Page 5 of Sexting the Boss

I drop my bag on my desk—a tiny, sad cubicle wedged between the supply closet and the always broken printer—and boot up my computer. My inbox is already overflowing with emails—requests for reports, data entry tasks, an urgent “Can you format this spreadsheet?” from a manager I’ve only met once.

There’s no creativity in this job. No challenge. No purpose.

Just staring at numbers and pretending I care.

I sigh, sip my lukewarm bodega coffee, and open the first spreadsheet of the day.

Ryan slides into the cubicle next to mine. “You look dead inside,” he says cheerfully.

I gesture at my screen. “Because I am.”

Ryan grins. “Brittany’s party should help.”

I roll my eyes. “Right. A party hosted by someone who definitely doesn’t want me there. Sounds uplifting.”

“She invited you, didn’t she?”

I level him with a look. “Did she, Ryan? Did she really?”

He smirks but doesn’t argue.

I exhale, glancing at my inbox. More emails. More mind-numbing tasks.

I deserve better than this. I know that.

But in a city like this? I’m lucky to even have a job.

* * *

Ryan textsme just as I step out of the shower.

Ryan: Leaving in 20. Need a ride?

I stare at the message for a second, my wet hair dripping onto my towel.

Normally, I’d say no.

But tonight? Tonight, I need to make an effort.

I need people to like me.

And if Brittany Donovan is the way in, then so be it.

I type back a quickYes, thanks!before tossing my phone onto my bed and rummaging through my very uninspiring closet.

The problem with being chronically broke in New York City is that your wardrobe slowly turns into a collection of “things that can be worn to work” and “things that will keep me from freezing to death”—with very little overlap for “things that will impress my coworkers at a party.”

I settle on a black dress that’s just short enough to look like I have a social life, and pair it with heels I already know are going to murder my feet. I run a brush through my hair, which only slightly cooperates, swipe on some mascara, and?—

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Mom.

I hesitate, then answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and my ear as I dab concealer under my eyes. “Hey, Mom.”

“Sweetheart,” she sighs, the exhaustion in her voice unmistakable. “How’s work?”

“It’s fine,” I say, because she doesn’t need to hear how miserable I am. “Busy.”

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