Page 8 of Married As Puck
Then I’m out the door.
By the time I launch myself into my car and drive onto the main road, I’m sweating like I’d run a marathon. The thin fabric of my blouse sticks to me like second skin. My gut tells me that living with Cameron Gray is going to complicate my simple life and make things more difficult for me.
I spend the whole drive watching the minutes race toward my doom. 9:14. 9:18. At 9:20, a pedestrian strolls across the street so slow I think I’m about to spasm. By the time I stumble out in front of the building, I’m thirty minutes late. I’m dead. Julia should prepare for my funeral tomorrow.
The lobby guard doesn’t even look up from his crossword to acknowledge my greeting when I zoom past with my badge. The elevator doors slide shut, and I whisper, “Maybe she won’t notice,” which frankly is the biggest, dumbest lie I’ve ever told myself.
Mrs. Randolph notices everything. If a pin from a stapler falls, she knows about it.
The elevator dings and I tiptoe out like I was entering enemy territory. The office is buzzing as usual with phones ringing, keyboards clacking, people chattering.
My eyes scan the place until it lands on the ice queen, Mrs. Randolph. Through the glass of the conference room, I can see that she’s dressed in a flashy yellow dress that looks like something I’d rock to the Grammys. She’s making a presentation at the front, clipboard in hand and my whole team was inside, alongside the board members.
Her eyes find mine through the glass and I find my feet shuffling there awkwardly, bracing myself for the verbal attack that is coming.
“Brie.” That’s all she says once I walk inside, and my knees weaken.
I plaster on a fake smile. “Morning, Mrs. Randolph! Sorry, the uh––”
She raises one finger in the air, interrupting me. “Have a seat and try to follow up. We’re almost done anyway.”
The walk to my chair is pure torture. Everyone’s heads turn to catch a glimpse of me. Todd from accounting smirks like my humiliation is his caffeine. Sandra from publicity looks at me with big sad eyes like she was already planning my eulogy. And of course, Miranda has a big smile on her face. I’m sure she was praying for me to be absent altogether.
I settle down and take out my laptop. Mrs. Randolph lets the silence simmer, then clicks her pen. “As I was saying, before our latecomer joined us.”
I want to crawl under the table and die. My face is on fire as my cheeks burn with embarrassment.
The meeting goes on forever. Charts are analyzed then there’s the talk about deadlines and new marketing strategies, plus prospective clients. I catch maybe thirty percent of it, because the rest of the time, my brain has been screaming,you’re getting fired!
When it finally ends, everyone shuffles out. I stay put, praying she will forget about me if I sit very still.
“Brie, wait behind,” she says, and I halt.
Sandra squeezes my arms on the way out and flashes a warm smile. Miranda follows and then it’s just me and Mrs. Randolph. She paces, her heels clicking the tiled.
“Do you know what time it is, Brie?”
“Yes, ma’am, I—”
“It’s almost 10:00AM. Do you know what time our meeting began?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Correct and yet you arrived half an hour late without a legit reason or proper apology.”
My throat feels like sandpaper. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Randolph. I—”
She holds her hands up. “Excuses every time. I’m sick of it. Do you think clients care about what’s going on in your personal life?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you think deadlines wait for you because you––” She sticks out her neck, waiting sarcastically for me to reply.
“No, ma’am.”
Her voice gets even colder. “This isn’t the first time your performance has been questionable.”
That makes tears to prick my eyelids.
