Page 2 of Never Landing

He glanced up from his computer at me, then back. In the reflection on the enormous windows behind him, I could see that the only thing open on his computer was a game of solitaire. What was this, the nineties? Did he not know if he was going to sit around playing computer games during work hours, there were way better ones these days? Zombies to kill and hot vampires to romance and not crappy 2D card games that hadn’t been updated since freaking nineteen-ninety-two.

But no. Warren was of the generation that used the term “new-fangled” and thought computers alone were silly and frivolous.

“Well?” he asked. “I’m busy here.”

To my credit, I didn’t laugh. Busy playing the most pointless card game known to man. It wasn’t even a game of skill or talent. You could beat it or you couldn’t, depending on the random way the cards were dealt.

I couldn’t worry about that, though. There was a reason I’d come to his office. “My bonus. The bonus you promised me if I secured the Crosslife account.”

His smile in return was predatory. “Now Everett. It wouldn’t look good if I gave you a bonus after telling Crosslife I made the ads, would it?”

“Crosslife doesn’t check your books. And you didn’t make the ads. I did. I’ve been working on this account for two months, and I did literally all the work.” When his expression didn’t change, I pointed out, “And now you’re asking me to do more work on it. Without giving me the bonus you promised me.”

“Well you haven’t finished the job yet, have you?”

His smile didn’t flag, and we both knew the truth. He was never going to give me a bonus. Worse, he knew that I knew, and he didn’t care.

At some point, when I kept letting everyone step on me, did I start to deserve it? Had I earned that?

I turned and walked away, clinging to my laptop like it was a lifeline as I went.

Next thing I knew, I was standing in front of my apartment door. I’d somehow left the office, walked the half-mile to my apartment, and gone up three flights of stairs without even noticing. Shrugging, I pulled out my keys and unlocked the door, going in to collapse on the couch.

It was true. If I kept letting everyone walk all over me, I was asking them to do it more. Maybe I still didn’t deserve it—maybe no one deserved it—but as long as I continued to allow it, it was going to keep happening.

I sat up, opening my laptop and logging into my email. Beatrice from HR had sent me an email the day before warning me that due to a new company policy, if I didn’t take my three weeks of vacation before January, it was going to be gone. Vacation wasn’t going to roll over anymore, so I’d start the new year with none, and nothing to show for all that accrued vacation time.

I’d ignored it at the time. I’d been busy, working on the Crosslife account. I’d had enormous dreams of dollar signs. Tom said when he’d secured a big mutual fund company account in the nineties, he’d gotten a five-figure bonus. I’d imagined what I could do with a five-figure bonus, and no vacation could be worth more than that.

But there was no bonus, and there never would be.

But legally, there was vacation. Three weeks of it. And with just under four weeks left in the year, which included some pretty major holidays, I had just about enough to get me to January.

So I opened an email to Beatrice, sending her a long, flowery professional email thanking her for pointing out my oversight,and informing her that I’d be taking all the vacation I’d accrued, starting with a half day today, and that I’d see the folks at Warren Advertising after New Year’s.

It was less than ten minutes before a clearly shocked Beatrice sent me a response, saying she was happy to be of help and hoped I had a lovely vacation and had plans with my family.

No reason to tell her that my parents were probably somewhere in Switzerland, living what they were calling their “SKI”—spending kid’s inheritance—life, spending every last dime they’d accrued in their lives, and I hadn’t seen them since the day I’d graduated college. Not that they were bad parents or I begrudged them their happy retirement, but we didn’t really talk much.

The only other family I’d ever had and known personally, my mother’s mother, was gone.

But what she’d left me? I still had that. An old three-story colonial house in the small town of Cider Landing, four hours’ drive from the city.

My phone rang: Mr. Warren.

“Bailey,” I answered by rote.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Bailey?” My boss growled down the line.

I smiled, a half-mad, feral kind of smile, but I knew he couldn’t see it, so I shook myself and answered. “Beatrice from HR said I need to use my vacation or lose it. So I’m using it. I’m sure you’re not calling to try to illegally coerce me into not using my job benefits, Mr. Warren.”

There was silence on the line for a moment, then a deep sigh. “I’ll postpone the Crosslife meeting as long as I can, but you’d better be back in the office the second your vacation is done, and I expect utter perfection this time.”

Of course. He was expecting me to work while on vacation. The jackass.

I didn’t answer, just hung up.

A moment later, Tom called. This time I was already speaking when I accepted the call, “I’m not playing this political bullshit, Tom. I wanted to do my job and get paid for it, and apparently that’s not an option. He told me I’m not getting a bonus for the Crosslife account. You want the account? Have it.”

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