Page 129 of Tell Me It’s Right

The training wheels have been surgically attached to my ass.

I barely see Selena for the rest of the week, and the tasks Heather gives me never take me more than an hour or two.Which leaves me with six or so hours a day sitting at my desk doing…nothing.

I comb through every single thing the company has ever posted on social media, dissect every caption, every hashtag, every inch of the website, every competitor, every name and role at the company. I even end up Facebook stalking some of my coworkers.

By Thursday, I start making my concept emails more detailed, throwing in more ideas, taking more time to create the mock-ups so they look closer to finished products.

They never use anything I make.

The highlight of the week is when they use a minor color correction I made for a social post.

By Friday, I find myself scrolling through the accounts for Liam’s shop.

He’s gotten better about posting things himself—mostly before and afters of recent tattoos, a new timelapse video of him working. The number of reviews for the shop online have skyrocketed, and pretty much any video where he shows his face gets ten thousand or more views, easily.

I hope it’s enough.

“Thank God it’s Friday, right?” says Waverly, the third member of Selena’s design team.

“Thirty minutes until happy hour ends.” Aria throws her bag over her shoulder as she stands from the cubicle across from mine. “You in, Heather?”

“Obviously.” She finishes reapplying her lip gloss and fussing with her bangs, and there’s a moment of awkward silence as three pairs of eyes turn to me. I can practically see the gears turning in their brains, debating whether they should invite me.

I pretend to be utterly enthralled with packing my bag.

“Gracie,” Heather finally says. “Do you drink?”

I freeze. “I—yeah.”

She cocks her head as she considers me. “We’re heading to Smith’s around the corner.”

I think that’s as close to an invitation as I’m going to get.

I’ve passed this bar every night this week on my walk home but never ventured inside. It’s about as colorful as the office with pink decorations and disco balls dangling from the ceiling. The sight sends a weird pang through my stomach. It looks like something Christine would do. The girls head for a small booth in the back corner in what’s clearly a routine for them.

“I’ll grab the drinks,” announces Aria. She pauses, eyes cutting to me.

“Whatever you guys are having. Do you need help carrying them all?”

She waves me off and disappears into the crowd that seems to get thicker by the minute. It’s a mostly women crowd, unsurprisingly, given the décor.

Heather and Waverly slide into the booth side, and I take the chair across from them. The music overhead is so loud I can barely hear myself think, let alone whatever the two of them are saying. They don’t seem to mind. They lean back and forth, yelling into each other’s ears and laughing.

I subtly check the time on my phone. Liam and I have been FaceTiming every night at seven. It’s become a routine—leave work, grab dinner on my walk home, do some yoga as I watch the sunset through my window, then end the night talking with him, sometimes for hours. Honestly, it’s the part of my day I most look forward to.

“Here we are.” Aria appears through the crowd with four beers balanced against her chest. I jump up to help her set themon the table while trying not to let my disgust show on my face. I don’t know why I assumed they’d get cocktails or something. I’ve never met a beer I liked.

“I have some cash,” I say, but Aria waves me off and holds her beer up for a toast. “To Gracie’s first week!”

“Gracie!” the other girls chorus.

I smile and take a sip of mine. Yep, just as bad as I’d thought it’d be.

Aria leans across the table and says something to Heather I can’t hear. My face starts to hurt around my smile as I shift my weight and wonder how early would be acceptable to leave.

Liam says I should spread my wings, lean into all of the new experiences I have available to me now.

But this…this isn’t fun. It’s loud and bright and I can’t hear anything anyone is saying. My drink tastes bad, my feet hurt from being in these shoes all day, and I’m starting to annoy myself with all of my internal complaining.

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