When my alarm went off, I rolled out of bed and checked my phone for the temperature outside. After pulling on my favorite burgundy lululemon leggings and a Nike fleece jersey, I quickly put on socks and shoes, grabbed my headphones, and ran out the door. On the elevator to the lobby, I hit the button for my grunge playlist and secured my phone in my armband. As soon as the doors opened, I jogged to the front door and out into the chilly early spring weather.
I lived in an old warehouse in the Meatpacking District that had been converted into condos, and I’d been there since the revitalization started. It wasn’t the Village but it was loud and vibrant, the place to live if you were young and on the up-and-up. I loved it. My condo was close to the High Line, and all mine. My first place was nothing more than a glorified closet with a bathroom, but now I had a one-bedroom with high factory ceilings and exposed brick-and-metal walls in the middle of the coolest neighborhood in New York.
I picked up speed as my feet struck the pavement, making my way to the Line without even having to think about it. I did this four or five days a week, usually Monday through Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, with yoga on Thursday and Saturday. If I wasn’t running, I went spinning.
Hey, I was a fitness editor. Practice what you preach and all that. Plus, my sanity depended on it. It was the only way to mentally run away from the demons that haunted me. My fitness schedule was like a salve for my broken soul.
This morning I tried to stay focused on my music, but my mind kept wandering to a pair of rich brown eyes, compassionate and considerate. I wondered where he was from. Not New York or LA for sure, not with his kind manner.
Layton.
All night I’d felt compelled to answer his message, but had resisted the urge.
Why should I? I was never going to see him again.
At the end of the day, I slumped at my desk, staring at my steaming large coffee from Dean and DeLuca and the half-eaten bran muffin discarded next to it. My body spent, I was desperate to go home and slip into lounge pants.
Except I still had one more unpleasant task to handle, a part of my job I didn’t necessarily like and often felt I was too young to do, but that was just an excuse. Sadly, it came with the territory, so I pulled on my big-girl undies and picked up the phone.
“Maggie, can you come here?”
My intern flitted in like she was the boss, confident her ideas were the best I’d ever heard.
“Sit down, Maggie.”
She plopped down in the chair across from my desk like we were colleagues, flipping her bright red shawl of hair over her shoulder as she said, “What’s up?”
She really said it just like that. Seriously. Like we were happy-hour buddies.
“Maggie, it’s come to my attention you’ve been pitching ideas to our main competitor as well as a bunch of other Internet outlets while interning here.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I held up a hand to shush her. “Yes, if you were freelance, that would be okay. But you have a non-compete during the term of your internship.”
It was a mouthful made in corporate speak, another part of the job I despised. The lingo sucked every last creative cell from my body.
“I wasn’t trading secrets or anything, just trying to get an article, Charl-eee.” She sounded like my mom did lately, whiny and malcontent.
I didn’t mind being on a first-name basis with my intern, but the way my name rolled off her tongue like we were BFFs irked me. I mentally chastised myself for only being twenty-eight and not worthy of respect, as if it were my fault.
In a surprising and unwanted train of thought, my mind drifted to Layton and his reaction to my position as an editor. He’d practically laughed when I said I was an editor.Or did he?
“Maggie, listen, I don’t make the policies, and I know you desperately want to get your name out there, but this isn’t how to do it. You’re bright, but I think you’re trying too hard. I’m not entirely certain you’re not pitching the entire island of Manhattan. Maybe spreading yourself too thin?”
“Char, seriously, I’m cool. I’ll stop.” Maggie’s blue eyes were wide and innocent, sparkling even, not concerned and contrite like they should have been for a lowly intern being chastised as she was.
Time to put the hammer down.
“I have to let you go, Maggie. I’m sorry. It’s been a pleasure mentoring you while you were here, but now it’s time for you to go. I wish it were different, but you violated our agreement and the lawyers upstairs have a zero-tolerance policy.”
More corporate babble from me, and yet not a shred of humility on her part.
“That’s bull—” she spat out, then cooled her jets a little. “I’m a damn good intern, Charli.” Refusing to stand, she braced her hands on the armrest as she argued with me.
“It is what it is, Maggie. Stay in touch.”
I turned my attention to Lucy, making out like I had a million other tasks to do, but I was done. I was exhausted and my ego was bruised. Even Maggie didn’t take me seriously; she could see right through my facade. My outer shell might be New York chic, all stilettos and toughness, but inside I was trembling.
As Maggie stood in a huff and stomped out of my office, I leaned back in my chair and took a long slug of my coffee. The hot liquid made creamy with two-percent milk warmed my stomach and eased the headache that was building behind my eyes.
I was supposed to meet up with Janie again after work, but that wasn’t going to happen. I still had two stories to approve and it was late; the windows had already grown dark. Sighing, I closed out the windows on my screen, resigned to dragging Lucy home with me yet again.
