Turning around to go back to the elevators, I chew on my fingernails. It is such a gross habit, but it only comes out when I feel way too nervous about something. I should have taken one of my pills. It could have helped me with my racing heart and mind.
The elevator is empty, which helps me to focus on my breathing.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Again.
Breathe in, breathe out.
One, two, three.
Four, five, six.
Seven, eight, nine.
Ten.
The elevator doors open with a ding, and I get out. Before I reach Andrew’s corner office, I see her. Carol has a satisfied smile on her lips—like the cat who got the cream. That isn’t promising.
Andrew’s assistant tells me to wait until he finishes his current call. Not having anything else to do, I skim through the old copy of Bridgeway magazine on the table. After twenty minutes, my boss finally calls me in.
Closing the door behind us, Andrew points at the armchair across from his desk and tells me to sit down for our discussion. Turning my silver ring on my left middle finger, I try to focus on this moment. But it isn’t easy.
“Rose, as you might know, we thought that you were too inexperienced in interviewing someone alone. Then we discovered your connection with Elijah Dalton after researching his background more. Carol remembered the town you grew up in and connected the dots. When she got ill, you were the only choice we had to replace her. And it was a smart move on our part. After all, we tried to get him to talk with us for years and nothing. Then you, an intern, got him to agree to another interview session. It was pure gold for us.”
What is he implying?
“You see, we found all the material about the interview, including your notes and the videos. It was clear that you and Mr. Dalton share a past and close connection to each other. Even though it is lovely that you got to meet him again after all this time, it’s still a conflict if you keep writing the article. Especially now that you two were romantically involved. Isn’t that right, Ms. Summers?”
I see. I just turned from Rose toMs. Summers. “Mr. Duckett, I don’t like what you’re implying. Do you want to tell me who to date outside the office? My relationship with E—Mr. Daltonhasn’t affected my reporting at all,” I confirm.
It looks like Andrew just bit into a lemon. The sour expression on his face makes him look much older too. “Ms. Summers, I beg to differ. Once I read the latest draft of your article, your bias towards Mr. Dalton showed clearly. We can’t have that type of negative behavior here. I know breakups are bad, but why would you write something like that about him?”
Not understanding what he is talking about, I ask to see a draft copy. I know he has it printed like everything else. Handing me the printed copy of my article draft, he stays quiet until I finish reading it.
“This isn’t my work. I mean, some of it is, but the rest of it is by someone else. I would never say these things about him publicly!” I shout, gripping the paper in my hand as my heart rate picks up.
Slowly starting to realize what is happening, I try to keep my tears at bay. Someone framed me and edited my article to look different than my original article—to make Eli a villain instead of a hero.
Then it all clicks.
Damn, Carol tricked me!
I just know it. There is no other way. She is the one who told me to upload everything to the server. Carol kept saying how it’s company policy that must have slipped her mind when training me. Now that I think of it more, I see all the bull she has told me since I started working here.
I have a feeling that Andrew will not believe me. No one will. They all trust her instead. Gathering my courage, I say the words I never expected to say today.
“I quit, Mr. Duckett. I’m not continuing working here if I don’t have your respect.”
Leaving a surprised Andrew behind me, I close the door more forcefully than necessary. The entire glass wall shakes with the impact—what a satisfying feeling.
* * *
Opening the front door, I hear music playing in our living room.Great.Walking towards the music, I hope we don’t have guests around. I’m not expecting to find Timmy dancing around with Pickles wrapped in a towel. Timmy has his eyes closed as an old love song blasts from the speakers.
The poor cat looks like he is ready to flee any second. It must be his wash day. Cats like our little Pickles are high maintenance and need regular baths. Timmy washes him every ten days or even more often if needed. It all depends on how oily his skin feels.
Turning down the volume, I speak loudly. “I quit my internship today. I basically have nowhere to go tomorrow. No plans, no deadlines, nothing. Want to get drunk and talk crap about my boss, former colleagues, and Eli?”
He looks at me like I have grown a second head. I don’t blame him. This is very unlike me. I can see pity and sympathy in his eyes as he processes my words.
