Page 2 of Strength in Submission
“It’s no problem. You know how the upper management is here. They’re hardly ones who go boasting when someone does a good job and it’s always nice to hear whenever we’re doing something they like.” Jessie has a really good point here. I’d rather know what’s working well for not only the magazine, but for the people upstairs as well.
“Thank you. I really owe you one.”
“How about we go out to dinner and have a girls’ night? I’m desperate for a good wing woman.” Jessie and I have known each other for the last year, both getting our jobs at the exact same time. Season operates a bit differently, offering hiring surges. For example, if they need new journalists, they might hire five to ten at a time. The same goes for every other department here.
“Okay, just text me and let me know when and I’ll be thebestwing woman you’ve ever had,” I say with a wink, causing Jessie to laugh.
I finish sorting out my desk, close my laptop and slide it in my laptop case that looks like a backpack and sling it over my arm.
Since I’m ready to head out, I walk right to the elevator, get in the second it opens and take a deep breath.
Today is going to be a great day. I can just feel it!
I don’t waste any time getting into my car and peeling out of the parking lot. I just can’t wait to get home and be able to relax a little bit. God, it’s going to be glorious!
I roll through a yellow light on Rosewood Avenue, grinning at the way my dented Honda shudders when I accelerate. Three hours early. Three whole hours to surprise Derek after I get back from the spa.
Maybe with takeout from Szechuan Palace, maybe that bottle of Prosecco we’ve been saving since New Year’s. My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
It doesn’t take me long before I’m back at our apartment building and I park right behind
Derek’s Jeep, fingers tapping the rhythm of Lizzo’s chorus still thumping in my skull.
I get out of my car and head up the stairs. They smell like old curry and Pine-Sol, same as always. Fourth floor landing. Ourfaded turquoise door with the peeling Yankees sticker. My key sticks in the deadbolt—that damn humidity again—and then I’m inside, kicking off my sneakers with a cartoonish flourish.
“Guess who’s?—”
I step on something odd, probably a sock and then I realize what it is.
A leopard-print thong.
Derek’s head snaps up from the couch, his hand frozen mid-stroke against the back of a bleached blonde ponytail. The woman’s sequined skirt rides up her thighs where she straddles him, her coral-painted nails digging into the collar of his work shirt.
My bag slips off my shoulder, hitting the laminate with a thud.
“Vi—” Derek starts, but I’m already moving.
My pulse roars like subway trains as I close the distance. The blonde twists toward me, lips swollen and glossy, and I see it—the tiny mole above her eyebrow, same placement as mine. My fingers tangle in her extensions before she can scream, the synthetic strands slipping through my grip like seaweed.
She crashes sideways into the coffee table, sending an open jar of artisanal salsa clattering to the floor. Glass shards glitter in the afternoon light.
“Who thefuck,” I pant, standing over her, “are you?”
She wipes blood from her split lip with the back of her hand, smearing it across her cheekbone. Laughs. It’s a wet, gurgling sound. “Your replacement.” Her vowels stretch with a Texas twang I hadn’t noticed before. “Since you couldn’t do the job right.”
Derek’s standing now, buttoning his jeans with trembling fingers. There’s a hickey blooming beneath his collarbone, purple against his summer tan. I wait for him to look at me and he’s too chicken shit to do it.
“What the fuck is going on?!” My voice comes out shredded, like I’ve been screaming for hours.
“You know what’s going on.” His thumb swipes at the hickey beneath his collar. “Get your shit and leave.”
The blonde snorts, a wet bubble of sound. She’s found her phone in the wreckage, filming us with her good eye already swelling shut. Derek doesn’t tell her to stop. Doesn’t even glance at the cracked screen reflecting our disaster back at us.
“You heard her.” He nods toward the human tripod, casual as ordering takeout. “And quite frankly?” A shrug. One shoulder lifts higher than the other—the side where he tore his rotator cuff doing keg stands. I paid the urgent care bill. “Shecanfuck way better than you.”
Something detonates behind my sternum. Not anger anymore—something colder, sharper. Surgical. I stare at the chipped turquoise polish on my toes, the shade he called tacky last weekend. Count the water stains on the ceiling we pretended were constellations. Breathe in the stench of Target-brand candle wax and betrayal.
“Okay,” I say.
