Page 89 of Joy to Noel
“Mads, what do youwantto do?” she asks. “Forget making therightchoice for a minute. What do youwant?”
I kiss JoJo’s cheek, trying not to cry. “I want Liam. I want Noel. To live there with all of our friends, who seem to actually like having me around. I want Madison Joy Editorial to succeed and not be a failure.”
Add “not crying” to the list of things I fail at.
Caitlin pulls me into a hug, squeezing JoJo between us. “Then do it, Mads. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I wind up destitute and homeless, filing for bankruptcy while slowly dying of starvation,” I deadpan.
Caitlin smirks. “I have a feeling there are a lot of people in Noel who wouldn’t allow that to happen. Liam and Clara topping the list.”
Taking a deep breath, I slowly exhale. “You’re right,” I say.
“Duh,” Caitlin replies. “We both inherited that ‘always-right’ nature.”
When I wake up absurdly early the morning after Thanksgiving, I know exactly what I need to do. I shower and get dressed quickly, but as I’m applying eyeliner, I pause to look at my hands. Staring at my fingernails, I make a decision.
Removing the black nail polish from my middle fingers, I repaint them in the same shade of crimson as the rest of my nails. I don’t need my form of silent protest against injustice anymore. Because I’m going to confront the injustice head-on.
I say brief goodbyes to my family while shoveling breakfast down my throat. Hopping in my car, I begin the four-and-a-half-hour drive from the farm to Overland Park, Kansas, where the WritInc office is located.
Channeling my inner Clara, I listen to my pop Christmas playlist the whole way, begging for a dose of my own Christmas magic.
I know that Chad will be working the day after Thanksgiving because he always had zero personal life or boundaries to speak of. It’s not an official vacation day given by the company, so there are bound to be at least a few people there who didn’t have enough PTO to take the day off.
When I arrive at the building, I ring the bell at the reception desk. Either the receptionist did take the day off, or Chad decided that reception was another unnecessary position. Finally, one of the graphic designers I recognize comes around the corner.
“Madison?” he says. “What are you doing here? Are you coming back? Please tell me you’re coming back. It’s embarrassing the number of mistakes that have gone to print.”
“I am not coming back,” I state. The words feel good on my tongue—a warm-up for my declaration to Chad. “I’m just here to talk to Chad briefly. Is he still in the same office?” I ask the designer.
He confirms, so I march back to Chad’s corner office, head held high. When I walk through the open door, he looks up in surprise.
“Uh, what are you doing here, Madison? We’re meeting on Monday. Mr. Douglas isn’t here, so you’re going to need to come back at your scheduled time,” he says. The condescension in his voice assures me that he has absolutely not changed his tune, despite being proven wrong. Very embarrassingly wrong, according to the graphic designer.
“I’m not coming back,” I say. “I’m not coming back Monday because I’m not coming back, period.”
Chad huffs. “If this is some kind of power play to get a pay bump, you can rest assured that Mr. Douglas was already planning to offer you a two percent increase over your previous salary.”
I pin him with my best daggered glare. “I told you that you needed a human proofreader looking over the content you sent out. I told you that AI wasn’t a sufficient substitute. But you didn’t listen.”
He sputters a breath through his lips as he stands to his feet. “What do you want, Madison? For me to admit I was wrong? Maybe I was wrong—or maybe people are way too uptight about some meaningless typos.”
“Those newsletters and postcards reflect the professionalism of the clients, Chad. Not to mention WritInc’s professionalism. The customers you lost were justified in leaving you behind,” I say. I feel steam building, the momentum gathering as I step fully onto my soapbox. “All you cared about was cutting costs and increasing the bottom line, not about the quality of the brands being represented. And you certainly didn’t care about the employees who had worked their tails off to make sure that WritInc consistently put out the highest quality. Why do you think we had so many customers coming to us after getting burned by other print marketing firms? Because we had a reputation of excellence. Until you screwed it up. Just because your short-sightedness came back to bite you in the butt doesn’t mean I have to bail you out.”
I almost think Chad has somehow transfigured into a fish, given his open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression.
“I’m glad someone came to their senses and realized you need a real proofreader—although, I have a hunch that person was Mr. Douglas, not you. But you’re going to need to find a different person because I have no interest in coming back to work here after how you treated me,” I state definitively. “Not only how you fired me, but how youtreatedme ever since you started here—belittling my position and micromanaging everything like no one was as competent as you. I deserve better.”
Pivoting on my heel, I march to the door. Holding up a hand in a dismissive wave, I punctuate, “Bye, Chad.”
I practically run to my car, hurling myself into the driver’s seat. I calculate time in my head to decide just how much I need to push the speed limit if I’m going to get to Noel before the kickoff Christmas Fest parade tonight.
I need to get home. I may not know exactly what I’m going to do to earn a living, and maybe that makes me an irresponsible excuse for a grown woman.
But I know this much: Madison Joy belongs in Noel.
She belongs with Liam.
