Page 45 of Somewhere Along The Line
“As I mentioned, my name is Piper Paulson. I work at Hope First as the program director overseeing after-school classes, events—like our upcoming gala—and our new scholarship fund.
“I have a corporate background but began working here six months ago after starting as a volunteer with the lower and middle-grades painting classes. We use a lot of art therapy techniques to help the kids we work with. I’d like to complete a master’s degree in social work someday so I can counsel our clients directly.”
The words are coming a mile a minute. I need to cool it, but I can’t seem to cut the gas to my mouth.
“We work with roughly a hundred and fifty single-parent families in the city right now, though we’re hoping to increase this number to two hundred by year’s end. Our funding comes primarily through individual donors like yourself… if you’re interested, of course… and via grants from local foundations. We help families with financial management, accessing available government support programs, getting their GED or associate degree, and with childcare expenses. It’s really life-changing for them.”
I suck in a breath, and he continues to sit silently, tapping his pen and squinting at me.
“Is there anything in particular I can answer for you?” Giving him the floor allows me a moment to compose myself.
“This is all very interesting, Ms. Paulson. Can I ask what you know about our family and the types of programs we support?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.The answer is in his prospective donor file—the one I planned to review meticulously before this meeting and which is sitting, unread, in the bottom left drawer of my desk.
“I'm aware you support a variety of programs throughout the city, as well as nationally, and your family has been instrumental in funding…” I think carefully as I have no idea what I’m about to say but it needs to sound legitimate, “... organizations that serve vulnerable populations.”
I rest my chin on my fist, my elbow on the table as he takes in my words. It was a vague statement, certainly, but it wasn’t incorrect. It could be true of any donor in the world, but that doesn’t mean it’s untrue of Mr. Cargill.
He nods before rising to stand. We’re only ten minutes into our thirty-minute meeting, and that’s counting the three I made him wait before I arrived.
“Thank you so much, Ms. Paulson, but I’m going to pass at this time. Please reach out in the future when you have a better sense of our family’s values and how they may fit with your programming. I’d also consider another appointment if I could speak with someone better able to articulate how our financial partnership with Hope First would benefit all parties.”
Mr. Cargill doesn’t look stern or disappointed, just matter of fact. He nods in my direction like he’s tipping an imaginary hat. I sit frozen at the table, dumbfounded.
“Of course, thank you for your time. Have a wonderful rest of your day.” The words eke out of my mouth as I watch him slip through the door and down the stairs to the lobby.
He’s out of sight when my body moves without conscious thought, slithering down my chair until I land with a thud on the scratchy jute rug beneath the table. I may spend the rest of the day here. Maybe the rest of my life.
How can I show my face to the team after fumbling the biggest donor in the city? Tears breach the barricade of my closed eyes and spill down my cheeks, dripping onto the fabric of yesterday’s skirt.
I’m still wearing yesterday’s skirt.
Air enters my lungs in short and shallow gasps as the thoughts that have haunted me for years, the ones I’ve tried so hard to replace with positive self-talk and therapy, come flooding through my brain.
You’re the world’s biggest idiot. The idiots of all idiots. Purveyor of the most idiotic idiocy that ever was and ever will be.
You can’t do anything right.
Of course, this would be the result of opening yourself up. You should’ve known better.
You’re always a disappointment.
I can’t even argue with them. Here I am, twenty-eight years old, crying under a conference table to avoid a walk of shame to my desk.
If there was a literal hole I could crawl into to die right now, I would.
The fact that I let this happen, that I let myself be distracted by a man who I knew from the start I shouldn’t get involved with? It’s proof I’m no better than I was two years ago. Two entire years I’ve dedicated to putting my life back together—blood, sweat, and tears shed to dig myself out of a Fundament-shaped hole—only to risk it all for another banker.
All because he was nice to me and I liked the weight of his hand on my leg.
The worst is that it’s not just my life I put on the line. There are women with kids who won’t receive scholarship money because I fucked up this meeting on account of fucking James.
I’m the most terrible person alive.
The list of my sins yesterday plays on loop in my mind, stopping only to let me beat myself up over each one:
I let the chance of a trial (which may or may not happen weeks in the future) make me stressed.
