Page 4 of If the Ring Fits

I slide into my chair and stare blankly at my screen, the lines of program I left unfinished before lunch blurring before my eyes. I drop my head in my hands, one thought drilling through my skull. I’m having a baby. On my own. With Liam as the father.

A light rap on my cubicle wall followed by Brian’s signature throaty cough—the one he deploys before he bites your head off—alerts me to my boss’s looming figure.

Oh no. I peer up, already cringing as I meet Brian’s unforgiving scowl. “Rowena.” He greets me with a thin smile. “How nice of you to finally join us.”

I plaster on a forced grin, trying to disguise my queasiness. “Sorry, I had a doctor’s appointment that ran late.”

His eyebrow arches skeptically. “How convenient. Well, now that you’ve graced us with your presence, follow me.” He turns on his heel, striding toward his office without waiting for my reply.

Crap. My stomach sinks further as I trail after him.

He sits at his desk, instructing me to close the door. I do as I’m told. The latch’s click rings ominously in my ears.

I cross the room—small by any office standard, but endless compared to the size of my cubicle—and perch on the chair across from Brian’s desk, hands clenched together to hide their trembling.

“I’ll cut right to the chase,” he begins, leaning back and leveling me with a cool stare. “The project you were assigned to has been discontinued. And with the budget cuts, your role is no longer… shall we say, essential.”

Wait, what? My mouth falls open, but no words emerge. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

“To put it bluntly, Rowena, we’re eliminating your position. Effective immediately.”

It’s the second cold shower in an hour. Only this one feels more like an ice shower where instead of ice chips, solid cubes are being thrown straight at my head. “What?”

“I’m sorry, Rowena, it’s out of my hands.”

His lips curl into a smug smirk. He’s not sorry at all. If anything, he seems to relish delivering this devastating news.

The floor wobbles beneath my feet as the message sinks in—I’m being fired. Canned. Let go.

First, I’m having a baby, and now this? Jobless and pregnant, with no partner to lean on. I can’t raise a kid alone in New York City with no income. Already, I was going to be grasping at straws with my salary. Now, it’s going to be impossible.

A sour taste rises at the back of my throat and saliva floods my mouth. Oh, fuck. It’s happening. I’m going to hurl. Right here, right now, all over my boss’s pristine designer suit. He’d deserve it, the insufferable prick.

I clamp a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to projectile vomit my disgust and despair on Brian and see if he can keep his smug expression. Maybe I should do it, a last act of defiance.

But my stomach refuses to cooperate. Better this way; I need a good reference, not a criminal record for assault with a biological weapon.

“What about severance? Do I at least get a payout to tide me over while I look for a new job?” I hate how small and weak my voice sounds. Like I’ve already been defeated.

Brian slides a manila folder across his mahogany desk. “It’s all outlined here. Three months’ salary. That’s the best we can do.”

Three months. I quickly do the mental math. It’ll cover my portion of the rent in the apartment I share with Nina and Hunter, my best friends, for a while. But not all the upcoming doctor visits and baby supplies I’ll need. Without medical insurance, I’m royally screwed.

I want to argue, to stand up for myself and demand more. I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this company for three years. But the fight has drained out of me, replaced by an exhaustion that seeps deep into my bones. What’s the point? He wants me gone.

“Fine.”

“Great. You have to go see HR, sign a few things, then security will escort you out once you’ve gathered your belongings. Company policy.”

And there it is. The final nail in the coffin of my career. I nod numbly, then turn and exit his office on shaking legs, the taste of failure bitter on my tongue.

When I get back to my desk after signing a million release of claims papers, my laptop is already gone. Good thing I made it a policy never to store anything private on it, not even a single picture to use as a screensaver. As I gather my few personal items from my cubicle into a cardboard box someone has conveniently dropped off, the enormity of my situation crashes over me in waves. Jobless. Pregnant. Alone. The three words swirl in my mind, a taunting mantra of despair.

I can’t afford to live in New York without a steady income.But I don’t know if I can muster the energy I’d need to interview for new jobs. Even making it to the office today felt like a Herculean effort with the constant nausea and fatigue. And what’s even the point? As my pregnancy progresses, my baby bump will become a flashing neon sign: “Don’t hire me! Maternity leave imminent!”

I’ll have no choice but to crawl back to Omaha with my tail between my legs and move in with my parents. The thought makes me cringe. I love Mom and Dad, but returning to my hometown as a knocked-up, unemployed failure is the stuff of nightmares.

Balancing the box precariously against my hip and flanked by a burly security guard, I keep my gaze on the floor as I walk toward the exit. Even if I don’t see them, I can feel the shocked stares of my colleagues on me. I can’t get out of here fast enough. At the elevator bank, I jab the down button with more force than necessary.

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