Page 1 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Chapter 1
There’s a cold hard truth no one mentions about turning thirty-one: Nobody cares, yourself included. The youthful romanticism of one’s twenties has passed. The pain of crossing the bridge into “real adulthood” at thirty has faded. And all that’s left is the overwhelming sense that time passes faster and faster, the birthdays less meaningful each year, the individual days of the week racing by in a dulled blur.
It’s fine, though.
I’m sure every person feels this way as theyage. God, what an awful word that is when used as a verb.
Today’s melancholic outlook likely stems from yet another birthday spent in the dull gray cubicle of my “office,” spinning slow circles in my desk chair and memorizing the tatters in theHappy Birthdaybanner that’s dragged out of the supply closet whenever there’s an office birthday. Usually by me. But that’s fine, too.
I, Mona Miller, age thirty-one as of midnight, am happy to fillthe role of cheery office party planner, known peddler of a bright smile and an enthusiasticLovely day out, isn’t it?
But lately, my chipper exterior andNo Worries!life motto feels like it’s wavering. Then again, maybe this is what it’s like toageinto someone older and disillusioned. Perhaps I should join a bridge club or partake in a bingo night.
Who am I kidding? I’m not social enough for that.
But if I’m being honest,trulyhonest, with myself in this drab cubicle—the place no dreams are made of—perhaps my gloom stems not from my age in and of itself, but rather the idea I used to have of my life at this age, and how starkly different that idea is from reality.
I used to have dreams.
Big ones.
Now I have complacency, but it comes with a nice 401(k) match.
Before I can sink deeper into my philosophical birthday musings, my desk phone rings. Mid-reach, I take pause when the caller ID flashes an extension from one floor above. The thirty-seventh floor. The important floor.
Swallowing sudden nerves, I press the receiver to my ear with a cheerful, “Good morning, Shirley. What can I do for you today?”
“Cal wants you in his office,” a husky smoker’s voice rasps. “Stat.”
There are a couple defining qualities when it comes to my boss’s secretary. One, she’s worked for Calvin Cramer III for exactly forty-two years—I should know, I bought her fortieth-anniversary cake—hence, the only reason she gets away withcalling him Cal. And two, she smokes a pack a day minimum, yet has never been spotted in the designated smoking area outside the building. Everyone knows Calvin lets her smoke in the office when no one’s watching.
The line goes dead, and Shirley’s curt manner does nothing to quell the anxiety unspooling in my belly. In my seven years at Around the Globe Media, Calvin Cramer III has never once summoned me to his office. Placing the receiver back on the hook, I take a moment to get my bearings. Then I leave my cubicle, weaving through the monochrome walls like a mouse in a maze.
Am I gettingfiredon my birthday? Surely not.
My last article on the Montpelier Biscuit Festival may not have been Pulitzer-worthy journalism, but I thought I managed to highlight the kitschy, quaint charm in a way readers would find appealing.
Honestly, there is only so much one can do with a biscuit festival.
Reaching the elevator bay, my hand hovers on the down arrow as I briefly consider making a run for it. But that would never happen. I am nothing if not responsible, professional, dependable, and predictable—the embodiment of all the boring words wrapped into one. If getting fired on my birthday is my fate, I will face this unexpected challenge with class and a polite smile, most likely thanking Calvin for the opportunity and inquiring whom I shall appoint to the office party planning committee of one on my way out.
I press the up arrow.
Awaiting the elevator, I examine my reflection in the shiny steel doors, smoothing away any wrinkles in my black pencilskirt and crisp white blouse, running a hand over my sleek brunette ponytail to tamp down any flyaways. My normal sun-kissed complexion has turned pallid, so I pinch my cheeks a few times in hopes of bringing back some color as my round hazel eyes reflect only one thing back at me: fear.
All too soon, my mirrored image splits apart as the doors slide open with a high-pitched chime, and I step inside the (thankfully) empty box and lean against the far wall, closing my eyes as the doors slide shut.
A leader in the travel journalism industry, Around the Globe Media is primarily known for its cable television station of the same name, featuring hour-long programs of young, attractive hosts visiting far-off locales and informing the viewing audience at home of the top ten things they simply cannot miss the next time they happen to swing through Phuket.
I, however, work for the more reserved monthly magazine—again, of the same name—primarily known for its cover photos of unimaginably beautiful beaches, waterfalls, and rainforests that look*chef’s kiss*on the magazine racks of dental office waiting rooms nationwide. (Combined with orthodontia, these make up a shockingly large market.) Even my own dentist is a subscriber, though he tucks us away on the rack while givingTravel + Leisurethe coveted coffee table spot—which, fine, I’m not bitter or anything, but I bet none of their staff writers are his loyal patients. Every visit he proudly asks if I saw the latest issue out in the lobby, and I always nod and smile and muffle an awkward response around the instruments in my mouth.
The elevator chimes again.
I open my eyes, blow out a breath, and plaster on a smile.
No Worries!
Except all of them.
