Page 33 of All's Well that Friends Well
When I checkout the career assessment later that evening before bed, I find that it’s going to take thirty minutes. So I decide to wait until tomorrow, or maybe even until the weekend.
Part of me knows I’m procrastinating, stalling, whatever you want to call it. Which is ridiculous. I want to see what my perfect job should be. I want to find my purpose.
But…I’m nervous, you know? Because that assessment is my hope on the horizon. It’s what I’ve been looking forward to.Being a janitor is only temporary. I’ll find a better job.That’s what I’ve been telling myself.
Once I take that assessment, those hopes will be gone, solidified into a recommendation I might or might not like.
So I make myself busy putting together cute outfits for work, preparing my shoes so they’ll be more comfortable, baking banana bread with chocolate chips—anything I can do to distract myself.
The stuff from Aurora’s closet proves to be very helpful. We don’t normally have similar styles, but right now I’ll take what I can get, and I enjoy the challenge of making an outfit cuter anyway. In this case, it means adding pink touches and ruffled blouses and colorful heels. I have an absurd—read: perfect—amount of jewelry, too, which from here on out will feature heavily in my work wardrobe, as will whatever pink blazers I can still use.
Because I heard the wordBarbiebeing thrown around today, and initially I was hurt. But then I thought more, and…
I don’t actually hate it.
Barbie is amazing. She’s a stylish businesswoman who looks great always, and she does whatever she wants. Barbie doesn’t care what other people think of her. She just goes for it.
So, yeah,I decide.I’m going to keep wearing my pink blazers and high heels and cute jewelry. Call me Barbie, and thank you in advance.
LUCA
Sometimes I wishmy work desk was enclosed so that I could hide underneath and nap.
The space under there isn’t big enough, of course. I’m taller than your average man. I’d be a sardine in a tin. But the idea is still tempting—especially because I’ve been on hold for the last fifteen minutes, and the elevator music wafting down the line is soft and soothing.
I bet they do that to make it less frustrating. But being put on hold is one of my biggest pet peeves. Sitting around, waiting, doing nothing? I can’t stand it.
I reach forward and press the speaker button on my desk phone, and the sound of the hold music starts playing faintly through my office. I may as well get a few other things done while I wait, things that require less brainpower. Check for any new listings on the real estate website, for example, because my loan is only approved for sixty days, and I’d like to find something before I have to reapply. I need to send outan internal memo, too, because I’ve noticed that most of my employees are taking longer lunch breaks than they’re supposed to, which cuts out a good half hour to hour of work time.
Before I do any of that, though…I lean back in my chair, letting my head drop back against the headrest.
I really could fall asleep like this. Just like this.
Unfortunately, if I’m going to tell my employees not to spend unnecessary time on their lunch breaks, I can’t justify napping on the job. So I reluctantly pry my eyes open and?—
My body jerks when I’m startled by a light knock on the office door. I sit up straighter and clear my throat.
“Come in,” I say, taking the phone off speaker and putting it back to my ear. I can avoid lengthy conversation this way.
To my surprise, it’s no one from the office floor who enters; it’s Juliet Marigold. She slips inside and closes the door behind her, a thin plastic bag rustling in her hands.
“I’m here to change your trash can liner,” she whispers, pointing at the trash bin by my desk.
And good grief. I can actually smell her from here. She’s barely taken two steps inside.
I’m not fashionable enough to be able to tell if she’s wearing any of the clothes I retrieved from the bedroom closets, but her black pants fit her well. They’re much more appropriate than the pink skirt, anyway. Her blouse is silky and white with ruffles, and—I slump with exhaustion—she’s still wearing sky-high heels, a bright blue color that matches the chunky necklace she’s got on.
Her hair is long and gorgeous and perfectly curled andwhyare her lips so pink? She’s not here to be a model.
I growl as my eyes trail over her, and then I slam the phone down in the cradle, giving up on the call.
“Oh,” she says, startling as her eyes widen. She glances at the phone. “Was that not important?” Her voice is a normal volume now, but it’s still pleasant and—and—intimate.
She makes everything sound like a secret, something she’s telling you and you alone.
“I was on hold,” I say. “Why are you in here?”
“I told you,” she says as she approaches the desk. She holds up the bag again. “I’m changing your trash can liner.”
