Page 6 of Fireworks Flame
“What treadmill?” I’m certain Deiss isn’t talking about my stationary runs three times a week. The Husband Huntress says there’s nothing more annoying than a fit woman who brags about her workouts.
“You don’t ever feel like you’re on a treadmill?” He waves his hand lazily, like it’s something we’ve talked about, even though it’s definitely not. “Staring at the same wall as you keep clocking your progress, even though you know you’re just going to keep running and running?”
“And what if I have felt like that?”I have. Idefinitelyhave.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs, distracted by something happening behind me. “Personally, I’d probably want to find out what was on the other side of thatwall.”
CHAPTER 2
It’s Friday afternoon, and my colleagues are hustling to wrap things up so they can leave straight from our weekly summary meeting. I take one last glance over my cubicle. It’s perfectly in order, exactly how I want to come back to it on Monday. There’s nothing worse than returning from the weekend to find last week’s chaos already seeping into an unblemished new week. The picture of the five of us at the fair is crooked, and I straighten it, pressing my thumb against the tack that holds it up. We look so young. But not as young as my mom and I look in the picture next to it.
As much as I love these snapshots, I can’t help wondering if I shouldn’t have some more recent memories worth decorating my workspace with. What have I been doing for the last seven years? Is Deiss right that I’ve been staring at a wall? If I have, it’s a cubicle wall made of felt, which I’m sure is even sadder than whatever wall he was envisioning.
I feel a flare of annoyance at his audacity to judge me, but it fades as quickly as it arrives. Like Deiss puts any thought at allinto anything other than music. Unlike me, he’s almost certainly already forgotten about it.
“I’m telling you, Olivia.” Elena waits for me to slide my suit jacket on. “You have to go to a psychic. If I hadn’t tried it, I’d never have discovered that my future husband will be wearing a red t-shirt when I meet him. Do you have any idea how much that narrows my search? It’ll save me countless bad dates.”
“So, you’re only going to accept dates from red-shirted men?” Despite the effort to keep my voice neutral, my skepticism cracks through. I’ve been off my game today, my brain sluggish from churning over Deiss’s words and the enormous decision due by the end of the day.The loss of my home or crippling debt.I should know by now what I’m going to do.
She takes a step back in surprise, which is actually helpful as we have a meeting to get to, not that Elena seems to care. In her striped stockings and fuzzy sweater, she looks like she’s on her way to pick up one of her bad dates at a carnival instead. For all I know, she might be. She’s seemingly oblivious to the bustle of work going on around us. Her desk is still littered with task lists that need to be addressed, and I can see from here that she has approximately thirty-seven open tabs on her computer.
“Well, no,” she says. “But the pressure will be lifted if I show up and he’snotwearing a red shirt, because I’ll know nothing will come of it. That’s what makes a date bad. The pressure.”
Is it? I think back to my last date, unable to recall any pressure. I simply followed the Husband Huntress’s dating guidelines and maintained a sense of mysteriousness. (She’s proven herself right again and again—men seem delighted to project their desires onto a blank slate.) Even without anypressure, though, the date was inarguably bad.
The thing the Husband Huntress neglects to mention ishow unsatisfying it is, sitting there politely, playing the part of the perfect listener while a man named Roger fills all the space with cycling talk.Leading out and half-wheeling. Lycra, slippery roads, and gel packs.I’d successfully feigned interest in all of it while fiddling with the loose press-on nail on my pinkie. I kept imagining a game of table football where I tugged it off and flicked it with my middle finger, his steaming soup bowl the goalpost.
“That makes sense,” I say, hoping my skepticism didn’t hurt her feelings. Elena has real friends whose responsibility it is to ground her in reality, a whole circle of people she seems to constantly be doing fun things with outside of work. Things she never invites me to. I just happen to be her cubicle neighbor.
She expands on her point as we head down the hall, while I punctuate her thoughts with murmurs of agreement until I spot Marian Hammersmith outside the conference room we’re meeting in. She’s talking to a couple of higher-ups, her chin tilted up like it does when she’s putting someone in their place. I lift mine as well. Running my tongue over my freshly bleached teeth, I try to think of anything I could use to start a conversation with her. To my surprise, the effort proves unnecessary.
“Good morning, Olivia,” she says, turning my way just before I walk through the conference room door.
My knees threaten to drop into a curtsy. Marian Hammersmith is so elegant, so perfectly put together that being acknowledged by her feels like being greeted by the queen. She’s wearing a beige suit today, with a crisp white shirt underneath and a gold necklace to give the whole look a touch of glamour. If she’s had a face-lift, the surgeon has done excellent work. There’s constant speculation in the office as to her age. Guesses land as low as forty, all the way up to mid-sixties. I have too much respect for her to weigh in with a vote, but I’d love tohear the verified answer. It’s not that I want her to retire. It’s just that I can’t have her job until she leaves it.
“Good morning, Marian.” To my dismay, my voice has gone up an octave like a nervous schoolgirl’s, even after seven years of working together.
“Nice work on that kale project you turned in last week,” she says.
“Thank you.” I feel the corners of my mouth tug toward a frown and have to force them back up. Obviously, Marian’s approval is one of my main goals in this job, but this particular praise stings. I would hope that she, of all people, would recognize the paint-by-numbers outcome my ideas had been reduced to. Did she even consider my original pitch? I want to believe she liked it, that perhaps it was the people above her who decided to keep things at status quo, but it’s difficult to believe when she’s complimenting me for staying between the lines.
Sometimes I wish I’d never come up with the concept for celeriac. If I’d gotten management’s attention with something style-related, maybe I’d be their go-to girl for boutique branding instead of foods that need to be triple-washed. Maybe they wouldn’t see cassava and immediately think of me.
“We should have a lunch meeting next week.” Marian’s eyes drift off me, following someone into the conference room, but the loss of her attention doesn’t prevent me from perking back up at her words. “There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“I’d love that,” I say coolly, despite my desire to jump in the air, contort my legs into one of those shapes cheerleaders make, and yell hooray.
She focuses back in on me. “Great suit, by the way. The cut of the jacket is flawless.”
“I was just going to say the same about yours.”Dress for thejob you want, they say,not the one you have.I wonder if Marian realizes I’ve modeled myself off her. She must at least suspect my ambition. What lowly in-house designer doesn’t dream of one day rising to creative director?
She smiles graciously and nods me into the conference room. I scurry forward in submission, instantly bumping into Elena.
“Oh, did you not see me there, either?” Elena mutters, but I can tell by her tone she’s more amused than offended. “Marian certainly didn’t.”
I tilt my head and study Elena as she and I make our way toward two empty seats back along the wall. With her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, Elena looks more like Marian’s disgruntled teenage daughter than her peer. I’m not sure why she’s always so surprised to be treated as such. I’ve offered her some of my books on how to live life more successfully, but she never seems to get around to it. If I’m being completely honest, I’m always a little relieved when she returns them unread. I want to help Elena, but I’d hate to see her free spirit shackled.
“She saw you,” I say. “She just knew your psychic hadn’t predicted her speaking to you yet.”
