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“I tried to recall the email. Can you see if luck was on my side today? If I was able to get it just in time before it went out to everyone?”
Molly exhales over the phone. I can hear her clicking viciously on her computer, then typing away. After a few eternal seconds of silence, Molly exhales again—this time, it’s a clear sign of relief. “I don’t have anything from you from today. I think you got it just in time.”
“Oh, thank god.” I sag in my chair, closing my eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.”
“Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
For now.
Something about this job makes me feel like it’s constantly on the line. Maybe because, even though I’m twenty-nine and have been working since I was fifteen, it’s the first job I actually enjoy? It’s either that or the life-or-death attitude people in this office seem to live by when it comes to this job. It’s so bad, I’ve sometimes heard people remind each other that “we’re not saving lives—it’s just clothes” when things go south and the higher ups come down hard on them.
“You told me you’d try this time, Bee,” Molly tells me. Her voice is soft, but laced with concern all the same—concern for herself. She’s the one who put herself on the line to get me the job, after all.
“And I promise I meant it.Meanit. Present tense,” I say, doing my best to reassure her. Though, if I’m being honest, I resent her comment. It's not like I mean for these things to go wrong in my life; they just happen. Life just seems to always have other plans for me and things end up imploding in the most vicious of ways. “I was just so genuinely excited. The design you sent the team was wild, and I wanted to show my support. Plus, like, you never told me how cool this job would be. I guess I was really pumped.”
She laughs softly. “You literally have probably the most boring job in the world of fashion. Maybe the second most boring after pricing.”
I gasp, bringing a hand to my chest. “Are you serious? I work in production for the private label side of our company. That means that I get to have a hand in every step of the garment making process. My team talks to the customer about what they're looking for, then we talk to you guys in design, then coordinate with the factories and pricing, and it's aaaall like a dance. An intricate, beautiful dance,” I say, my voice taking on a dreamy tone. “And because it's private label, no one knows we did it—they just think the client did. It's like being in on a dirty little secret. So when you walk into a random store and see the product there, you know you had a hand in its creation, but no one else does. What’s not to love?”
“You’re insane and delusional,” she says, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
I grin and nod, even if she can’t see me. “Oh, I am fully aware of my delusion. I am aware that I have truly zero say or influence in anything at this point in time and that I am a twenty-nine- year-old woman doing the job of a recent college grad. But I mean that by working as Lena’s assistant, I have exposure to all of this and… it’s been nothing short of amazing. So, I know I’ve already thanked you for helping me get this job. But I feel the need to thank you again for helping me find something Ilove.”
“Wow, Bee. That’s... That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you.”
I bite my lower lip to keep from smiling, admiring the to-do list in front of me full of important tasks (at least they seem that way to me), a computer screen filled with boring-looking spreadsheets that are actually full of fascinating information once you understand what they mean, and an inbox full of emails regarding collections people don’t know about that won’t hit the stores for at least another year. ButIknow. I know what these brands are planning. And it’s like I told Molly: it feels like being in on a dirty, delicious secret.
“I’m sorry there weren’t any roles I could recommend you for earlier. But I’m so glad it worked out in the end because you sound so happy. I know it’s been tough with everything that’s happened—especially in the last couple of years—but?—”
“Oh my god,” I cut her off, my stomach dropping when, in the middle of my screen, at the top of my inbox, there’s a reply to my original, mortifying email—from someone on theclient’steam.
Shit.
“What? What happened now?” Molly asks, but her voice is distant, as if trying to break through a layer of thick fog.
Not wanting to stir the pot again after listening to my best friend wax poetic on how much I’ve changed for the better, I tell her, “Nothing, nothing. I… I had a burrito for lunch and it’s hitting me now. I have to use the restroom.”
“Oh, no. Remember to use the bathroom on the fifth floor. It’s cleaner and no one ever uses it.”
I nod, wanting to get her off the phone as fast as possible. “Yes, yes. I have to go.”
“Good luck! And next time, just message me through Teams.”
I slam the phone down hard, making several of my coworkers turn to look at me.
“Sorry,” I mouth.
A cold sweat breaks over my back as my mouse hovers over the message, hesitating to open it. Right now, it’s Schrödinger’s email. So long as I don’t check what’s inside, I am both fired andnotfired at the same time. So maybe, I decide, it’s best to just leave it at that. Leave it alone until I get called by Lena to have my ass—and pink slip—handed to me.
I walk away from my desk, do a lap around the office—partly as a last goodbye, partly to be reminded of what I’d lose if I truly messed this up. After raiding the free snack area in the office kitchen (I would lose all access to free chips and granola bars—unlimited Diet Cokes, too!), I realize that if I’m not getting let go for a dumb email, then I certainly will for shirking my responsibilities. Reluctantly, I stomp back to my desk to face the inevitable.
With a deep breath, I bring my screen back to life and immediately click the email reply open.
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