Page 54 of Due South

Lucy,

I went home. Check your desk.

She doesn’t even value me or my time enough to stick around to eat the food I wasted an hour of my life to get for her? My whole body coils up like an angry snake, and there’s no one to lash out at.

Yeah, that’s it. I’m done here. I’ll call Greg Wu after Christmas. I don’t know jack about Phoenix, but it’s got to be better than this. Not to mention Greg wouldn’t make me pick up his takeout, and on the off-chance he did, he would stick around to eat it and say thank you. Not skip off home to get spanked or whatever the hell else kinky things they’re into.

I drop the bag of food on the carpet in front of her door. Maybe I should leave it there. Then when she comes in tomorrow—or maybe the next day, though I wouldn’t put it past India to come in on Christmas—she’ll see it and she’ll feel bad. Really, really bad. Or maybe she’ll step over it and buzz me to clean it up. The idea makes me angry all over again. So angry that I kick the bag and there’s a satisfying smush of takeout containers. It felt so good that I do it again and again. And again.

I’m distracted from my assault on my jerkwad boss’s mutter paneer by the buzz of my phone in my pocket. It’s a text from Evans.

You were supposed to check your desk.

Seriously? He’s going to boss me around now too? Probably distracted by my tantrum. Screw that. I text him back:

No, I’m going home.

Because…because fuck this. Yeah, that’s right. Fuck India and fuck this PRA project and fuck BCG and… My mental fit of rage is interrupted by a very physical closing of my throat as I try to swallow a sob. I lean over to pick up the bag that’s miraculously remained intact despite my having treated it like a soccer ball and there’s another damn text.

Check your desk, Lucy. This is not a request.

Oh, no, he didn’t. The anger inside of me is out of control and it comes out my fingers.

Fuck you.

I’m about to drop the carcass of the takeout in the trash when my phone rings. Evans. I have half a mind not to answer it, but I do, if only because it gives me a reason to snap at someone.

“What do you want?”

“I very much want for you to go to your desk. Please. This is a request. No, not a request. It’s a plea. I’m begging you. Please, Lucy. Go look at your desk.”

That is the last thing I want to do. What I want to do is drive to the airport and pay an exorbitant amount for a ticket home. But if I did, I’d effectively be quitting my job, and then I’d be coming home a failure. Not even “just a secretary” anymore, and I’d prove them all right. And then I’d end up stuck at home getting slut-shamed for the rest of my life.

Plus, there’s something about the pleading in Evans’s voice. No matter how badly I want to stomp and scream and throw things, I shouldn’t do that to Evans. I should save it for India, the one who actually deserves it. As much as I can anyway because my nerves are frayed to the breaking point and I can’t help letting some of my frustration leak out. “Fine.”

I stomp over to my desk, and when I get there, there’s an envelope with a bow on it. I rip it open, shredding the sorry excuse for what I should be enjoying right now—real presents instead of a stupid piece of paper—and start to read.

Lucy,

I’m so sorry you had to miss Christmas with your family. I know how upset you were, and I can’t tell you how impressed I’ve been with your dedication, especially since Jack left. I hope this will make up for it at least a little.

I’d also like to offer you a title bump to office manager, with an accompanying raise, and if you wouldn’t mind the move, Leo’s office when he retires in April. I’ll be hiring a receptionist to free up some of your time for higher-level responsibilities. We can discuss the details the day after tomorrow. Please don’t go to Phoenix. I need you.

Merry Christmas,

India

The next sheet of paper is a printout of an airline confirmation. The flight out to Dubuque leaves the day after the PRA presentation and doesn’t come back for a whole week. It won’t be the same as Christmas, but I wasn’t going to be able to go for a whole week. And I’ll be able to go home with a new title to show off. Maybe my family will finally realize I’m not sin on legs; I have a brain in my head and other people recognize that.

Speaking of—how the heck did she know about Greg Wu? I suspect a little bird I’d sworn to secrecy told her, and I should be angry with him, but this has worked out so well I can’t find it in me. I’m so excited I almost miss the note she’s scrawled at the bottom of the page:

Now go see Evans. I’m sure he’s losing his fucking mind.

How does she know Evans is still here and why would she—

I clutch the confirmation in my hand, afraid if I put it down on my desk, it won’t be there when I come back and instead this has all been a dream while I’ve been drooling on printouts of the interest tables I’m supposed to be proofing.

Turning down the hall to Evans’s office, I’m met by a parade of candles lighting the narrow space. Alternating green and red tapers march down the hall on a strip of tin foil in an endearingly crooked line. There’s an index card propped up against the first one.

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