Page 130 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
It’s January 2, the day after New Year’s. Tomorrow I go back to work to get fired for being the office slut, which is really unfair considering when it came time to earn my title, I opted out. Only it didn’t look like I did, which is all that matters.
Also tomorrow, Cam leaves for Scotland. Every night since he gave me the key, I’ve been going over to his place for some hot, angry sex and leaving feeling a little worse than the day before.
We’re not talking, except to discuss which position we should switch to next. We’re not working out together. We’re not having dinner together. We’ve been reduced to the worst of all possible worlds—fuck buddies, without the buddies part.
The sex is incredible, but I really miss my friend. I miss laughing with him. I miss everything.
It’s my fault. I know it’s all my fault. I slipped and fell on his magical dick and ruined everything.
I’m too depressed to even look through the help wanted ads. Nobody ever finds a job like that, anyway. I spend a number of hours dejectedly browsing through online recruitment sites but inevitably end up opening a bottle of wine and attempting to drown my sorrows. Spoiler: it doesn’t work.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, I’m on my third glass of wine when the phone rings. I don’t answer it because it’s either my mother . . . or it’s my mother. Michael hasn’t tried to contact me at all. No emailed apology, no “Oops, I was drunk” text, no nothing.
I’ll admit it: that hurts. I mean, it twinges. It doesn’t feel anything like what I feel when I let myself dwell on what will happen to me when Cam is gone and I’m forced to admit my life is a giant stinking poop emoji without him.
I know I’ll eventually find another job. But there’s not a chance in hell I’ll ever find someone else like Cameron McGregor. I just hope it’s a few years before I pick up the paper and see a smiling picture of him and his beautiful wife and their perfect babies, because I need a little time between now and then to convince myself I’m not really in love with him.
Like, ten, twenty years.
A few moments after the phone stops ringing, the flashing red light on the machine tells me I have a voice mail. With nothing better to do, I decide to find out who it is.
“Joellen, this is Portia.” A delicate throat clearing, then she begins anew. “From Maddox Publishing. I wanted to wait until after Christmas to call. As you know, ah, the staff will all be returning to work tomorrow.” Long, ominous pause. “Please meet us in the boardroom as soon as you come in.”
Us? The boardroom? Well, I suppose that’s as good a place as any to get canned after ten years of dogged loyalty. It has the best view. Though I’m righteously furious I’ll be getting fired for something I didn
’t do, I’ve been around long enough to know how these things go.
Men are never punished as severely as women for breaking the rules, because men made all the rules in the first place.
I do have one ace in the hole, though. If I don’t get a decent severance package and a reference letter, I’ll sue for wrongful termination. Sure, no one will believe me and I’ll still be out of a job, but a lawsuit might make Michael Maddox think twice about shoving his hand up some other poor sap’s holiday dress that she couldn’t really afford.
I don’t understand why Portia didn’t just fire me over voice mail, but I’ve got personal things at my desk I want to pick up, so I’ve got to go back in anyway.
But then things take a turn toward the unthinkable when I unlock Cam’s door later that night and he’s already gone. I know this because he left an envelope for me on the kitchen counter marked with my name. Inside is a note:
I’m shit with good-byes and we’re not talking anyway, so I’m skipping that part and staying at a hotel tonight.
My offer was serious. It still is. My door will always be open for you.
Yours until the sun flames out and all life on earth is extinguished,
Prancer
Included with the note is a first-class ticket to Scotland.
I sit right down on the kitchen floor and cry until I’m sobbing like a baby, curled up into a ball with the note clenched in my sweaty fist.
In the morning, I’m a zombie. Or might as well be, for all intents and purposes. My insides are all mush. My brain has rotted. I can’t think, I can’t eat anything, and I certainly won’t be able to string a coherent sentence together in my defense when I get into work.
Cam’s gone. He’s really gone. I feel dead but also like I’ve been hollowed out by knives, lit on fire, and tossed into a vat of acid. How do people survive this?
I share the elevator up to the thirty-third floor with Denny, who must be spooked by my appearance because he’s quiet as a kitchen mouse. All I get is a tepid, “Morning.” Which suits me fine, because in my current state of mind, I’m liable to commit murder if confronted with a fart joke.
The cubicle field is exactly the same yet looks completely different. How did I sit at that desk for ten years of my life? How did I look at those fuzzy gray walls? How did I waste so much time pedaling as fast as I could on a bike that didn’t have wheels?
I head to the boardroom straight off the bat because there’s no sense in delaying the inevitable. When I push open the heavy oak door, I’m surprised to find the room full of people.
Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at me.
