Do you think he'll make me work the next two weeks?"
"I don't know. I mean, you're not going to work for the competition, are you?" she asked.
"No, I don't plan to stay in corporate, let alone insurance." I watched Rachel's wineglass stop halfway to her lips.
"Wait, what? I didn't realize you were leaving corporate entirely. Elle, it was just one bad company." Her eyebrows were pinched together and her tone was sharper, as if she was trying to understand something that made no sense at all. After another slow sip, she continued. "Well, to answer your question, I'm not sure. In my company, if someone is going to a competitor, they have to leave the office that day." The corner of her mouth tilted in an apologetic frown. "I wish I could tell you definitively what to expect, but I've never quit before."
Oof, that felt great. Does leaving make me a quitter?
"What are you going to do? Corporate is what you've always done. It's what you planned to do. What could you possibly want to do that isn't within corporate America? Even journalism jobs can be corporate. I mean, I'm sure I can get you a job here with the PR team. Why don't you try that? We could live so close to each other, finally!"
I let Rachel go on about all the people she could talk to, what positions I could apply for. She'd make sure it was a done deal, and I'd have a new job before I even quit my old one. I let the rich, fruity flavor of the malbec sit on my tongue.
How did I explain to someone who loved her corporate career that I just knew it wasn't the right path for me anymore? I think I'd known for a while. My body had known, and I hadn't listened.
The depression. The anxiety. The abhorrent mental health. It was all real. I was never taught there was another way to be successful. But I felt it. There had to be. Corporate wasn't for everyone, and I was confident that I was one of the unconventional ones.
The world might say,Okay, they took an account away from you, big deal.But that's just it, it was a huge deal. I was crushed. Corporate may be perceived differently depending on the person, but to me, I no longer wanted to sit at a desk from the strict hours of nine to five. I'd never been cutthroat or competitive. I didn't want to have a career that drained me or trapped me in a certain location. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be creative. I wanted to be unconventional.
9
Twelve years ago
He was still here. I glanced over my shoulder just to check that this was real and noticed his relaxed face and steady, soft breathing. His long eyelashes touched the top of his sculpted cheekbone, and I fought the urge to brush a tiny piece of hair off his smooth forehead.
I tried to get out of the creaky full-size bed, but his arm was draped heavily across my waist. Instead, I slowly turned over to face him, all the while trying not to wake him up. I slid my top leg between his powerful thighs and drew my hands up under my chin. Our noses barely touched as I leaned in toward his forehead. I smiled to myself and released a controlled exhale. His amber eyes softly fluttered open and found my peaceful gaze. A slow, drowsy grin spread across his face as he pulled me closer to his warm body and kissed the tip of my nose. He smelled of last night's bonfire and pine; my heart stammered with my next large inhale.
"Good morning, mystery girl." His raspy voice hummed through my chest.
"Hi," I whispered as I leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose.
"What time is it?" He twisted in the bed to stretch his back and reach for his phone. "Damn, it's eleven thirty." He brushed his hand down his face and yawned.
"Have somewhere to be? Big plans?" I teased and reached for his arm to wrap it back around my waist.
He dropped the phone on the nightstand and obliged.
A glimpse of his smile made my stomach flutter, and before I could say another word, he twisted and rolled on top of me, his strong arms framing my face. His smile was replaced with a smug grin, and my raucous laughter echoed in the large room.
"I do have big plans." He leaned down slowly and hovered right above my lips. I could feel my breath getting faster, my chest rising higher.
"Big plans?" Our lips brushed and I knew I was in trouble.
10
Now
The day I quit my job was the day I finally listened to myself. Not society, not my grandparents--me. I hadn't slept much in the days since my embarrassing call to Jude, and last night the hours had melted away until daylight bled through my curtains. Curled up in my down comforter, I rubbed my palms over my face and groaned. I couldn't believe I was about to quit my job. I slowly rolled out of bed and made my way to my closet. My body was sore and sluggish, but Rach and I had planned the perfect outfit to give me confidence and power. I stepped inside the closet and gazed upon my grandmother's bright white pantsuit. High-waisted with a wide leg, the pants were timeless and still on the dry-cleaning hanger from when my grandmother wore them last. I knew they would fit even though I'd never tried them on. My grandmother and I were the same size, and most of her clothes were home in my closet now. I never had to worry about a capsule wardrobe because my grandmother had given hers to me, and classic never went out of style.
Once I was ready to get dressed, I put the outfit on and stood in front of the mirror. I could have sworn Grandma stoodright next to me, beaming. Her fitted blazer accentuated every contour of my body, and the trousers elongated my slender legs. To the side of my mirror were my shoes, every heel, boot, and flat. I knew which ones I wanted, though. Alone on the top shelf and safe in their dust bag sat my most prized pair of heels, my blue satin Manolos.
While driving to the office, I got a text from the girls. They asked me to text them after I left the office to fill them in on all the details. I planned on giving my two-weeks to Mr. Landry first thing. Then I assumed I'd pack my desk and leave. I wasn't really sure what happened after you quit a job; I'd never done it before.
Thankfully, I worked in downtown New Orleans, a quick trip from my French Quarter apartment. At eight a.m., I walked outside and was immediately smothered by the humidity of a Louisiana spring, almost summer. My feet began to swell in my heels, and my hair went from zero to frizzy in no more than three seconds. Instead of walking in the devastating humidity, I drove to our office and parked in our company's garage within the Poydras Center--a sleek angular building at the corner of Poydras and St. Charles. It used to be known as the Exxon Building, but by the time I started working with Mr. Landry, its name had changed.
Now, theoretically, I could have walked to work. However, I learned my lesson my first year when I tried to walk in heels with swollen feet. It was an absolute failure, and the blisters lasted for weeks. Before I opened my car door, I flipped down my mirror and pulled my Chanel red lipstick out of my purse. Once I applied the last piece of my outfit, my Taylor Swift-inspired bold red lip, I stepped out of my Jetta and tossed my keys in my purse.
