Page 3 of The Promise Of You

“An uber competent, ambitious person like you won’t have trouble finding a much better job elsewhere. Your severance package will give you all the time you need…”

I struggle to keep my composure. I remind them my plan could make the company millions in profit over the first three years.

These ignorant assholes don’t seem to care.

I bite the inside of my cheeks until I taste blood.

I take no time packing all my stuff in the brand-new moving boxes provided by HR. They also thought of the packing tape. With a whole department let go the same day, they had to prepare. Make it as clean and quick as possible.

I take the emergency staircase down, avoiding the clusters of dejected colleagues all carrying the standard-issue box, lined up at the elevators. All cramming an already suffocating small space.

My fern is heavy. That bugger needs a lot of water. Which means, it’s not only heavy, it’s humid, and the humidity is seeping through the box. Add to that the fact that HR didn’t extend the courtesy to provide bubble wrap, which means my photo frames clink against each other. I set my box on the sidewalk and schedule a car from my phone. I’m not carrying that stuff on the subway.

My next job, I’m not getting too comfortable until I’m the boss and no one can fire me. My next job, I don’t want to deal with small spaces.

I haul myself and my belongings into the car; three and half years’ worth of work and all I walk out with is this one little box.

On the upside, Tucker should be happy. I’m going to be home the next few days or weeks until I find the right job, not only for me, but for the two of us. I want our relationship to work, I really do, and I know I’m to blame for the dry spell we’re in.

I lean over and ask the driver to swing by the mall and confirm that he’ll wait outside, meter running.

The upside of being home is, I won’t be so tired in the evenings. I wouldn’t mind picking up the bedroom action where we left it off a few months ago. I mean, it’s not like I’m fending him off. He’s not showing any interest either. But with one of us to focus on that, we should be good.

So I charge through the mall and pick up a few necessities at Victoria’s Secret. And on the way out, I stop at Whole Foods and grab fresh lobster, onions, and cream. I already have everything else I need to make Tucker’s favorite dish. That and a bottle of Chardonnay and I’m ready to go home. I’m not going to let a setback at work take over my whole life. It’s midday. I have literally hours to prep a romantic dinner and an even more romantic evening.

Chloe Sullivan does not give up. She always gets what she wants.

Operation get-this-show-back-on-the-road has begun.

Fifteen minutes later

I press the elevator button with my elbow, balancing my box from work, the pink bag from Victoria’s Secret jammed inside it, groceries precariously plopped on top, my backpack with my laptop, and the bottle of wine acting as a counterweight to all the shit I’m carrying in my arms.

The doors slowly open, then close on me. Breathe in, breathe out. Another elbow press on the panel, the elevator hiccups up, and I clench my jaw.

But I’ve hit rock bottom already this morning. I’m not getting stuck in the elevator now. The Law of Averages says so.

I get to my floor, no problem. See?

Steadying my box on my hip, I unlock our front door and enter the apartment backward, pushing the door open with my backpack, then letting it shut softly. I close my eyes.

I can do this. Being let go is not the end of the world.

For most people, Chloe, but for you? Pretty much is.

I turn the little voice off.

Reality is beginning to catch up with me, and I need to get a grip.

Eyes still closed, I focus on my breathing. On the smells.

There’s a weird smell.

Something sweet. Flowery.

I open my eyes.

What.

---